Murder at Willow Slough (45 page)

“No, Kent, don’t, you don’t have to go! Please stay.” Jamie didn’t know how to talk to a Straight cop about what happened.

“No, I should. It’s the right thing to do.” Kent stood, Jamie saw him to the door. “I’ll say a prayer.” And he left. Jamie felt even more bereft.

The next morning Kent found out exactly who Matt Shepard was; the Wyoming student horrifically brutalized a few nights ago, all of 5’3”, strung up, beaten savagely, left for dead. He never woke up from his coma. The whole country knew about it, Kent too; but it was “University of Wyoming” to the country, not the guy’s name; “hate crime,” not another of our sweet, smart, gentle boys. Kent kicked his own ass, All I had to do was ask.

Jamie answered the door again; Kent, giant mums, a card, “In memory of Matthew; in mourning with you.”

Tears. Gratitude. Quick departure. Suitcase.

That night when Kent came back, the mums weren’t just displayed on the dining room table, they were spotlit like the Empire State Building. Kent and Jamie didn’t talk about it, but for the first time Kent realized the punitive power, and therefore the deterrent effect, of a great, crimefighting Gay newspaper.

The next day he stood at attention and solemnly asked Major Slaughter for training in investigating hate crimes.
***

Jamie frowned, “You’re wearing trooper gear again. Bring your laundry, we’ll do it here.”

“But you don’t like doing laundry.”

“No, but maybe I’d feel useful for once.”

“My shirts have to be ironed, Jamie, it’s regulations.”

“Kent, ironing is a level of productivity I aspire to.”

Kent brought six huge duffel bags, as “we” turned into “you.” He wouldn’t be caught dead ironing, but he swore that Jamie was under no pressure whatsoever.

Slowly, Jamie found he liked doing laundry, when it was Kent’s. Every night Kent took home a few shirts, pressed jeans, bundled-up socks; jocks and underwear always found their way to the top of the pile. Every night Jamie slept in nothing but his KESSLER 22.

***

He listened to his mother’s Broadway CDs and could tell all the plots by heart; Kent turned out to be a sucker for musicals too. “At last, something in common,” Jamie exclaimed. They showed favorite movies to each other; for Jamie, “The Sound of Music,” for Kent, “Oliver.”

He took a risk, exposing himself like that. He’d never told anyone but his parents how much he loved that show from his toddler days. Jamie talked about everyone in the cast but the little blond star. Harry Secombe had a show on some Episcopal Channel they had back in Columbus, touring English churches and singing hymns. Kent had seen “Oliver” 46 times and never once noticed the man. But now he had to, and the fat old dude was pretty good. His big song was “Boy For Sale,” which had only broken Kent’s heart 46 times.

The bookmobile came by and Jamie found Dickens, Miss Austen and Ms. Brown, the later Jimmy Baldwin, Larry Duplechan, A Smile in His Lifetime. He sent Oliver Twist home with Kent, who tried to get into it, but it was “pretty thick. And it’s really, really old, Jamie. I mean, dusty. All those old-timey words? I know the story, but I still couldn’t figure out what he was saying half the time.”

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him literate. Jamie shrugged and polished off the Twist boy again in a day and a half, loving every installment. Whit Miller, though, he savored like fine chocolates, no more than two chapters a night, at bedtime.

***

Under Kent’s supervision, Jamie learned to drive again, around the subdivision at 10 miles an hour. Honda’s Gay employee group in Marysville, Ohio once wrote him, “We all read you, you’re terrific. Our new Acura’s fabu, we’d love to build you one.” So he test-drove, and fell in love, and the car arrived with gifts, a vanity plate with his name, a rainbow decal, a copy of The Times signed by all the members. He wrote a story about them, “Out on the Assembly Line.” He cherished that car.

He turned on the radio, sped all the way up to 15. But the classical station played atonal dissonance; he hit Seek until something made him stop, sounding good, kicking ass. It was a love song, with intelligent lyrics, “Something That We Do.”

