by Perry Brass
"Gentlemen!" A stocky man in an perfectly-pressed, cream-colored suit got up from his desk and came around to shake our hands. He had close-cropped black hair, but his coloring was only a shade darker Yvonne's. In fact it was barely a shade darker than many sun-bronzed Italians. I noticed his feet. They were quite small, in beautiful little burgundy loafers with tassels. "I'm Regis Austin, but just call me Reggy. So, you're interested in Holy Resurrection. Great! Are you in the business?"
Wright and I sat down on comfortable leather chairs. We looked at each other.
"I meant the funeral business—obviously, you aren't. That's fine. I understand." He let out a funny, fluttery chuckle. "It's a dying business anyway!"
"We're interested in living," Wright said. "I’m with the Smithsonian. Assyriology."
"Fascinating field. I've been to the area many times myself. Do you know Uruk and Nippur? Of course, now they're not in the most stable parts of the world. Too close to Bagdad, right? I went there once on a dig myself. Strictly for amateurs, I'll admit."
Wright nodded his head up and down. He closed his eyes. "Uruk. City of the great walls. Unfortunately, mostly dust now. Sure, I know Uruk."
Mr. Austin's eyes zeroed in on Wright. "The Smithsonian? What division, Mr. Smith? I have many friends associated with the Museum?"
I felt the palms of my hands sweating. So, Mr. Austin was no fool. That was as plain as the loafers on his feet, but why was he going into all this with us? Did he smell two imposters so quickly?
"Reggy," Wright said, "Let's cut out the bull manure, okay? We're interested in your place. The size and location please us. Now, can we come to some terms—or," Wright's voice dropped—"are we merely wasting our time?"
Austin's head nodded the way Wright's did. "Yes, yes, yes," he said. "I gather you are interested. Pat phoned me and told me that. It's just that I don't know what sort of people you are. You see, I'm the executor of my cousin's estate. Second cousin. He was a Pendleton and the last one to do business at Holy Resurrection. Let me tell you a couple of things. You have to understand black Washington to see this."
Wright smiled. "We're all ears, Reggy."
Austin's story was interesting. Washington had one of the oldest black communities in the United States. Freed slaves from neighboring Virginia. They intermarried with the whites—and married with each other—so there was a cohesive community in Washington; a black community right under the noses of the white Federal government.
His voice became deep and ministerial. "During the Nineteenth Century, after the Civil War of course, there were always churches to do the baptizing, marrying and burying, those things that hold a community together. But during the Depression, even the middle-class blacks of Washington were so impoverished that to keep their dignity and not be embarrassed at the very end they formed burial societies. They took out insurance with these small funeral clubs, like Holy Resurrection. And you would go to these little places, hardly bigger than a living room, to find out what was happening—to sip coffee and chat—between funerals."
"That's a nice story," Wright said. "What does it have to do with us?"
Reggy got out from behind his desk. He sat on one corner of it, so he was sitting over us. "I want to make sure you're not going to use the place for something I'd be ashamed of. Drugs. Hustlers. You know, like that? The neighborhood is kind of on the cusp. It could go either way— respectable yuppy—or down the tubes."
"You think because we're two men," Wright asked, "we'd be inclined to that?"
"No, sir. I personally am delighted to have you boys in there." Reggy smiled generously. "We've had homosexuality for years in our family. In fact, one of the last directors at Holy Resurrect, Julius Hampton, by name, unfortunately a victim of this plague going around, was gay as a goose. Isn't that how you say it? But discreet. The man was exceedingly discreet."
"Did he die there?" I asked. I felt myself getting queasy again. As a mere visitor to this planet, I didn't like getting mixed up in situations that were neither one nor the other. That is, not dead or alive. Why was Wright putting me through this? Alan, I can tell you, was not happy.
"No, sir," Reggy said. "Poor man died in a VA hospital. Sad and all hushed up. That's when we had to get rid of the place. We weren't doing any business. Our clientele was going to the fancy parlors with big parking lots. The old idea of the community funeral society was—you know—dead."
I could tell Wright was getting impatient. He wanted to come to terms quickly. He decided to start off with a lower offer and see how far it got him. He looked directly at Reggy and offered him ten thousand dollars to move in. Cash. Firm.
Reggy looked quite shocked, as if some one had shaken his hand with an electric buzzer. Pat, of course, had already mentioned the kind of money we were offering. Low. So the ball was now in Reggy's court.
"Wright, that's a pretty ridiculous offer!" Wright's expression did not change. Finally, Reggy's tongue went into his cheek. "Alright," he conceded, "to tell you the truth, we want to get the taxes off our hands and somebody in that house. Vandals, you know."
He took out the necessary papers from his desk, and we both quickly signed them. Wright handed him the first five thousand dollars in cash, with the promise to give him the rest in a week. Then we shook hands with Reggy, and he smiled.
