Some club members frown on them because they don’t take into account the religious significance of the holiday, but I think they’re darling and I’m going to keep collecting them regardless.
We devote time at our meetings to talk about how we can better serve Jesus, of course."
"Oh, Ruthie," Teresa yelled toward the other end of the bar. "That Margarita was fine, but I think I need something stronger now. How ’bout a Martini? And make it a double."
"Coming right up." Ruth worried that Teresa had begun to slur her words. "Didn’t you want something to eat too, Teresa? I could bring you a menu and set you a place right here at the bar. Don’t some eggs sounds good, sweetheart?"
Teresa sighed and removed the straw from her glass and licked the last of the salt off the rim. "The only reason I came down here was to hear the dirt. I ran into Nick on Collingwood and he told me there was some trouble down here at the restaurant, but I want it straight from the mortha’s house… er…
you know what I mean."
"I’d like to see a menu, mother," Dianne said.
"I’ll get you both menus." Ruth set the chilled Martini glass in front of Teresa and pretended to get busy at the other end of the bar. She wanted to let the gin melt in the shaker for a good long time so that that it would water down Teresa’s drink.
She didn’t need her daughter Dianne and a drunken Teresa on her hands at the same time. When Ruth came back to the front end of the bar with the menus, she said to Teresa, "So you saw Nick, did you?"
"Now, don’t be coy with me, Ruthie." Teresa was definitely slurring. "You know what I’m talking about. What the hell’s going on around here?"
The front door opened again and Officer Parker returned. "Hello, Miss Taylor. I was hoping you’d still be on duty. I think I left my pen when I was here earlier."
"Hello there, officer," Teresa turned toward the policeman. "I always like to see a handsome man in a uniform.
My name’s Teresa, what’s yours?"
"Is it the silver one?" Ruth plucked the only pen that didn’t have advertising on it out of the jar beside the cash register.
"Officer Parker,’ he said to Teresa, "…like the pen. Peter Parker. How do, ma-am?"
"Just like Spiderman, huh?" Teresa used the fingers of her free hand to make a crawling motion up his uniformed shoulder, but he ignored her.
"Thanks, Miss Taylor. That’s my pen, all right. I’ll need to set up a time to talk to that other fellow too, as soon as possible. I think you said his name was Artie?"
Ruth didn’t want to admit that Artie had already come and gone. "I’m sure he’ll feel better and be up and about later on in the week. Why not give Arturo a call in a couple of days and he can keep you posted?"
"I also need to compile and check off a list of all the others we want to question. The neighboring businesses on both sides are probably connected to the same plumbing beneath the buildings and we’d like to speak with anyone who has access to that dumpster out back where the items were found."
"But the items were only in the dumpster because Nick threw them there after he and Arturo cleaned up the mess from the sewage back-up, right?" Ruth was getting exasperated.
"We can’t rule anything out at this stage of the investigation, ma-am."
"Well, the owners of the neighboring businesses should be in on Monday morning to tally the weekend’s receipts and go to the bank, I imagine. I don’t know anything about the building out in back, though."
"Could you walk me out to my curb, hon?" Teresa stood up and fell into the officer’s arms. "I live right around the corner, handsome. Arturo and Artie are across the hall from me, soooo… if you’d help me up my front stairs, I could show you where I live and… and maybe you can talk to him later, honey."
"Artie isn’t in any better shape to answer a lot of questions than you are right now. He threw his back out last night."
"Well, I didn’t know. I don’t know anything that’s going on around here. Nick wouldn’t tell me. You wouldn’t tell me.
Maybe Sergeant Porker here will tell me a thing or two. How’s about it, handsome?"
"Parker, Ma-am," the policeman said. "Here, let me help you. All I came back for was my pen, actually, and I got it, but it looks like you need a little help there, Miss."
Officer Parker and Teresa had barely got out the door when another of Ruth’s neighbors, Marsha, came in and sat down beside Dianne. "How are you today, Marsha?" Ruth asked.
"I’m beat. I just came from my group meeting down at the Center. Could you fix me a tall vodka tonic, please?" Ruth was still thinking about what might happen between Teresa and the policeman, but having Marsha walk in right now meant that Dianne would have a lot to tell her "collectibles" group about when she got home. Ruth set Marsha’s drink on a cocktail napkin and got busy with another order at the waiter’s station before she could make further introductions.
"Hi, I’m Marsha, Ruth’s neighbor," she said to Dianne. "I guess you could say I’m the ‘T’ in ‘LGBT’ at the ‘LGBT Center’
down on Market Street."
"I love your nails. What do you call that color? And pardon my asking, but are they real?"
"They are now. It’s Apricot Frost. My hair is real, too. I wore fake nails and wigs for a long time before mine grew out, but now I have my own nails and my hair is long enough to style it just like I want it."
"I’m so sorry, did you have cancer?"
"Cancer! No, what I had was a lot worse than cancer, as far as I was concerned. I had a penis!"
Ruth returned to the front end of the bar in time to say,
"Marsha, I see you’ve met my daughter."
"Your daughter. You’re kidding. I didn’t know you had a daughter, Ruth. With all that big hair and make-up, I thought for sure she was a drag queen!"
Chapter 11
im didn’t sleep nearly as well his second night at Sam’s house. He hadn’t intended to stay there another night, T but when he and Adam got back from their drive, Dianne was gone and the place was just so peaceful he couldn’t resist the invitation. He also retained the nagging thought in that back of his mind that there was nothing to go home for.
And Delia had left a hot apple pie on the counter to cool.