He started actively to listen to Kent’s music. If he ever found out in New York, poor Foster would die. But it was a fine song, by real talent, Jamie loved it; so did his buddy.

***

Jamie asked, “Thanksgiving’s coming; what do you typically do?” He loved to cook for the holidays.

“I work,” Kent shrugged. “Thanksgiving’s a washout for troopers. Wednesday I work a double, eight to midnight, then on the day itself I’m on noon to eight.”

“A detective pulls traffic?”

“The whole post does, busiest travel days of the year. Speeders on Wednesday, drunk wife-beaters on Thursday, mall patrol Friday and Saturday, then speeders again.”

So Jamie volunteered at a turkey dinner program for the poor and elderly, and got to be the captain of mashed potatoes. He helped serve 287 meals and gave thanks for all his blessings—especially a trooper on Ronald patrol.

***

They played video games to work on Jamie’s eye-hand coordination; Kent always won and Jamie always accused him of cheating. Kent bragged, “I can’t help it if you’re slow.” Competing was the finest thing they did together; they were both fierce about it, just one of them a little slow. They got into a habit of hitting each other like brothers do. Chattered like magpies and ate nonstop.

Kent was superior to Jamie in every game but one. Like all Hoosier homeowners, Thelma had a basketball hoop atop her garage; on the driveway her youngest son had painted a free throw line at 15 feet and a 3-point arc at 19’6”. Kent realized what he was up against when he saw two dozen Rawlings NCAA balls racked up in the garage. Every night they played Horse. Every night Jamie won, 5-4; but he cursed his misses, terrified he’d lost his shot.

He hadn’t, but he was uncoordinated rust. His shot slowly came back—with hours of practice while Kent was on duty. Then turnarounds, reverses, trick shots, Kent tried everything. He stood thirty feet away in the middle of Tad Lincoln Drive and miraculously sank a jumper; so did Jamie, eyes closed, trying not to smirk. Not once could Kent beat him. Scores dropped to 5-3, 5-2, even 5-1.

Kent hadn’t played basketball since high school, hated him—and played him hard every night, knowing how much Jamie loved it. Jamie could barely keep from screaming his delight. Yet he only said one insult per night, a competitor but nice about it.

Kent might not have liked him as well if he didn’t rub it in at least once. But the ego part of Kent was glad it was only once. He muttered, “You ain’t even five-ten.”

“I am too!” Jamie marched him right into the garage, stood in his stocking feet next to the wall, daring him to measure. “Be sure to mash down my hair!”

Kent made a mark.Measured. “Whaddayaknow,5’10”and a quarter.” Jamie jumped up and down like a madman over that longlost half-inch.

The next night Kent was getting skunked, the horse about to be saddled; Jamie grew nervous, but he made his shots. When 4-0 came, everything on the line, he dribbled from eight feet in the right side of the lane for a full minute. Kent knew something was up, so he had to use his final weapon. “You ain’t got the guts to try it and fail.”

“Ooh, fightin’ words. You can’t psych me, flatfoot. Prepare to meet your dee-struction.” Jamie gathered his confidence, visualized; then all at once he bounced the ball hard on the left side with a killer spin. The ball caromed off the concrete, back high above the board—as he leapt with all his might and jammed it home.

Kent stared, flabbergasted and screeching at a five-foot ten-inch comatose slam dunk.

Jamie got his own rebound, looked away. Kent came to him, grasped his shoulders; Jamie clutched the ball, looked up at him, a little scared. Softly Kent said, “Horse.”

Jamie smiled proudly, led him wordlessly inside.
***

Another opportunity lost; and Kent didn’t even realize it till two days later. You shoulda just kissed him, you retard!

Kissing, the thing Kent most wanted; the last thing he could make himself do.

54  

Pillow

At the cabin, Kent got his sleep pattern back to normal. All those nights at the hospital had messed up his rhythm. Throughout the coma he’d fought off the image of Jamie hanging from the tree—naked, beautiful, spurting red. When Kent did nod off, he dreamt the same horrific nightmare. He could never run fast enough to get there on time, his legs were weighted down. He’d scream out, wake up.

