by Nick Poff
Muriel shrugged off all of this activity. “It’s nice,” she said, “but they’re just assuaging their guilt.” Her real victory, she said, would come at election time in November. And sure enough, Grant Latham was soundly defeated in his reelection bid by his bright and enthusiastic young Democratic opponent. The down ballot Republican candidates were losers as well, “In more ways than one,” Muriel exalted on election night.
She was further rewarded as well. She had become Porterfield’s appointed truth-teller, a heroine to all who had been slighted in some way by the town’s hypocrisy. By popular demand her once-a-week feature in the Courier became a twice weekly event. “The blind leading the ignorant,” she had chortled to Ed at the time.
“As long as you don’t lead them over a cliff,” He warned her. “Power corrupts, you know.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing I’ve got you and that pillar of liberal rectitude you call a husband around to keep me in check.”
“Please,” Ed had said with an eye roll. “We’ve got enough to do as it is.”
Now in his workshop, tape measure in hand, Ed watched Muriel furiously scratch something out and write something new, guffawing to herself. “Who’s the victim du jour?”
“Oliver North,” she replied, continuing to write.
“Geez,” Ed complained, “haven’t we had enough of Iran/Contra? Besides, I thought you were supposed to stick to local topics.”
“I do not feel,” she responded huffily, “this man has been taken to proper task for his twisted sense of patriotism. And as for Fawn Hall…” she gave an evil snicker.
“Ah,” Ed sighed. “You’re an incredibly insensitive woman, Miss Weisberg.”
Muriel opened her mouth to protest, and then slowly closed it. “On occasion,” she sniffed.
Ed heard the Camaro come into the garage. Rick soon appeared, brows beetled in annoyance. “Rough day at the office, dear?” Ed inquired.
Rick slammed his briefcase down and walked around the work table to give Ed a kiss. “Frustrating,” he admitted. He gestured to Muriel. “Is she cool?”
“You should bow down in the presence of such coolness,” Muriel muttered into her notepad.
“Maybe later,” Rick told her.
“Yeah, I told her what we’re up to.” Ed grinned. “What did you find out?”
“Not much and all of it mysterious.”
“Oh?” Ed hoisted himself onto the worktable to give Rick his undivided attention. Rick sat next to him.
“Yeah. First thing this morning I talked to Vince about Evie Fountain’s house and he said he had heard absolutely nothing regarding a potential sale of 517 North Cooley Street. So then I drove over there to take a closer look, thinking I might see something we missed the other day.”
“Did you look for a key?”
Rick smirked. “Didn’t have to. The front dock was unlocked.”
“Yay!” Muriel exclaimed. She hopped down from her perch on the counter. “Let’s go see.”
“Wait a minute,” Rick held her back. “I’m trying to keep this quiet. If we do end up buying this place we don’t want anyone else getting interested and jacking up the price.”
“Pooh,” Muriel pouted.
“Back at ya,” Rick agreed. “It took plenty of self-restraint to keep me from going inside. As it was, I was caught by the next door neighbor, a Mrs. Celeste Burns, a natural born quidnunc if I ever saw one.”
“Ooh!” Muriel clapped her hands. “He used a vocabulary word. Define, please.”
“A gossip,” Rick said, grinning.
“There’s no shortage of those in this town,” Ed laughed.
“I can see it now,” Muriel said, hands in the air. “The new sign at the town limits: WELCOME TO PORTERFIELD, QUIDNUNC CAPITAL OF INDIANA.”
“Save it for your next column,” Rick said. “Or better yet, save it until I’ve unraveled the mystery of Evie Fountain and we’ve decided whether or not it was worth the bother.”
“So you didn’t learn anything?” Ed asked.
“Well, Celeste Burns was spectacularly unhelpful. She carried on about how sweet Evie was, and how she just wanted to be left alone.”
“Like ‘Ruby Red Dress’,” Muriel muttered, referencing the old Helen Reddy hit record.
