Divine Rebel

by Tom Wallace

  ~ * ~

  Travel arrangements taken care of, I had time to let what happened settle in. I wasn’t sure if I was more depressed by Kate’s death, or by my daughter’s demand that I stay away from the memorial service. It was a damn close call, and I couldn’t begin to tell you for sure which one got my vote.

  Logic told me Kate had done a number on me with Angel. Why else would she hate me so much? But somehow that didn’t ring true. Kate was not someone who had hate in her heart, not for me, not for anyone. She was a kind, loving woman. Yes, our divorce was painful, but there was no animosity between us. It went about as well as any divorce can, and certainly better than most I’m familiar with. She received a generous financial settlement, and although I was legally bound to pay child support until Angel was eighteen, I have continued doing so until this very moment. In fact, I mailed her a check two weeks ago.

  So even though I haven’t seen or spoken to Angel in twelve years, I never failed her financially. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to contact her. I have. I made many attempts over the years to reach out to her. But she never answered my calls, nor did she respond to the hundreds of messages I left. She simply erased me from her life.

  Angel recently finished her second year at Southern Cal and was living with Kate in Los Angeles. Kate had remained in our old house in Brentwood, the one we purchased when I got my first big check from a movie studio. But she was originally from Carmel, that scenic beach city on the Monterey Peninsula where the actor Clint Eastwood had been elected mayor in nineteen eighty-six. Kate’s father was a wealthy big-shot in the community, and her older brother, Jason, was currently a successful businessman. I had to wonder how Jason and his old man would respond when they saw me. We’d had no problems before the divorce. In fact, we’d gotten along well. However, since then I’ve probably been declared the enemy.

  The pre-dawn drive from Siesta Key to Tampa was light on traffic, and the flight to San Francisco was quiet and uneventful. These days, getting in and out of the airport has become the worrisome aspect of air travel. But we landed without incident, for which I’m always thankful. I rented a car, loaded my luggage, got in, and quickly found my way to U.S. 101, the Pacific Coast Highway. In no time I was on my way heading south, leaving rain behind in favor of bright sunshine.

  I had booked a room at the Wayside Inn, a cottage-style hotel on Seventh Avenue and Mission Street, approximately four-tenths of a mile from the ocean. I chose the place not because it was near the beach, but rather because it was only four blocks from the Church of the Wayfarer located on Lincoln Street and Seventh Avenue. It was a Methodist Church. I don’t recall Kate being a Methodist, so it had to be her family who made the call to hold the service there.

  ~ * ~

  Because of the time zone change, my flight to the West Coast had given me three extra hours to kill. Did this also mean I was three hours younger in Carmel than I would be if I were still in Florida? Not a question that really matters, is it? Three hours either way…what difference would that make over the long haul?

  To fend off on-rushing fatigue resulting from my cross-country flight, I decided to take a stroll around downtown Carmel, a city I’d never visited. Carmel is regularly ranked among the best places to live in the United States, though not many can afford to do so. It is also a city descended upon by thousands of visitors every year.

  Seeing the downtown area was but one reason for my walk. My main goal was to get something to eat. I was starving. A bagel and a glass of orange juice were all I had before leaving my condo this morning. That seemed like a hundred years ago at this point.

  Not long after leaving the inn, I stumbled on the perfect place to satisfy my hunger… Brophy’s Tavern, an Irish pub located in a two-story house on the corner of Fourth Avenue and San Carlos Street. Pub food sounded good, and that, along with some booze, was exactly what I was craving.

  There was a decent-size crowd inside, primarily consisting of younger, hip professional types seated at various booths, enjoying an after-work drink. None of them paid me any attention as I made my way to the bar. I ordered a scotch and soda and asked to see a menu. After briefly looking it over, I decided on a Reuben calzone, fries, and a Caesar salad. While waiting for my food, I ordered a second drink and looked around the bar, which was impressive in every way. It was easy to understand why this place was so popular.