Then Jamie woke up and took the nightmares away. It was over now, it was the past. Kent was good at consigning losses to the past. He came up with a new sleeping strategy.

He reached for the second pillow, got it in the position he liked these days. Before, the other pillow had always been for show, to make the bedspread look right. Now he put it vertical and touching his left shoulder.

It was the second time he’d changed. When he was little he slept on his side, fetal position, pillow as big as he was between his legs, holding onto the blondest Oliver; protecting him, loving him and his cute English accent when no one else would; two boys together, best friends, an orphan and an only child on a great big Indiana farm.

They sang songs, and rode their ponies, and went exploring, and had adventures, and held hands, Kenty helping him climb over fences, or the big rocks behind the barn, or up trees in the hickory grove. Oliver was never as good a climber as Kent was, even then the big little man; English boys weren’t Americans so Kenty always had to help him and arranged it that way, so Oliver needed him, loved him. And no one ever knew, not Mommy or Daddy, it was a secret.

Kent remembered little of this, only the feelings, and how he slept on his side until he outgrew the pillow. He was a back sleeper now, had been since third grade, the year he announced he should be called Kent.

But he still had every Oliver toy and lunchbox and game they’d ever bought him, the easiest child to please. Most of it was still back at the farm; in the attic, he thought, snorting at himself in the dark.

He got out of bed, went to his closet, found the little plastic statue, knew right where it was. Put it on his dresser without turning on a light. Went to his desk, took out the business card with the color mug shot on it. Propped the blond card on the little blond statue; then had to turn on the light, had to look. Framed on the wall was the $20 download, Jamie naked for Calvin Klein.

Got back in bed, wondering how he’d ever tell now; hoping lightning would strike, a magic wand, a happy ending with dancing and a wonderful song.

But no. He’d have to do it, and he had no earthly idea how.

He had trapped himself, afraid to speak the most basic truth to the one person in the world who would understand. Don’t ever lie to a reporter.

Jamie might not love him; but he’d understand. And that was a form of love too.

Maybe Kent should just come out and say, “I’m Gay” and be done with it. But he honestly didn’t believe that. He didn’t know what he was anymore. Maybe there was another category that no one had thought of yet, for normal, masculine guys who love each other.

But he knew what Jamie would say; “That category exists, all right. It’s called Gay.” The boy had too much mouth on him.

But there was a much deeper problem; Kent’s integrity. He had no right to ask Jamie to love him, when he hadn’t told him that he let him down.

Kent wanted to tell him; he didn’t look forward to it, but it had to be done. But when? As he recovered from a coma in the hospital? As he fell asleep standing up after the Dan Rather show? Or now that Jamie was home and they had so much fun together? How do you tell someone, “I’m the reason you got stabbed, but I love you, will you love me?”

If they were two separate issues, they fused in his mind. He wanted to kiss Jamie and make love to him. He had no right to entertain any such thought.

But he thought it constantly. He hoped it every night as he went to bed alone.

He pulled the extra pillow to his chest, closed his eyes, held it, loved it; not a boy anymore, but a man. He replayed the dream he had about Jamie that first night; the dream he’d gone to Slaughter in a panic over. Now it was his favorite bedtime companion.

Soon he slept, naked, and he’d never done that before either.

55  

Sanctum Sanctorum

They spent Friday apart, so they could spend Saturday together.

The Day came: Purdue basketball. Jamie swooped his hair within a millimeter of its life. He wore Kent’s gold Purdue sweater over black stretch jeans, the smallest pants he had. The school colors were old gold and black, but those jeans also hugged his little butt.

The bell rang. Kent wore tight Levi’s, a red flannel shirt, fancy silver cowboy boots, a black satin baseball jacket from the Louisville Redbirds, an energetic look on his handsome face. He exclaimed, “You got your swoop back.” Jamie hadn’t expected him to notice. “You even wore my sweater. How much do you weigh today?”