“Yeah, exactly. I get the strange impression that people were so busy leaving Evie alone no one had a clue about her or her story, or they’re just not telling. Anyway, after that, I went to peruse the town tax records to find the owner’s name. Turns out the house is owned by B.M. Tarpley, Limited, of Fort Lee, New Jersey.”
Ed and Muriel looked at each other, and then at Rick. “Huh?” Ed said.
Rick shook his head. “I went back to the office and called the Fort Lee Chamber Of Commerce. Long story short, no one there had ever heard of B.M. Tarpley, Limited, and the address on the tax records belongs to a decrepit office building scheduled for demolition.”
“This is too weird,” Ed protested.
Muriel was tapping her fingers on the counter. “Someone has gone to great length to hide the ownership of that house. There’s gotta be a reason.”
“So what’s the next move?” Ed asked him.
“Well, I sat there at my desk, chin on my fist, for about ten minutes and then got up and walked across the street to the library for a chat with Edith Clayton.” He grinned. “My teacher parents taught me a long, long time ago that whenever you’re stuck on a project you ask a librarian. Ole Edith perked up like a hound dog on a new scent. I’m sure she’ll come through with more information on B.M. Tarpley, Limited.”
“B.M. Tarpley,” Ed mumbled, fiddling with his tape measure. “I hear some distant bell in my head with that name.”
“That’s early onset Alzheimer’s, dear,” Muriel said.
“No, no, I just have a feeling I’ve heard that before, but I can’t for the life of me make the connection.”
“Well, keep thinking,” Rick said briskly, hopping off the table. “In the meantime let’s let Edith do her thing.” He moved toward the door. “She staying for dinner?” He asked.
“Am I invited?” Muriel inquired.
“No.”
“Then I’m staying.”
###
Later that evening, after Ed had driven Muriel home, he collapsed on the den couch next to Rick. “The first day back at work after vacation sucks,” he grumbled.
“Tell me about it.” Rick put aside the book he’d picked up at the library. “I’m even too burnt out to read. Suppose there’s anything tolerable on TV?” He reached for the remote.
The front doorbell rang. “What the fuck?” Rick groaned.
“I’ll get it,” Ed said reluctantly.
Ed was surprised to find Neal at the door, looking uneasy. “Can I talk to you?” He asked. “And Rick? To both of you?”
“Sure,” Ed said, curiosity winning out over fatigue. He led Neal down the hall to the den at the back of the house.
Once everyone was settled Ed asked, “So what’s goin’ on?”
Neal squirmed in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace. “Can I ask you guys for a huge favor?”
“Depends,” Ed grinned.
“Can I move into your carriage house apartment?”
Ed and Rick looked at each other, stunned. “What on Earth for?” Rick demanded.
“Well…Mom and Dad are a little upset with me; actually, they’re furious.” Neal said, lowering his eyes.
“Why?”
Neal heaved a major sigh. “I told them I don’t want to go to school this fall.”
Rick heaved a sigh as well and said in a much gentler tone than before, “Tell us about it, buddy.”
“This isn’t about that ruckus with that Kennedy kid, is it?” Ed asked.
“No. Well, not really. I’m just…I’m not ready.” He lifted miserable eyes to them. “I’m scared,” he whispered.
“So much for our pep talk,” Ed muttered to Rick. To Neal he asked, “Have you talked to Pastor P
hil about this?”
“Why? He’ll just agree with my parents.”
“Hmm. I seem to recall he was the one who told your parents your sexual orientation didn’t so much require counseling for you but compassion on their part. Don’t sell him short.”
“I just feel more comfortable talking to you guys than him about this stuff.”
“What stuff?”
Neal shrugged. “Can you accept the fact that you’re gay and still be scared shitless?”
Now it was Ed and Rick’s turn to look down. Ed found himself reaching for Rick’s hand, an almost automatic response to any reference of his own fear. “Yeah, I guess you can,” he said softly.
“I remember…” Rick began, and then trailed off.
“What darlin’?”
