Dale waved a hand at the TV. “He’ll never be seen again. Now his secret’s out of the closet, he’s long gone. Can’t milk this town anymore so he needs to find a new crop of innocent people to fleece. Took the money and run is what he did.”
“Is this about that gay thing?” Viv asked.
“Damn straight,” Dale said, his jaw set. “They been taking our money and support for years, telling us it was for taking care of widows and orphans like the good Lord instructed us to do, but come to find out it was going to teach kids how to be homos.”
“Umm...what?” I asked. I felt like I’d missed something. “Hope for Home – ”
“Is a front for the liberal. Gay. Agenda!” Dale crossed his arms over his chest. “And this guy – ” He jabbed a hand toward the TV – “This guy’s been lying to us all for years. Turns out he’s as gay as the day is long.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, clearly expecting a response of shock and dismay. I just nodded contemplatively, though. I didn’t even know the guy, so I had a hard time feeling shocked about his sexual orientation, plus I have this innate stubbornness that makes me refuse to ever respond in the way that’s expected of me. Ever.
“That’s pretty gay,” Frank offered generously.
“Exactly.” Dale nodded. “Hey, I wonder if he’s the guy in the dumpster.” Then he laughed, like it would be the height of irony. “Maybe that’s why he was all naked and everything.”
“Naked and everything?” I asked. “Everything what?”
“You know, with no clothes,” Dale said, which I found to be very unsatisfactory, as elaborations went.
Tri-patrice had thrown the broadcast to a reporter, who was interviewing a bunch of people expressing shock and fear that something horrible had happened to the guy. The last guy they interviewed was kind of short, with black hair styled into a pseudo-Mohawk.
“Anyone who knows CJ knows that this is not him. He would not take off with the money. This is completely out of character for him. Hope for Home was his passion, and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. Those people who are saying he took the money and is lying on a beach somewhere – they don’t...” The guy’s voice cracked, and his blinked a few times. “They don’t know him like we do.”
The reporter, back in the newsroom now, said an estimated $70K had gone missing when CJ disappeared.
“That’s a nice chunk of dough,” Dale said.
I had to admit, it did seem like a stretch for the appearance of a dead body and the disappearance of a guy with a big chunk of money to be coincidental, but I found myself inexplicably reluctant to agree with Dale on anything.
In fact, I thought as I grabbed the cardboard box from Frank with a half-hearted, “You’re done, right?” and ignored his attempt at one last jab of the fork, I had a sudden urge to prove Dale wrong.
I tucked the moo shu into the fridge and promised I’d save it for the next day, then with a strong admonition to myself to ignore pop-ups and banner ads, I settled back behind the computer to do some more pointed investigation into this CJ guy. I could probably type in a few words and find some kind of smoking gun like an airplane ticket to Buenos Aires and a fat off-shore bank account, and a satellite picture of the guy wearing a fedora on the beach and smoking a big cigar. I mean, it was the age of you-can-find-anything-on-the-Internet. Surely I could find something to make Dale Coffee leave my trailer.
I didn’t remember the guy’s last name, so that was a bit of a stumble right out of the blocks. So I did a search on “CJ” + “Hope for Home” + “Lubbock” and came up with CJ Hardin. Browsing through the search results, a few things jumped out:
pediatric heart specialist
4th-generation West Texan
honoree for the Somebody-or-Other Award
sex scandal
secret double life
I did a couple more searches, using some of the key words I’d seen in the results. Between Monday and Friday of the previous week, I counted twelve stories about CJ Hardin, Hope for Home, and Friends of Joshua.
The past week had started off promisingly enough. On, Hardin had been the fair-haired child and had been enthusiastic about the upcoming week. He’d been the chairman of the Lubbock Hope for Home committee for eight years, and he’d “never been more excited” about what this national organization was doing. The mayor had officially declared the fourth week in September Hope for Home week (as had a number of other mayors across the country), and had exhorted everyone to do what they could to chip in. Monday through Wednesday had been what they called “Do Your Own Thing” days. People were encouraged to have car washes, lemonade stands, garage sales: anything to raise money for the cause. Thursday had been a big cookout and miniature golf competition, Friday was an adults-only casino night at a historic building downtown (this one made me lightheaded again, because that was the building where Tony and I planned to have our “date” this Friday, at a ceremony where Les would be getting an award) and Saturday morning had capped everything off with a 5K fun run. Funds had been gathered all week, and at the end of the race there was a huge picnic in the park and awards were given to the racers. Hardin had then shared how much money was raised and how many people were helped.
Hope for Home was a nationwide non-profit organization, with the lofty goal of ending homelessness in the United States. There were several programs within the organization, and even smaller organizations that received Hope for Home funds – local shelters, education centers, mental health services, rehab centers, etc. One of the receiving agencies was a group called Friends of Joshua, which had been started in the name of a teenager in the Midwest who had been kicked out of his house for refusing gay reparative therapy. He’d been living on the streets of Chicago when he had been jumped, beaten up, and killed by a group of people. The Friends of Joshua site said he’d been targeted specifically because he was gay.