  The food came, I wolfed it down faster than was healthy, and enjoyed every bite. Finished, I ordered a third scotch and soda, figuring my walk back to the Wayside Inn would shake off any buzz I might be experiencing. And if I did get stopped, I could tell the officer that I had met Carmel’s former mayor, which happens to be true. Maybe having met Clint Eastwood (very briefly, I must say) would serve as my get-out-of-jail-free card.

  After finishing my drink, I paid my tab and got up to leave. At the same time a woman rose from one of the booths and began making her way in my direction. She had blonde hair, blue eyes and a deep tan. She wore a white Tee-shirt, cut-off jeans and sandals. The classic California look. I assumed she was coming to the bar to order another round of drinks for herself and her pals at the booth. I was wrong. She walked straight up to me, a big smile on her face.

  “‘Great things are done when men and mountains meet. This is not done by jostling in the street’,” she said, reciting a famous William Blake quote.

  “A Blake fan, I take it,” I said.

  “Well, I wasn’t until I saw Divine Rebel. Which I thought was great, by the way.”

  I didn’t know which was more surprising…her having seen the play or recognizing me.

  “When did you see the play?” I asked.

  “On a visit to New York City. I got lucky. It was Anthony Hopkins’s last performance before leaving the show. He was beyond great.”

  “It’s good to know you enjoyed the play.”

  “Divine Rebel is a wonderful title. But I’m curious. Why call Blake a divine rebel?”

  “Because that’s how I view him. Many people mistakenly identify Blake as a mystic, which is only partly true, at best. I’d say it’s more accurate to call him a visionary or a prophet. He was certainly a genuine revolutionary artist. Keep in mind that most of his ideas were not embraced by the majority of people living at the time. Blake was always an outsider. In fact, some people considered him to be mad.”

  “I know you’re about to leave,” she said, “but would you do me a favor before you do?”

  “Sure, if I can.”

  “Give me your favorite Blake quote.”

  “That’s a tough call. There is no shortage to choose from.”

  “Come on, Mr. Gabriel. Just give me one.”

  “How about, ‘every harlot was a virgin once’?”

  “Why am I not surprised that you would pick that one?” She smiled, grinned, and touched my arm. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Gabriel.”

  “Likewise,” I said, as she made her way back to her friends.

  I arrived at the Wayside Inn just as the sun was sinking into the Pacific Ocean. It was the same sun I saw in the sky above Siesta Key, but it didn’t look the same. Somehow, it looked bigger, brighter, more majestic. Maybe a little closer to the one Adam had seen on that first day. Lucky Adam.

  I went back to my room, undressed, lay on the bed, and turned on the TV, a plan that only lasted a few minutes before my thoughts drifted in another direction. I turned the TV off and allowed those thoughts to take shape.

  I dreaded tomorrow, knowing it would be an awkward, difficult day. My own daughter apparently hated me, and I had no way of predicting how Kate’s family would react upon seeing me. Would I be welcomed, or would one of them throw a punch at me? I had no way of knowing what might happen.

  However, those thoughts were quickly pushed to the background by the murder in my hometown. In particular, one aspect of the crime continued to baffle me… why would a man Luke Felton’s age be hanging around with a young kid like Todd Brown? Was it drugs, as both Karen and Mi
ke Tucker seemed to believe? Or was there another reason, maybe something sexual in nature? If what Mike said was true, that Luke was gay, that did give weight to the sexual angle. I knew Luke, not well, but I’d been in his presence multiple times, and he never gave off a gay vibe. But did that really mean anything? Maybe he was just very adroit at hiding it. As a once-married man and the father of two, maybe he felt compelled to keep it a secret. I suppose the answer was destined to remain unknown until I began investigating the case.

  Those were my last thoughts before I drifted off to a deep sleep.

  ~ * ~

  At nine-fifteen the next morning, I was sitting alone in the Church of the Wayfarer chapel. The interior was beautiful, quiet and holy, a perfect place to pray or contemplate or seek inner-peace. While I’m certainly no expert on houses of worship, I’d be hard-pressed to imagine a better site than this chapel.