“Despair,” Rick said simply. “I started college two months after the Stonewall Riots, but you know what? I didn’t know about it. Somehow that news didn’t make it into the Indianapolis newspapers. I mean, something was happening, but I didn’t know about it. I felt so alone, was convinced I’d always be alone and frankly I felt broken for life. I most certainly did not want to leave home, but I didn’t want to go into the armed services, which was about the only other choice with that war going on, and I was also afraid if I told Mom and Dad I didn’t want to go they’d find out why. I was so not ready for that.”
“You get it,” Neal said.
Rick nodded. “I get it.”
“But things are better now,” Ed said. “Surely…”
“Are you forgetting?” Rick applied pressure to his hand.
“Forgetting? Oh,” Ed said abruptly. “Yeah. For us it was the damn war. For Neal it’s the damn disease.”
“Homosexual men are being treated terribly because of AIDS,” Neal said. “I know it would be easier on a liberal college campus, and I know I should be out their fighting the stigma and all that, but I’m not ready. I used up every bit of courage and strength I had accepting myself and coming out to my family. I’d like to coast for a while. Is that so wrong? Does that make me a chickenshit?”
Ed laughed. “No, it’s not wrong, and yes, you’re a chickenshit.”
Neal laughed as well. “That’s okay. I’ve been one before.”
“I would like to know,” Rick said, “just what you intend to do. The Iceberg closes for the year in October. You don’t plan on sitting on your ass after that, do you?”
“No,” Neal said firmly. “I want to try a find at least a part-time job when The Iceberg closes. Also, you know how the Art Society usually has a few professors from the Fort Wayne schools come down and give mini-courses? I thought I could attend those. I mean, I know I won’t get any credit for it, but at least it would get me comfortable with a college atmosphere. And,” he ruefully patted his belly, “I’d really like to work on this. I feel so fat,” he moaned, like any other gay man.
“Okay,” Rick said, rubbing his chin. “I’m on board with those plans, and I certainly have no problem making sure you follow through, but what about your folks? Have you run the idea of living here past them?”
“Yes. I thought they’d flip, but they actually like the idea. They said it would give me a taste of being on my own, like living in a dorm, and they wouldn’t worry with you two to keep an eye on me. You know how much they respect you.”
“That may be,” Ed said, “but I’m sure we’d lose that respect if we let you run wild. You may be eighteen and a legal adult, but you’re still just a kid in a lot of ways. I don’t like the idea of you staying in the carriage house. Hardly anyone’s been up there since Gordy moved out. I’m sure it’s dusty and musty, and I’ve got enough to do already without worrying about getting it cleaned and refurnished. I think you should stay here in the house with us.”
Rick nodded in agreement. “It’ll be like the old days in college. We’ll be acting in loco parentis. There will be rules, and you will follow them.”
“Or you can sleep on the front porch,” Ed added.
“So you guys are really gonna let me do this?” Neal asked hopefully.
Ed and Rick looked at each other. “If we had a lick of sense,” Ed said, “we’d tell him we need to think about it.”
Rick shook his head. “I think when it comes to protecting one of our own we can abandon common sense.”
He got up and pulled Neal onto the couch with them. “Look,” Rick said, his arm around Neal’s shoulders. “You’re not just our friend; you’re family, as far as we’re concerned. We think of Gordy and Pete as our brothers and you’ve become our little brother.”
“And the bros watch out for each other, no matter what,” Ed said.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Neal said, wiping at his eyes. “Let’s shake on it.”
Ed rolled his eyes. “We’re gay men, Neal. We hug on it.” He reached for Rick and together they hugged Neal until he squawked that he was being smothered. He wasn’t the only one with suspiciously wet eyes when they let go.
“When do you think it would be okay to move in?” Neal asked as the phone rang.
Rick snorted. “Isn’t Monday over yet?” He got up and went to grab the kitchen extension.