We moved in later on that afternoon. It was a simple procedure. The suitcases came out of the Merriweather; at a discount store near the house we found a mattress, a very cheap kid's desk, and some pots, pans, plates, and glasses. There were good ceiling fixtures all over the place, but I made a note to myself to buy as many lamps as possible. We found a place to eat that night in the neighborhood. It was a cheap counter place called Willy's Chicks & Pigs. I had a fried chicken plate, and Wright ate a large portion of black-eyed peas and ham. Biscuits came with everything. The food was spicy and satisfying. The cliental at Willy's—almost all black—treated us nicely.
We were overfed and overtired. I knew I was jumpy, being now, for the first time, in a really new place. We stripped off our clothes and got into some sheets tucked over the mattress in our room on the second floor. I closed my eyes and clung to Wright with all my might.
He kissed me. "God, you are freaked out."
"I want a light on someplace." I got up naked and switched on the bathroom light, so that a faint line of it crossed the mattress, at my feet.
"Feel better?"
I told him I did. I tried to go to sleep. There were noises all over the place. Moaning. Creaking. Sounds like iron chains being rattled. My eyes opened. I realized they were all coming from outside, from small trees bending with the wind; heavy trucks rattling by. I couldn't sleep.
"Maybe we should make love," Wright said. He was awake, too. He put his hands on my crotch. I was so tense, I was hard as a rock. "Nice," he whispered. He began to kiss me, very full on the mouth. It was the wildest, most intense kiss. I forgot about where I was. My body felt perfect until, while Wright was going down on me, I heard another noise downstairs. This was not the wind. Some one was rattling the door. Wright stopped in mid-stroke.
"What the hell could that be?" he whispered to me.
I wondered why—if he was so confident about the place—he was whispering? "Maybe you should stick on your pants and go see who it is?"
"Me?"
"Sure. Maybe it's in the basement. One of the last guests making a return trip."
"Oh, shut up, Alan." He put on his pants. He was barefoot, but threw on a tee shirt. "Weapons?" he whispered. "We have anything just in case . . ." I told him alright. I got up, tiptoed into the kitchen, and brought him a small, cast-iron frying pan. "Better than nothing," I said.
He went down the stairs. I closed my eyes and prayed. Maybe it was because I was alone, but it seemed that each creak and rattle of the house got louder. I didn't hear another word; Wright didn't come back. I decided to put on pants and a tee shirt myself, and go down as quietly as possible.
I hated the way the floorboa
rds creaked so much. I didn't want to turn the lights on in the hallway. I wasn't going to tip off whatever was down there, in case Wright was in trouble.
I turned the corner into the large front room, and saw Wright quietly talking to Regis.
"Hi, guy, I saw one of your lights on, so thought I'd stop by and see how you two are." He was dressed in jeans and a tight, black tee shirt. He had large, smooth arms, and a great bull neck. Suddenly, I saw Reggy differently. Very sexy, out of the suit he wore. "Hope I didn't spook you. No pun intended." He smiled, and I noticed what a large, attractive mouth he had.
I apologized at the state of our living arrangement—at the moment, there was no place for him to sit or anything to offer him. But I got the feeling he wasn't interested in being offered anything. At least at the moment. One of his hands went up to his mouth, like there was something he'd forgotten. "Wait a second, Alan. There's something I wanted to bring you. I think you'll get a kick out of this."
He hurried out the front door to go to his car. I shrugged my shoulders. For me? I had no idea what he was talking about.
"Are you flirting with him?" Wright asked me.
"No."
"Then what was all this business with his hand at his mouth? Ever heard of body language? You and Reggy are speaking very loudly."
"Okay," I told him. "I find him a bit attractive."
Wright's face darkened. "Jesus, Alan—you have changed. It's a good thing we don't have any goats or Pekinese dogs around. Is anything safe from you?"
I told him to shut up, just as Reggy returned with a rectangular package about a yard long. It was wrapped neatly with tape in brown butcher paper.
"What's this?" I asked.
He laughed. "It's a surprise, but I guess you should open it now."
I dove into the paper, and managed to get it all over the floor before I read:
HOLY RESURRECTION
Burial Society and Social Club
The sign was very dignified, with neat gold lettering on a dark lavender background.
I thought I was going to scream. Laughter? Alright, maybe it was just an explosion of nerves; suddenly the place didn't seem quite so frightening anymore—although nothing was still going to get me to go down into the basement.
"We didn't want to keep the sign out while we were trying to sell the place. But now that you're here, you might consider putting it outside. It's a great way to keep out thieves. They won't go near the place, let me tell you."
Maybe nobody else will, either, I thought.
"This is really nice, " Wright said. His eyes went over the sign. "I'll put it out tomorrow." He seemed mollified. His jealousy melted away. At least for now. "Thanks a lot, Reggy."
Reggy told him he was welcome. "I was wondering, guys, if there was anything else I could get for you? Furniture? Used, new, indifferent? Or maybe just information? You know, about the neighborhood."
"Information," Wright said, "sounds great."
"What would you like to know?"
"Where the bars are. Good places to hang out."
Reggy smiled. "Cruising? Are you two into cruising. Some couples are."
"Not so much cruising, "Wright answered coyly. "But there's always the possibility of new friends."
New friends? In a pig's ass, I thought. Who was Wright fooling now? I'd seen him in action at the Buffalo Club. For someone who just loved to take his weenie out and show it to the world, he could certainly put on the shy schoolboy routine. Maybe he was just insecure around Alan. Was it all to show me he was still attractive?
