This Day's Death

by John Rechy

  Cory mounts his platform.

  “Girard and Travis!”

  Once again they stand before Cory—who doesn’t look at them.

  Alan: “Defendant Girard is ready, your honor.”

  Edmondson: “Defendant Travis is ready, your honor.”

  Cory: “This is the time fixed for sentence. Is there any legal cause why it should not now be pronounced?”

  What does he feel? He must know the cop lied. And those who sentence men to die?

  Alan: “On behalf of defendant Girard there is not.”

  Edmondson: “On behalf of defendant Travis there is not.”

  Cory: “The record will show that I have read the probation reports governing this matter. One observation: When the defendants talked to the probation officer, they seem to have forgotten that I viewed the park.”

  What was he conveying? It was that which proved Daniels lied, and in his report Jim had included a detailed account of what had occurred in the park before Cory. Was he referring to the sexhunters he had seen in the area that day? Guilty for just being there? Or was it for the purpose of Miller, who believed them, that he said that?

  Then Cory screwed up his face like a peevish child, and he pronounced sentence:

  “It will be the judgment of the court that defendant Girard be sentenced to the state prison for the term prescribed by law, not to exceed fifteen years.” He paused. Paused longer. As if deciding whether to stop there. “But the sentence is suspended,” he said finally, still without looking at Jim, “and defendant Girard is placed on probation for . . . five years. . . .”

  Five years. A felony.

  Alan, Edmondson, and Miller stared at Cory as if at a child on a rampage oblivious of the wreckage he’s creating. Even so, Cory was continuing:

  “I am further imposing the following conditions of probation: One—that defendant Girard pay a fine of $500.00 forthwith through the clerk of the court, plus penalty assessment. Two—that defendant Girard not frequent the area of Griffith Park within which he was arrested; an area designated as— . . .”

  Even as Cory continued spewing words like curses, smashing at his life, even then Jim felt at first only relief. There was no actual prison time involved. And it was really ending.

  “Three—that he shall not engage in any unlawful activity. Four—that he shall obey all the rules and regulations of the probation department— . . .”

  The same sentence for Steve. But only half the fine.

  The next moments were a clutter of events, words: Alan explaining to Jim in a rushed whisper the matter of sex registration. “Required under this conviction . . . report to the chief of police or the sheriff in each city, county in California you may reside in, any change of address, within thirty days, so they can forward your fingerprints and photograph for identification wherever; but since you’ll return to Texas, that won’t apply—unless you come back to California; then you’ll— . . . And there’s the matter of permission to leave the state. The court order granting probation will go to Sacramento, and they’ll communicate with the probation department in El Paso, if any— . . . A mere technicality—that’s all it is; you’ll be able to leave right away. The probation officer will explain it all— . . .” Roy’s reaction indicating the horror of what all those words mean. And then they were on another floor of the Hall of Justice staring into the expressionless face of a clerk who would take the fine. . . . Roy had gone quickly to the bank to draw out enough money to lend Jim. “I’ll pay you right away; as soon as I get to El Paso, I’ll pay you,” Jim kept promising Roy, as if that was the only reality he was prepared to grasp for the moment although the fine wiped out virtually all the money that was left. “Don’t worry,” Roy kept repeating. And in Jim’s hand: a receipt. He had paid $625.00. “One hundred and twenty-five dollars is the penalty assessment,” Alan is saying; “the assessment is partly for policemen’s benefits.” A feeling of nausea and murderous rebellion; hatred for the cops, for all judges, all laws— . . . “I’ll pay you right away, Roy.” “Don’t worry about it.” “You’ll have to report to the probation officer, I’m sure he’ll see you right away; you’ll be able to go back to El Paso soon after,” Alan is saying. Once again they’re in the courtroom. Cory is sentencing others. Jim gives the slip indicating that the fine is paid to a woman at a desk near Cory’s platform; she writes, returns the slip to Jim. It was only then that he glanced at the paper and saw, printed in contemptuous red letters, the words: “CUSTOMER’S COPY.”