Ed and Neal waited for him on the couch. Ed was surprised to see Rick looked a good deal less tired when he returned. “That was Edith Clayton,” he said happily. “By Jove, she’s done it! Not only does she have a phone number for B.M. Tarpley, Limited, she has the name of a representative who’s been authorized to discuss the sale of the house!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Once Ed and Rick had had a long talk with Neal’s parents he began to move in what he called his “dorm room supplies”. With Judy’s help, he lugged clothes and cartons from his beat-up car into the house, up the stairs, and into the room still called “George, Jr.’s room”, in reference to the Penfield’s only son who had died in the Korean conflict. It was, Ed and Rick agreed, still the perfect room for a young man.
Much to Ed’s surprise, Judy was completely on board with the plan. “It’s cool,” she had said casually. “Now I don’t have to worry about him. When he finally gets his act together and joins me in Bloomington I’ll have a path carved for both of us.”
Ed couldn’t help but be amused as he watched the dynamic duo make trip after trip up and down the stairs. He muttered to Effie Maude, “Dorm room supplies, my ass. I don’t think they make dorm rooms big enough to hold all that junk.”
Effie Maude frowned, no doubt thinking about having to dust all of it. “I don’t know, Ed. You know I love every young’un that comes into this house like my very own. I think it’s an old maid’s right, but are you and Rick sure about this?”
“No,” Ed admitted. “We’ve had second and even third thoughts about the whole thing, but we promised, so we’ll see how it goes.”
“I just don’t want to see that boy get root bound,” she fretted.
“Oh, he won’t. I’ll see to it. He’ll be uprooted eventually even if I have to take a pick ax to him!”
###
That afternoon Ed drove to Cummings Realty on Clark Street. Rick had taken Vince into their confidence. Just as intrigued as they were, Vince agreed to act as their representative with the representative of B.M. Tarpley, Limited.
Ed found Rick and Vince in Vince’s office. Ed closed the door and sat down across from Vince’s desk next to Rick. Rick handed him a pencil and a notepad. “Let Vince do all the talking. If you have a question or comment, write it down.”
“Caution,” Vince agreed. “We need to get an idea of just what this bird is up to.”
Vince dialed the New Jersey number, and as it began to ring he put the call on speakerphone. “Hello?” A man’s voice answered.
“Good afternoon,” Vince said. “This is Vince Cummings calling for James Briscoe.”
“Speaking.”
“You were expecting my call, Mr. Briscoe?”
“Yes indeed, Mr. Cummings.”
“Great! I hope you don’t mind that I’ve put this c
all on speakerphone. I have my client and, uh, his business partner in the room.”
“That’s perfectly acceptable, Mr. Cummings.”
Ed scribbled a note on his pad and showed it to Rick. He sounds like Emile Autouri on The New Treasure Hunt.
Rick snorted and stifled a laugh. Vince glared at both of them.
Mr. Briscoe continued. “I believe, Mr. Cummings, you wish to discuss the sale of the property at 517 North Cooley Street in Porterfield, correct?”
“Yes, sir. My client is interested in acquiring the home in order to renovate and remodel and eventually resell.”
“Very good. Would you be willing to give me a few details regarding these potential buyers?”
“Um, sure,” Vince said. “The one gentleman is my business associate, a successful and well-regarded real estate agent. His partner is a handyman with a thriving business and an excellent reputation. I can certainly provide references, if need be.”
“I doubt that will be necessary as long as you are willing to vouch for their sincerity.”
The three men exchanged a look. Vince shrugged. “Absolutely. I’ve known them both for some time and have nothing but the utmost respect for them both professionally and personally.”
“I see.”
“Is your client interested in a potential sale?” Vince ventured.
“My client is prepared to sell the property in question for the price of one dollar and closing costs.”
Ed almost fell out of his chair. Rick and Vince looked at each other open-mouthed. “Well…that’s a generous price, Mr. Briscoe,” Vince said, the bewilderment apparent in his voice.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Briscoe said in his crisp, distinctive voice. “There is, however, a condition for this method of sale.”
Here it comes, Rick mouthed to Ed.
“My client will proceed only if the buyers sign a sworn statement promising to do exactly as they say; treat the home with respect and reverence and restore it to its original condition.”
Vince looked at Ed and Rick, who both shrugged. Rick shook his head as well. “We gotta think about it,” he whispered to Vince.