The number one goal of Friends of Joshua was directly in line with Hope for Home, but their specific focus was on gay teenagers and young adults. Sixty-seven percent of homeless youth, the website said, were gay, bisexual or transgender. They were homeless because they’d either been kicked out of their homes or made to feel so unwelcome that they left on their own.
Hope for Home had supported Friends of Joshua for the past five years, and that information was available on their website for all to see. It wasn’t highlighted, but it was there. But a conservative-leaning magazine had “broken” the story, and it had been all over the news starting the past Wednesday. CJ had been asked to make a statement, and he had acknowledged that a portion of the proceeds that had been raised in Lubbock over the past five years had gone to some Friends of Joshua centers. A newly-formed chapter of FOJ was currently renovating an abandoned house for homeless youth in Lubbock and the surrounding communities.
I tried not to look at the comments on that. The unregulated comments sections of any website, I’d learned, was the place where good sense and kindness went to die. I told myself not to look, that it was just going to be depressing, but it was like watching a train wreck – I couldn’t not read a few of them.
“This clown tells us we’re helping single mothers, puts cute little snaggle-toothed kids on to tug at your heart strings and get you to donate, and then gives our money to a spoiled brat runaway who doesn’t want to live by his parents’ rules.”
“Well, Hope for Home has gotten their last dime from me, that’s for damn sure.”
“Hey, homo teenagers. Go home and keep it in your pants.”
“If they’re big enough to decide this is the way they want to live, they’re big enough to pay their own way.”
“I can’t wait to see what Matt Macon has to say about this.”
“Yet another case where the good intentions of the moral majority are siphoned off to benefit the gay agenda.”
“Whatever that means,” I muttered to myself. To be honest, my stance on the “gay agenda” was much like my stance on most agendas: I wasn’t sure where I s
tood. I was pretty sure that, as a Christian, I was supposed to stand somewhere. I was supposed to know, in fact. But I’d also been a Christian long enough to know that nothing was as cut and dried as everyone acted like it was.
What I was sure about, though, was that God was clear on us loving everyone and taking care of each other, so I had a hard time wrapping my head around anyone’s argument against Friends of Joshua. At first glance, it looked to me like they just wanted to get kids who were living under bridges into a safe place. It didn’t seem like a gay agenda to me. It seemed like a decent thing to do.
Still, I couldn’t help but think that Hope for Home had made a mistake in not being up front about the issue. Everyone involved had to know it would be a point of contention.
Hardin’s first responses to the questions about Friends of Joshua were fairly vague:
“Hope for Home funds many small organizations that directly address homelessness, and each one is carefully vetted to ensure that the organization’s mission and focus is in line with that of Hope for Home. Each receiving organization is listed on our website, with links to more information about each one. The information has always been available, and will always be available, to our donors.”
That had been Wednesday morning. By Thursday morning, the day of the cookout and mini-golf event, rancor had grown and Hardin had responded with more directness:
“Hope for Home funds many, many smaller organizations, thanks to the generosity of our supporters. We review each organization carefully, to ensure that the funds are going to organizations with a good track record of putting those funds to the most efficient and effective use. No one has a better track record than Friends of Joshua. Their overhead is among the lowest of the projects we fund. They’ve had the highest success rate in getting homeless teens off the street, into a safe environment, and on their way to being productive, self-supporting, and ultimately generous members of society who are passionate about giving back. Through organizations with such heart as Friends of Joshua, we can keep our most vulnerable citizens safe, and end the fear and hate that threaten the fabric of our society.”
There were lots and lots of comments about what constituted the correct “fabric of society,” and dire predictions about what acceptance of homosexuality as a valid “lifestyle” was going to do to that fabric. Hardin started becoming characterized as a pawn of the left, and a shill for whoever had the deepest pockets.
“His granddaddy’s got to be rolling in his grave right about now,” one comment read. “He would never of dreamed this day would come when his grandson would resort to brownnosing a bunch of homosexuals just to get some dollars.”
“This is what happens when we take prayer out of schools!” another commenter said.
I read back through the article again to see if I’d missed something heinous that was happening that couldn’t have happened sixty years ago. Nope, it was still just a group that wanted to get kids off the streets, from what I could see. Perhaps, sixty years ago, people knew the difference between “have” and “of,” but perhaps not.
Not all of the comments were negative.
“I don’t want kids sleeping on the streets, no matter what their sexual orientation is.”
“All you self-righteous jerks need to get a life.” Well, not negative toward Hardin, at any rate.
Then last Friday night, at the big casino night fundraiser, someone had seen Hardin and another man behind the building, caught them in a kiss, and posted a picture of it on the local NBC affiliate’s Facebook page. There had been 747 comments by 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning, and very few of them – from what I read, anyway; it got hard to slog through after the first few hundred – were not full of hate, disdain or infantile jokes.
“I can’t believe I let this pervert work on my son,” wrote HomeschoolMomofOneGreatBoy. “If I find out he’s done something to my kid, they’ll never even find enough of his body to bury.”
“It all makes sense now,” wrote another. “Now we see his true colors.”
“Hope for Home is changing its name to “Hope for Bone.”