  It was also then that, looking at Cory, Jim saw only the judge’s flushed pudgy face squeezed into a mouth which was spewing out words of contempt.

  “Jim, Jim!”

  It wasn’t until Alan began to draw him away that Jim realized he was advancing toward Cory, who is looking down at him quizzically as if not understanding— . . . What?

  Jim walked away from Alan and out of the despised courtroom.

  Alan caught up with him. “Jim, there are still some avenues I can pursue to make all this less harrowing for you— . . . I’ll speak to— . . .”

  “Alan— . . .” Jim interrupted him. “Alan, you are a goddamned liar.” He stood looking at Alan, daring to be challenged. Then he walked away with Roy along the hall and toward the elevator.

  “Jim!” It was Steve. His wife waited a few feet away. She’s staring at Jim, studying him closely, curiously. Jim looks away from her.

  “Goodbye, Jim,” Steve said.

  “Goodbye, Steve. And . . . good luck, man.” From now, through probation and all the rest that would follow, they would be separate entities. The arbitrary intimacy of codefendants had ended today.

  They shook hands awkwardly.

  Jim watches Steve return—slowly, with obvious embarrassment—to where his wife is waiting. She begins to cry. He puts his arm about her. But she rushes away ahead of him and into a waiting elevator. Alone. As if she were suddenly afraid of some horrible contamination.

  Jim went down the elevator with Roy, in silence.

  As he walked out of the rancid Hall of Justice, he saw the faces that surrounded him. So many, many young faces. All defendants. And others would be arrested today, and tomorrow— . . . How many were real criminals?

  For him that part of the nightmare was over.

  Without having realized it, his body had been cold throughout those endless months. He knew it only now that he felt the warm blood coursing through it again. Eight months. It had taken eight months. . . . But immediately the coldness returned. One nightmare had merely faded into another, he realized: Probation . . . sex registration . . . the conviction would mar his life forever. The words Cory had uttered had propelled the invisible machinery into one decisive grinding murdering the planned future. And the charge had not happened.

  Roy waited for him while he went to a phone booth outside to call his sister at work. He had arrived late last night, rented a room in a different motel this time (avoiding reminders of the past trips), and called only Roy.

  “Jim! Is Mother with you?” Estela asks eagerly.

  “No. She didn’t feel she could take another trip so soon,” Jim said.

  Her silent pause indicates her vast disappointment. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, sure, fine.”

  “I feel so terrible about Mother; I was impatient the last time she was here—I shouldn’t have been. She’s been such a great mother. But I just— . . .”

  “Christ, I understand,” Jim said; and he did: the guilt in retrospect which always hammered at them. . . . No, he wouldn’t be over today, he told Estela. No, he’s not sure how long he’ll be here—a few days at the very most. He’ll see her, of course. Yes, his business is really finally over.

  “Jim— . . .” Roy touches Jim’s shoulder, lightly, when he hung up.

  “Thank you very much for everything, Roy,” Jim says; “I’ll pay you the money as soon as I get back— . . . You’ve been great, man!”

  “So are you,” Roy said softly.

  No
w Jim would go arrange to see Miller. And he would thank him. Without his report and the strong recommendations, what would Cory have been capable of in his rampage?

  But first there was somewhere else he had to go.

  Green.

  Driving up the road. Miles. Toward the black X again. Anxious faces waiting in cars turn inviting him. Moving into the dusky green of the park. A warm day. Jim removes his shirt. The odor of smog and trees. Sky whitish blue. The sun a bright smear. He drives slowly approaching the area of the grotto. Several cars are parked to the side of the road. His heart beats audibly in his ears. He parks. A handsome youngman driving past looks back at him—makes a swift U-turn.

  Jim walks into the forested area. He hears a car stop on the road. A door closes. He walks farther into the depth of green.

  But this time there is no sense of trance. He’s fully alert, even as he passes the remembered trees, brush, paths—the props of a past dream.

  Men cruising like shadows stare at him, follow him— the focal point of the sexhunt as he moves shirtless through the green haze. But he looks away from each hunter he encounters. He approaches the fork in the path. (Where I was arrested!) Now the path. (Where Daniels stood!) He moves on. (Where Jones was when I passed him!)