  Kate’s gold urn was sitting on a table at the front of the altar. It was flanked by two 8x10 photos, one of Kate from several years ago, and a second that showed Kate standing next to Angel that had been taken several moments after Angel’s high school graduation ceremony. Studying that photo for quite a while, I could only marvel at the beautiful woman my daughter had become.

  Only then did the full weight of disappointment and selfishness and bad decisions come crashing down on me. Never had I felt this sadness, this acknowledgment of lost opportunities like I did at this moment. How had it to come to this? How had I been so misguided?

  “Why are you here?” a female voice said.

  I had been so absorbed in my own thoughts that I had failed to hear her enter the church. Although I had not spoken to my daughter in a dozen years, I instantly recognized her voice. I had no doubt who asked the question. Shifting in my seat, I turned and saw her walking down the aisle toward me. The photo next to the urn, taken two years ago, failed to do her justice. She was even more beautiful now than she was then.

  Standing, I said, “Angel, I can’t get over—”

  “Don’t call me Angel,” she snapped. “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “You’ve always been Angel to me, from the moment I first laid eyes on you. When the nurse handed you to me and said I now had my own Angel Gabriel.”

  “And exactly when was that? Let’s see. Oh, yeah, two full days after I was born. And where were you when Mom was giving birth? Shacked up in some motel with one of your lady friends, right?”

  I had no rebuttal to that charge. Much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Sometimes there is no hiding from the truth.

  “That was a long time ago, Angel,” I said, weakly.

  “I’m Samantha now, remember? But back to my original question: Why are you here?”

  “Because I loved your mom, and I love you. And we’re family. I should be here.”

  “Obviously, your notion of family is much different than mine.”

  “Look, I’m the first to admit that I messed up. Nobody has to tell me that. But I didn’t walk away unscathed from that situation. Trust me, I paid a big price for what I did. You and your mom aren’t the only ones who suffered. Angel, it’s time to move on. All I want is for you to cut me some slack, maybe forgive me for the mistake I made?”

  “Dream on, Dad. We both know it wasn’t just one mistake. There were plenty of women on your date card.”

  “You’re making it sound like I had a different woman every night, which is simply not true. I agree that one was too many. But you’re wrong to think I was some kind of Casanova. I wasn’t.”

  She sat down, then said, “Sorry, but I’m not like Mom. We’re cut from different cloth. Want to hear something truly bizarre? She never stopped loving you. Never. I constantly pleaded with her to go out, find a good man, get married again, and live a happy life. She wouldn’t even consider it. Mom was always emotionally chained to you, which I never could understand. She lived with the hope that you would come back into her life. If she were here right now, she would forgive you. Sorry, but I cannot.”

  I sat facing her. “Would you at least try?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I blame you for her death. When she finally gave up hope that you were ever coming back, that was the moment she surrendered. She swallowed the pills, drank the booze, and checked herself out. No more longing for you, no more disappointment, no more pain and misery. She traded her personal agony for eternal sleep.”

  “Sorry, Angel, but I refuse to accept the blame for Kate’s death. I’ll admit to causing her tremendous pain and agony and disappointment. I bear the brunt of those charges. But suicide? No, that’s on her.”

  “Spin it any way that makes it easier for you to live with yourself. I know the truth. Hell, I lived the truth all those years. So I’m not buying into your lame bullshit.”

  “Camus said the act of suicide amounted to a confession, that the person who chooses suicide is confessing that life is no longer worth living. When Kate chose to take those pills and drink the whiskey, she was giving her confession. I think she proved Camus’s theory has merit.”

  “I wonder if Camus would say the same thing if his mother had killed herself. Probably not, would be my guess.”

  “Angel, I’m sorry about what happened to your mother,” I said. “And I’m doubly sorry you were the one who found her body. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult that must have been for you.”

  “I need to go,” she said, standing. “I should be with my family.”

  Before she walked away, I said, “Do you need extra money for school? USC isn’t cheap. I can help, if you’ll let me.”