The next morning, at the conclusion of the 5K race on Saturday, CJ Hardin publicly came out. I had to hand it to him – Lubbock wasn’t exactly the most progressive place in the world, and doing what he did took guts. He stood on stage and held hands with the guy with the pseudo-Mohawk, whom we’d just watch being interviewed about the disappearance of Hardin.
The Channel 11 website had a clip from his announcement. I clicked the arrow and waited forever for the video to load.
“I’m a grown man, raised in a loving family, fully stable and able to support myself. Still, coming out to my family was the most frightening thing I’ve ever done. I am blessed to have their continued love and support. I’m painfully aware that I’m in the minority on that score. So many of our gay brothers and sisters are coming to grips with their own sexuality in the midst of family conflict. When you support Hope for Home, you help them, too. The ones no one else wants to help. The ones who are viewed as acceptable losses. You save them. I thank you for your generosity.”
The Mohawk guy stepped up to the microphone and held up a V sign, then pumped his fist in the air. “No more will we tolerate the least of us being swept under the rug like a dirty secret. No longer is it acceptable to let the intolerant few bully around the rest of us. No longer! It ends now!”
Hardin looked a little embarrassed, but let the guy have his say and clapped when he was through. They walked down the steps together.
The video ended, and I sat back, tired and a little depressed that I hadn’t found any tickets to Buenos Aires or fat off-shore bank accounts. CJ Hardin very well could be the guy in the dumpster, and if he was, it looked like a hard job narrowing down who was mad enough to kill him.
Viv and Dale were still at it. Dale was walking back and forth in my living room, talking a lot of crap that might have made sense if I’d been in on the original conversation.
“ – harvesting organs to sell on the internet!” he said excitedly. “Maybe we could look at kidneys on eBay and stuff. See if there are any recent entries.”
Viv looked at me. “Yeah. Check eBay for kidneys.”
“I am not checking eBay for kidneys,” I said irritably. I suddenly wanted him gone. Wanted them all gone, in fact.
“I’m kind of tired,” I said. “I might go ahead and turn in.” It was dark outside. Once I’d quit drinking, I’d gotten into the habit of going to bed as early as I could, because that meant missing a big part of the time I wanted a drink.
Viv and Dale ignored me and went back to their discussion. “I wonder if organ harvesting rings post in local papers. You know, freshness probably counts for a lot in something like that.”
Viv got out her phone. “I can check the local paper on this.” She tapped a few times and then said, “I’m supposed to be able to, anyway.” She tapped a few more times.
I looked at Stump. Too bad I had not given her an egg roll. Cabbage did a number on her stomach, resulting in a fragrance strong enough to peel paint. Even if I gave her one now, it would take too long to work. I wanted the usurper out now.
The thought did give me an idea, though.
I stood and stretched, then winced and put a hand to my stomach. “Oh, no,” I said. I frowned, then slid my hand just a bit lower. “Oh, this is not good.”
“What’s wrong?” Dale asked.
“That moo shu pork doesn’t seem to be sitting very well.”
Viv’s eyes got wide.
I had recently learned that Viv had a fear of vomit that reached pathological proportions. I mean, let’s face it. No one likes to throw up (except Stump, apparently) but Viv had an actual phobia about it. A few weeks ago we’d been on a road trip out to Idalou and we’d passed a car stopped at the side of the road. Viv was positive they were pulled over because someone was carsick. She was so shaken she turned the car around in the middle of the road and drove us home. She turned the vents to inside-only air
. She put antibacterial lotion on her hands three times, and rubbed some under her nose.
“You guys feel okay?” I asked, my brow furrowed. “Do you think the moo shu was bad?”
Viv’s eyes got even wider and she stood. “Oh, God. You’re not going to hurl, are you?”
I shook my head, but as unconvincingly as I could. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Then I cocked my head like I was listening to some internal warning. “There was some really nasty stomach bug going around at work last week.”
Viv started gathering her stuff.
“Flo said she was driving down Slide Road when her pastrami sandwich came up right in her lap. I’m pretty sure it’s not that, though.” Then I puffed my cheeks out like I was stifling a burp.
“I have to go.” Viv was already halfway to the door. I could only hope Dale would take her lead.
Frank, as he did in all other situations, lay in my recliner and watched like we were the most real – and most boring – of all reality shows.
Dale wasn’t moving fast enough to suit me. I moaned again and bent a little, grimacing.
“That’s a bummer,” he said, in what I supposed was meant to convey sympathy.
“Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m sure it won’t be like last time. Jeez-o-Pete, I don’t even want to talk about the last gastrointestinal episode I had. That was apocalyptic, let me tell you. I didn’t think that chair you’re sitting on would ever get clean.”
Still nothing. Good grief. Was I going to actually have to vomit on him to get him to leave?
I waited. Dale turned back to the television. “Hey, the news is over. You going to call your friend?”
I sighed. “Yeah,” I said darkly. I was not, of course. No way was I going to try and talk to Tri-patrice with Dale there. He’d be leaning over my shoulder, telling me what to say. I picked up my phone and pretended to punch in numbers. Then I hung it up and made one last-ditch effort.
Unsightly Bulges Page 3