  Into the grotto.

  Footsteps. The handsome youngman he saw on the road enters. They stand looking at each other. Jim moves to the back of the circle which is embraced tightly by branches, vines, trees. The youngman advances, leans toward him—to kiss him on the mouth. Rejecting that movement instinctively, Jim turns his face away. But he waits. The youngman touches Jim’s groin, opens the first button of his pants, the second; his tongue glides quickly down Jim’s bare chest, his hand between Jim’s legs, pulling the pants down, releasing Jim’s prick. Jim leans against the branched wall of the grotto. The youngman’s mouth encloses Jim’s hard cock.

  Suddenly Jim draws the youngman up by the shoulders.

  Both standing again, they face each other. Then, as if by silent signal given by Jim, the youngman understands that Jim will now complete the kiss he rejected earlier. And their lips press against each other, tongues searching within the other’s mouth. Their hands explore each other’s body intimately. For the first time Jim feels no fury, no rage, no anger. No fear. And for the first time a hint of fulfillment.

  Footsteps!

  They button their pants quickly. Jim moves slowly out of the grotto. He continues along the green. On the path a man stands staring at him. Jim walks past him. Farther up, another man waits. Jim passes him too. He continues up the path. He passes the fork. Moves on. He’s on the wide trail now. Approaching the main road. Out of the forested area. Now he’s opening the door of his car. He gets in.

  He drives out of the green, green park.

  He no longer had the feeling of having stumbled accidentally on another’s fate. No. It was now his own.

  AGAIN ON THE SAN BERNARDINO FREEWAY. LEAVING THE city of lost angels. Smoggy gray shroud reflected in his rearview mirror. Los Angeles rock stations fading into electronic murmurings, voices into echoes. He turns the radio off. Miles along the highway. A desolate sign: Indian Hospital. Hot tar making a strange noise. Miles. Arizona. Desolate cluster of blacks drinking cokes outside a small cafe. A suicide of yellow butterflies. Slaughtered birds on the pavement. Shadows of clouds stretch on distant mountains. Miles. Awesome vista of brush, mountains, sky, clouds. White words on a gray mountain: “Christ Died For The Ungodly.” The sky purplish. A distant rainbow. “Apache tears”—black gleaming rocks—15¢ a piece in gas stations. Shield of sky. Miles. Phoenix. White oleanders—flowers his mother loves. The motel where she fell. Miles. New Mexico. Clouds swallowing hills. Lost, forgotten Indians along the highway, walking, sitting, waiting for the slow annihilation. Miles. Mexican families in tiny rooms scattered in the hills. Highway rushing to the sky, a tunnel through it. The sweep down to Las Cruces. Odor of alfalfa. Green mountains. Mexican construction workers. The edge of the city. El Paso. Returning to—. . . What? He speeds to the familiar white house. Mother. What would he find?

  The oxygen tank. It’s back.

  The blinds in his mother’s dark room are drawn even against the dusking evening light. She lies facing away from him. Her dark glasses resting on the table stare blackly. The cane. The pills. He stands only at the door. . . . Remembers: The long day of siege, that winter day of dying. War— . . .

  In the living room Miss Lucía says, “She’s been like this since after you left. Death exists only for the living.” She wore bracelets—several; giant earrings—but they didn’t match, although both had tiny glistening mirrors. Enormous as they were, her eyes were almost swallowed by the heavy paint outlining them. She wears one of the dresses Estela gave her—much too formal for use about the house. Even so, she had added a colorful sash to it, tied about her waist and dangling in front. She resembles an old child playing gypsy too ferociously.

  Jim is looking at her in surprise. Had she changed so much within the few days he was gone this last time? Had it been so gradual?—had he become that used to her? Was it possible that he hadn’t noticed till now that her appearance had inched beyond exaggeration?—had he been that preoccupied?

  “Dr. del Valle wants you to call him right away, youngman,” she said. “And, oh, I’m glad you’re back.”

  In the den Jim calls the doctor’s home.