Jamie was so proud he almost couldn’t say it. “One seventy-five point two.”

“Jamie, man, you’re all the way back!” Kent hugged him. “Thank God. I can see it in your face. You’re back, man, you’re back! You look great. How do you feel?”

Jamie pumped his fist, “Go Purdue!” He left to get his jacket. Kent looked around the room till he happened on an oval mirror. His pressed jeans had a discolored spot on the crotch. He stared, eyes widening, till Jamie returned. They went outside. The big red F-250 gleamed in the driveway. “Wow, your truck positively sparkles.”

Kent swaggered, wordless and proud. They drove Boilermaker Avenue to Mackey Arena, listening to pre-game hype and farm commercials on the radio. Jamie stared out the window, trying to control his excitement.

Kent parked. Even the lots were buzzing. They could hear the crowd cheering inside, thirty minutes before gametime. Happy people headed for their gates, past TV trucks with satellite uplinks. Inside, the atmosphere was charged up. Gold-clad people were everywhere. Kent and Jamie passed displays for famous athletes, All-Americans, championship teams, national coaches-of-the-year, academic all-stars. Jamie made Kent stop at the last one, the greatest shrine of all, for kids with a Purdue University education, like Thelma had.

Then they went under the dome, saw the polished gold floor and scores of championship banners from the oldest, biggest, best conference in the nation, for the Big Ten’s winningest university.

Jamie ran down to courtside, bolted over the fence, knelt and touched his lips to the floor. Anyone else might have been arrested, but a state trooper yanked him back up, “Only do that at IU!” Jamie punched Kent’s shoulder, pretended to vomit. The band was jumping, so Jamie jumped with it.

They got their seats—great ones on the lower level, behind the scorer’s table. “How did you rate these? People bequeath these seats to each other in their wills.”

“Connections,” Kent winked. He was an assistant baseball coach at the Right School, not that he let on. He liked keeping little advantages over Mr. Brainhead.

Cheerleaders turned somersaults, a locomotive let out clouds of steam. The visiting RedHawks entered, Jamie and Kent applauded them. Then The Team took the floor and the place went nuts. Students with giant P flags ran around as the band played “Hail, Purdue,” 14,123 people jumping to their feet, the 104th straight sellout crowd clapping in rhythm during the verse. Jamie’s abs worked rapidly in and out, suppressing a sob over that All-American band. For the first chorus it went into sing-along mode, only the woodwinds carrying the melody, and everyone sang and clapped, “Hail, Hail to Old Purdue, all hail to our Old Gold and Black!” Kent beat his hands together for Jamie’s school song. Then the full band blasted a repeat—drum work was new and more intense this year—cheerleaders flipped each other senseless and Jamie sang his heart out, “All hail, our old Purdue!” Trumpets went into a fanfare to close on a high note, with low-pitched brass belting the final ta-dah, ta-daaaa!

And then the roar…of shared ecstasy, the season opener in Basketball Land.

The band went into its followup jingle and Jamie danced along, Bump, bah, bum, bah-da—bump, bah, bum, bah-da—bump, bah, bum, bah-da—dot-dah-da, doot-de-deedle-oo, pow pow pow! “Go Purdue!”

Shivers raced down his back. He’d been to Broadway, London, Paris, Milan, Tokyo, Rio, Hollywood; but Mackey Arena in Basketball Land was the most glamourous place on his earth. Dot-dah-da, doot-de-deedle-oo, pow pow pow! “Go Purdue!”

It was because of the students. Players, certainly, but the kids in the band, on the sidelines, in the stands, they all had it. They were Indiana kids, farm and city kids, kids from around the nation and worldwide, studying to be astronauts, engineers, pharmacists, physicists, dancers, poets, businesspeople—fresh-faced, innocent, ready to go. They brought tears to his eyes, but here as nowhere else, he fought tears off. Tears in this arena he reserved for the National Championship, nothing less. Tears in this arena he converted into defense, into points, into wins.