"I don't go to bars myself," Reggy said. "Certainly not in Washington. They're not very discreet, you know. You never can tell who or what you're going to pick up."
I asked him what he meant.
"Rough trade. I mean really rough. That's always a problem. And if you're black and you go into a white bar, they look at you—no matter how well you're dressed—like you just dropped in from hell. Like you're some kind of spy from the Netherworld. Know what I mean?"
"I think so," I said, thoughtfully.
"Well, it's alright if you don't." He smiled broadly again. "I don't expect every white man to understand these things. Now about the bars—"
Strangely enough, we were very close to a group of them on Pennsylvania Avenue. One was a Country and Western bar. "Not exactly my sort of place. Everyone trying to look like he just came out of a Gene Autry movie. There's a mixed black and white bar, too. But it's filled with hustlers. So I rarely go in."
I asked him where he did go, and he answered that he rarely went out. "At least in a gay kind of way. It's hard to meet guys now. With the AIDS situation and the racial tension in Washington. But you can meet guys in the nicest and strangest ways. Sometimes they just walk into your office."
He smiled at us both again. I felt some sexual tension hit the air. I knew Reggy was looking right into me. And Wright was looking even harder. Or was he just being jealous Greeland again?
"I better go now," Reggy apologized, his feet starting to hurry. "I've kept you guys up too long. But if you ever feel like a third, let me know. I can prove three's not a crowd."
Wright's mouth dropped open, then he quickly collected himself and pretended that Reggy had only been joking. He thanked him for the sign, and then cooled down. His voice became at the same time more casual and colder, like he was talking to someone who'd finally crossed the threshold to his private club, but was still in for a long probation.
I knew it was a hard moment for Wright. Seduction had never been his game. Making sex intimate wasn't easy for him, either. I, on the other hand, could hardly make it any other way, so I found Reggy's visit—with promises of things to come—intriguing. Plainly, I didn't think Wright was attracted to black men. His attractions were more specific. Centering on Jewish. So I was glad to be one of them. I said goodnight to Reggy from the front porch, and watched his car lights disappear down the block.
Wright looked at me coldly, when I got back in. Was he really reading my mind, the snoopy sonovabitch? Sure, I could have flipped right into bed with Reggy—for the sheer, delicious curiosity of it. But I knew that there were things holding me back. One of them was the small third transmitter between my legs.
We turned out the ceiling light and went back upstairs. Wright took his pants and tee shirt off. "One of these days, your nuts are going to get you into a lot of trouble," he said furiously. "I could tell you'd hit the sack with him in an instant."
"He's handsome," I said.
"Sure," he said coldly. "I didn't realize you liked schvartzahs so much."
"Don't say that."
"Sorry." He lowered his eyes for a second. "It's just that you think everyone's handsome, Alan. You're surprising me. You've gone from a Chicken Queen to an Everybody Queen."
I paused. He was right. "But it's all new to me," I said. "You've been out a lot longer."
"Alan, you're way past thirty—" Immediately, he stopped himself. "I guess it is new to you, isn't it?"
"Greeland ..."
"I thought you weren't going to call me that. At least as long as we're in Washington."
"I just wanted to tell you, I liked the sign. It makes this place seem more like a joke and less threatening."
He shrugged his broad bare shoulders and told me it was no joke. At least being there. We had work to do in Washington, and we had to start soon.
When he said that I had to ask him something. Why were we living in this place that made me feel so creepy?
"I can't tell you, Alan." He got into bed with me, and held me close to him. "But you've just got to trust me, so much that the idea of not trusting me will frighten you even more than this place does."
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, Wright hung out the sign, and within a few hours, we had our first call. An old, thin lady, neatly dressed in a navy suit and a small hat with some black veiling and several plastic cherries attached, rang our doorbell. She was somewhat taken aback that the person answering w
as white and Jewish—me, that is—but asked anyway, "Do you mean to tell us Holy Resurrection is back in business?"
I told her no; the sign was simply out for old times sake. I guess it hadn't occurred to Reggy or Wright that the sign would get us back into the funeral game. When the third caller came, a dapper, almost ebony little man who told me he'd just lost a second wife ("She done drunk herself to death; from the Islands they do that."), I decided I had to do something.
I went down to the sidewalk, where the sign hung from its rusted post, and incised with a ballpoint pen into the lavender background the word Formerly in front of Burial Society and Social Club, and in smaller letters, under everything:
"No Longer In Operation."
This must have helped the word get out instantly, because Holy Resurrection wasn't bothered again for its services. At least those services.
Within another week, other words got out through the neighborhood: two men were living there; they were white; and although there was no furniture in the house to speak of, they were worth looking up.
At various times attractive young men from the neighborhood rang our bell. Did we need any jobs done? At first I said no. The lawn didn't need cutting. The place was clean. But I knew the way they looked at me they weren't referring to those sort of jobs. "You sure, man?" Those smiles could melt my heart, but I didn't ask them in. But I did think about them and their dark lean bodies during the day, when Wright was away.