  “While you were gone, I had the neurologist run the tests I suggested in December, Jim,” the doctor tells him. “They’re all negative.”

  Jim feels a profound sense of relief, followed by an equally profound sense of frustration.

  “And there’s no improvement,” the doctor tells him. “I tried the oxygen tank again. We may have to hospitalize her once more; if nothing else, to break the cycle of these spells.” Familiar words bringing less and less hope.

  “If it’s necessary— . . .” Jim utters more familiar words.

  “Jim,” the doctor goes on, “as your friend, I want to say that—not now but in the future— . . . Maybe you should begin considering putting your mother in a home—eventually, not now—for both your sakes.”

  A home. Jim imagines: His mother in a home. Remembers: The images she evoked when she told him and Estela about her youth—the beautiful young woman, charming all, courted by all. He remembers her waltz. Her smile—that especially. His mother, in a home. Trapped at the point where nothing lay ahead but extinction—the increasing horror not of death but of waiting for death. Had she reached that point? Of course not! he told himself. But later— . . . ? Years from today— . . . No, not even then. Not that for his mother, ever. It would be like committing her to a prison.

  He said, “I’ll never put her in a home, Tom.”

  “I’m glad,” Dr. del Valle said. “And, Jim, there are still other tests. We can never be sure there’s no physical cause— . . .”

  Jim enters his mother’s darkened bedroom, Miss Lucía a painted shadow behind him. Mrs. Girard sits up quickly. “My Son! You’re back!” Her arms open to him.

  He leans over her, she hugs him tightly.

  “I wanted so much to be well when you returned—but—look— . . . I’m sick again, my Son. Worse than ever this time. La cosa— . . . The thing— . . . What are we going to do?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, consumed with love for her after the conversation with the doctor. He wanted to protect her—make life right for her—to shelter her. (And he was remembering: “Leave him . . . I’ll take care of you!")

  “Is it over in Los Angeles?” she asks him anxiously.

  Los Angeles. Yes, that part of that death had been died. “Yes.”

  “Completely?”

  “Completely.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, relieved, holding his hand. “I’ve worried—because I know you’ve been worried. And I’ve been so sick the days you were gone—I thought I would die before you returned. Miss Lucía helped me—so much— . . . My head— . . .” She seems about to surrender to
one of the terrible spells. She’s gasping. She’s searching for her rosary. As if he can save her, she holds his hand firmly.

  Gently, he pulls it away.

  The reminders of that long winter day pressing down on him, he knew he had to get out of the house immediately, although he’s been back only a few minutes, as if, leaving and then returning, he can reorder the shape of reality to be faced, place it on probation before rebelling against it. He called Lloyd to tell him he would be over.

  Ellen welcomes him minutes later with a kiss on the cheek.

  As usual, a tight warm embrace from Lloyd. “And your mother?” he asks.

  “The same. The same damn thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen says.

  “God, how I know— . . .” Lloyd says.

  “I had to get out of the house just now—and I just returned,” Jim says.

  Abruptly, “Move out, Jim!” Lloyd says. “Leave her, you can still provide for her. And you can stay here in the meantime. Living with her can destroy you. I wish I had left when my mother first— . . .” He stopped abruptly, as if the confession of regret had erupted from a buried depth always before concealed. “I miss my mother very much,” he says, himself again. “Hardly a day passes that I don’t remember something about her.”

  Lloyd and his mother. The woman in the wheelchair clinging to life. To Lloyd. Of course. The stunning power of a fading life to control another completely. Escape. Yes, Jim thinks. And all it requires is to leave. That’s all. And yet— . . .

  After a few moments, as if by prearrangement, Ellen leaves the room. “Is it all over in Los Angeles?” Lloyd asks Jim immediately.

  Jim’s mind swiftly rehearses words: The charges were false— . . . A cop lied— . . . I was tried because of a lie— . . .

  “Jim, answer me!” Lloyd demands. “I know something’s been very wrong!”

  Jim blurts: “I was convicted of a felony in Los Angeles.”

  Lloyd frowned. “You were— . . . ?” His reaction told Jim his suspicions had not led him in that direction.