But it wasn’t just the students; above all, it was his mother. Purdue University made her, and therefore made him. Sports provided the occasion to publicly declare his loyalty. “Go Purdue!”

Kent studied him, highly amused, then poked him, “I should have known you’d be this rabid.”

Below them famous TV hypemeisters did their intros: “We’re in one of the greatest environments in all of college basketball, baby!”

And that was an understatement. A buzzer blared. Coaches and players were introduced. The crowd quieted as ROTC students presented the flag. Jamie tried not to think about military discrimination. The band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

In Basketball Land everyone sang the National Anthem with their hands over their hearts; no whooping it up till after the very last note. It was a point of honor. The Big Ten did the same. Hate each other cheerfully, they loved each other dearly, as neighbors, as rivals, as friends.

Then a reprise of “Hail, Purdue!” Men cheerleaders tossed women cheerleaders to the rafters and caught them. Even the cheerleaders were athletes.

Finally what everyone came for, jump ball. The Boilers raced to an early lead, but missed coverages led to some easy Miami points, and Purdue’s Coach Reed jumped to his feet and flung his jacket off after four minutes. Bingo Peters substituted carefully, matching up his boys to grab whatever advantage they could. Miami took its first lead with

8:02 in the half. The crowd was loud but anxious.

At the next time out, Reed drowned out the band, screaming to the top row, flapping his arms, stomping up and down the sidelines. He was a wonderful guy, but he sure looked mean on TV. His boys stared at the floor, assistant coaches gave furious lectures; order was restored two seconds before the camera’s red light went back on.

It was Purdue 41, Miami 38 at the half. Jamie and Kent stood, stretched, moved with the crowd toward restrooms and concession stands. Half the mob wore Purdue sweats, T-shirts for the football team, women’s basketball, Final Four teams, track and field, golf, swimming, baseball, crew; anything athletic, everything Purdue. There were older couples, families with kids, undergraduates on dates, foreign engineering students grinning and yabbling, long-limbed Black guys jiving and joking in groups of eight or a dozen. The whole international town was there.

Kent and Jamie headed outdoors. They discussed the game for a few minutes, then Jamie mentioned that his mother’s house sold yesterday.

He might as well have shoved an anvil into Kent’s gut. “That’s awful quick, ain’t it? You just listed it two days ago. Did you get what you wanted out of it?”

“Five thousand more than the asking price. It’s a custom home in a modest neighborhood; market it as a starter and demand is strong. It’s a good area for children. I never could believe, really, that she bought on the outskirts instead of in the city of West Lafayette. West Side is the best school system in the state.”

“So I’ve heard. Remind me to send my kids to the county schools.”

Jeez, how stupid, Kent.

“She liked to live inexpensively, cutting costs was her thing. Two bidders competed over price.”

“Nice work if you can get it.” Kent knew he’d never get anywhere this way, but he couldn’t think.

“It moves along settling the estate, which is the important thing. With the trust and all that legal mumbo-jumbo, the lawyer says it could be settled by March.”

“What are your plans?”

“I’m going home tomorrow. There’s nothing to keep me here and Casey needs me back. It will be good for me to start working again. Give me something new to think about.” What a rip it will be to lose you, Kent. But it has to be done, so the sooner the better.

“You can’t go yet. You’re not cleared by the doctors.”

“I’m tired of having doctors run my life. I’d like to run it myself for a change. Besides, I have a fine osteopath in Columbus.”

What Jamie was doing with the world’s handsomest Straight guy who constantly threw temptation at him, he did not know. But this trip to watch hoops made it clear; they were good, even permanent friends, though they’d never have the intimacy he craved.

He looked at the arena. This is the first time I’ve been to Mackey since I hauled ass through the sleet for the Rickster.

I love you, Rick. He was answered with a slow, quiet, unmistakable current down his spine, that both told him Rick loved him, and told him he was gone.