  “Thanks, for offering, but no thanks. Grants and scholarships cover most of the bills. When they come up short, Uncle Jason and Granddad provide additional assistance. My financial situation is taken care of.”

  “Well, if you do need money, or anything else, I’m only a phone call away. I’ll help in any way I can. Deal?”

  To my pleasant surprise, she had no negative comeback. Nothing wiseass or hurtful. I took that as a positive sign, a slight ray of hope.

  “I do love you and miss you, Angel,” I said. “Never forget that. My greatest hope is that you will somehow find it in your heart to forgive me. To let me be part of your life.”

  She walked away without responding. But I’m positive I saw tears in her eyes.

  I sat alone in a back row during Kate’s service, filled with feelings of sadness and regret. The service went well. It was respectful and dignified. Several speakers, including Angel, recounted stories involving Kate, and two songs were sung by a young woman identified as a classmate of Angel’s at USC. She had an excellent voice and was a very talented pianist.

  When the service concluded, I left without speaking to anyone. I wanted to say goodbye to Angel, but I didn’t think the timing was right. I didn’t want to risk being confronted by Kate’s family. I had no idea how they might respond if they saw me. This was neither the time nor place for an incident of any type, verbal or physical.

  ~ * ~

  My original plan had been to fly back to Florida in the morning. However, by the time I got back to the hotel I decided to leave sooner, provided I could catch an earlier flight. Back in my room I phoned the San Francisco airport. I got lucky. A flight to Tampa was scheduled to depart in four hours, which allowed me (barely) enough time to get to the airport if I hustled. I checked out of the Wayside Inn, got in my rental, and began the drive north.

  On the ride to the airport, my thoughts again shifted to the murder that had occurred in my hometown. For both personal and professional reasons, I was eager to begin looking into what had transpired on that deadly night. To get the ball rolling meant speeding things up once I got back to Siesta Key. I decided to spend a day or two catching up on my rest, then once I felt fully rejuvenated, I would pack some clothes, grab my laptop and a tape recorder, and make the long drive to my hometown.

  Only then could I begin to answer the many questions I had about that deadly enco
unter between Luke Felton and Todd Brown.

  Five

  My hometown, Central City, is located in Muhlenberg County in the western part of Kentucky. The entire county’s population is approximately thirty-one thousand. When I was growing up there, the racial makeup consisted entirely of whites and blacks. There were no Asian-Americans or Hispanics. I doubt there are any Asian-Americans living there today, although that’s probably not true concerning Mexicans.

  If you’re traveling on the Western Kentucky Parkway, you’ll see an exit sign for Central City. As you approach the city limits there’s a sign that says the population is fifty-five hundred, which is exactly what it was forty years ago when I was a kid. This leads me to conclude that in my hometown every death has been offset by a birth, thus accounting for the never-changing number of folks living there.

  There is a chance you may have heard of Muhlenberg County, thanks to the late singer-songwriter John Prine, who mentioned the county in his early song “Paradise”, his requiem for the Muhlenberg County of his youth before it had been ravaged by the Peabody Coal Company. The song is a stark and vivid reminder of just how much damage strip mining had done to the county.

  Prine was from Chicago, but his parents were originally from Muhlenberg County, where, as a child, he often visited during the summer months. He is but one of four musicians who belong on what I always enthusiastically refer to as the mythical “Muhlenberg County Musical Mount Rushmore.” And Prine, popular and highly regarded as he is, is by no means the most-famous member of this quartet.

  That distinction belongs to Don and Phil, the Everly Brothers, masters of exquisite harmonies and lovely melodies. Although both brothers are warmly embraced as natives by the locals, for the sake of accuracy it must be acknowledged that only Don was born in Muhlenberg County. By the time Phil came along, their parents, Ike and Margaret, had relocated to Chicago. In the history of pop music, it is impossible to overstate the world-wide popularity of the Everly Brothers, or their strong influence on subsequent groups like The Beatles, Crosby, Stills and Nash, and Simon and Garfunkel. The Everly Brothers’ legacy is unlikely to ever completely fade away.