Jamie sighed, picked up the conversation again. “I called Casey yesterday after I got back from signing the real estate papers. He’s been doing my job and his both. After this, I could use some nice, wholesome greed, graft and corruption. Maybe the treasurer of an AIDS foundation’s socking away a few thousand to keep up the payments on her BMW. Something nice and clean like that. No blood, no dead people.”

Kent stared off across the street.

“I’ve been busy packing Mom’s personal effects. Kenny Dyson’s arranged to sell the good furniture for me, then there’s the AIDS thrift shop to call.”

“Is it hard to pack up her stuff?”

“Excruciating. All these little things to remember her by? But it’s also sweet. She was a good old girl, even if she could be a terror when she had to have her way. We’re all getting family photographs, mortars and pestles, kitchen gadgets that say ‘her.’ Things none of us needs and none of us can live without. It’s a real job, dividing the stuff up. I want to be perfect at it, to see that Danny and Stone get their full measure of things with sentimental value. But there is no perfect. She loved mashed potatoes and gravy; her 59¢ potato masher is our most beloved icon, with three sons to give it to. I’m making it a traveling trophy. Every year on her birthday, it goes to the next son.”

“You’re packing up for Ohio just like that?”

“Kent, it’s time. Your work on the case was fantastic. It’s over now. You’ve been my number one booster to try and recover, and now I have. I wanted you to see me at full strength; you’ve given me my health back.

Kent, you have my undying gratitude for all you’ve done for me…” Jamie hesitated, their eyes locked, “…and for my people.”

Kent frowned, didn’t feel he deserved such praise. “What are you going to do, though? Just go back to your job?”

“Either that or I’m moving to New York for CBS News.” Jamie glanced at his watch. “Hey, Jocko, think we ought to go back in?”

“Guess so. Darn.” They headed inside. Jamie’d never called him Jocko before.

“Stop.” Kent stopped. “I get to enjoy the most normal, exciting thing, a basketball game at Mackey Arena, because I’m alive. Kent, I thank you most profoundly.”

Kent watched the banty rooster push in ahead of him.

The game stayed tight the entire second half. Jamie was totally absorbed, commented throughout, yelled a lot, cheered every good Purdue play and a few good Miami ones. Kent asked, “Did you play in high school?”

Jamie hesitated, then proudly said, “I played the point for one glorious season at Chicago. That’s where I went to high school.”

Kent didn’t catch the subtle preposition. “Way to go, thoroughbred.” Jamie smiled. “Did Danny play?”

“Stone’s our athlete, Danny’s our coach. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent as a kid while Danny drilled me on the fundamentals; or just watching sports on TV, listening to him. I love that man. Every day I read The Rocky Mountain News online to see what he’s writing. He taught me everything I know about sports.” He glanced at Kent. “He knew exactly who you were, which made me so proud.”

“I was surprised. I’m four years behind him, why should he know who the local athletes were? But he did.”

“You earned his attention. Your career was brief but brilliant. You sacrificed your body for your teammates.”

Kent grew silent, thinking about someone else who did that.

“Great pass, D’Shawn! Oh, Gary, don’t put it on the floor, whip it around!” Purdue was using its size now, working the ball in underneath to a tall, cute freshman. The fans could see it, the network could see it, the blind could see it—and the pass went off the freshman’s fingers, out of bounds, Miami.

Jamie smiled in frustration and forgave the clumsy guy; he was cute. Jamie found the clock, 6:16 to go. Kent stared ahead, making fists and relaxing, making fists, on and on. Jamie said, “We’re the better team, but we always lose confidence if we’re not in control.”

“Unh.” Kent looked all focused concentration.

Bingo Peters put his star back in and Miami elevated its game. The RedHawks worked the ball inside, trying to take advantage of the cute freshman. Purdue’s point guard left his man to help out and instantly the ball flew back out beyond the arc, a three-point shot, good. Miami by one. Time out. Jamie exhaled, leaned back. Kent was still working those fists, staring ahead.