The smell of warm cinnamon always did him in, a combination of sensory memories of a peaceful place in his early childhood.
Had his mother ever been sober enough to bake a pie? Tim doubted it. Maybe his grandmother did or maybe the neighbor who baby-sat him. Most likely it was his Aunt Ruth.
After dinner that night it was just the guys—Tim and Adam and Sam—hanging out and shooting a few games of pool.
Tim lost miserably, but realized that it wasn’t so bad hanging out with a couple of straight men and getting to know two people he’d soon be related to by Ruth’s marriage to Sam. As embarrassed as he was for assuming that Adam was gay, Tim wanted them to become friends. Adam was a great guy, for a straight guy, in Tim’s opinion. So was Sam. And Adam’s news that Sam intended to propose to Aunt Ruth made perfect sense.
Tim dreamed that night of fire and ice. When it began he was lying on a deck chair beside the pool, just where he’d started out that morning. Adam was nearby. Birds were chirping and flitting about. Then a cloud came over the sun and the sky turned dark. Pink. Orange. Crimson. Black. Tim shivered and rolled over to wrap himself in his towel. The sleek blue surface of the pool turned white. It was a solid sheet of ice and snowflakes started to fall. Tim was bundled up in a parka and mittens and his winter galoshes, staring out at silhouettes of the bare winter trees of Loring Park in Minneapolis. The lake was frozen over and someone had built a snowman in the middle of the lake in the middle of the night. But they’d also built a fire and the snowman was melting.
Tim forgot all about the dream for a while. He drove home to San Francisco on Monday morning and fantasized about his Aunt Ruth and Sam’s lavish wedding all the way back to the city. He also forgot about his plans to head south and get away fro
m the city for a while. According to his Aunt Ruth’s phone call, something big might be happening in the Castro and he didn’t want to miss out on in. Tim could drive down the coast to L.A. another time. He was excited to get back to city and ready to start meeting with wedding caterers and florists right away.
He drove the Thunderbird from highway 280 up Dolores Street and turned left on 20th. He would have gone directly to the restaurant to find out what was going on, but it was too early. There wouldn’t even be anyone there to start setting up yet. He saw a parking spot at the top of Dolores Park, so he took it, got out of the car and spread a towel on the grass.
There wasn’t much to rush home for with Nick back to work at the nursery. The house on Hancock Street felt emptier than ever.
Tim peeled off his shirt, lit a joint and kicked off his shoes. Aunt Ruth said that Nick would be calling him. Why hadn’t he? Tim even considered driving up to the river to surprise him, but Tim’s stubbornness told him their separation needed to last a little longer. Tim grabbed his cell phone out of his backpack and figured out how to punch in the number. Nick answered on the first ring.
"Hello…"
"Hey, Nick."
"Snowman! How are you? Where are you?"
Tim Snow always loved it when Nick called him
"Snowman." It sure beat the dreaded "Snowster" that a previous boyfriend had tried to make stick. No wonder that relationship had been short-lived. "Snowman" invoked some of Tim’s few happy memories of childhood winters in Minnesota. Jake once overheard them and thought Nick was talking about cocaine, while crystal meth was a more prevalent drug in the Castro these days… and far more dangerous, in Tim’s opinion. The sound of Nick’s voice on the phone almost melted away Tim’s resolve to maintain their separation a while longer.
"I’m home… well, Dolores Park, actually. Aunt Ruth said you were supposed to call me. What happened?"
"I’ve been calling you at home. When I got voicemail the first time I called the cell phone. She said you had it with you. I figured you didn’t have it turned on and I gave up on trying you that way and I didn’t have the number at Sam’s."
"I’m calling you on my cell phone right now."
"Where was it last night?"
"Here in my back-pack."
"And where was your backpack?"
"Oh…well… it was in my car, come to think of it…
sorry."
"Didn’t you notice the messages I left for you?"
"I don’t know how to work that part of it yet. Hey, I’ll learn, okay? I almost forgot… what was going on at the restaurant? Why did Aunt Ruth have to go back to the city so fast? I know about Artie hurting his back, but she said something about the cops and body parts, too. She didn’t go into any detail."
"Wow! It’s quite a story. I was gonna try calling you again tonight when I got home from work and tell you all about it then. Man, it’s great to hear your voice. So you’re finally back in the city?"
"Yeah, just now. Is this a bad time to call? Are you busy?"
"I’ve always got time for you, Snowman."
Tim smiled and let the sincerity of those words soak in, but he still wasn’t ready to submit to his emotions. He was also reminded of the snowman in his dream last night, the frozen lake and the fire. "So, what’s going on at Arts?"
"We found fingers in the plumbing. Human fingers…
part of a hand. The toilet in the women’s room was so backed up that Arturo had to call the plumber in and he ended up tearing the whole floor apart. What a mess!"
"Wait a minute. Back up a little. We? Who’s we?"
"Me, actually. I was helping out Arturo. I came down to the city looking for you and I got roped into helping him. Hey, I have to go soon. It looks like the contractor’s truck is driving up."
"Wait a minute! What about the fingers?"
"I’ll tell you all about it later. When can I see you? I’m going crazy, here."
"Soon, I guess. This weekend?"
"I miss you, man."
"How’s the new nursery coming along? Was that the contractor?"
"Fine. It’s gonna be great. Yeah, he’s getting his paperwork out of the back. I’ve just got a minute. What about you? How are you feeling?"
"I’m okay. I was thinking about taking a long drive down the coast, but I stopped at Sam’s place first and my cousin was there."
"The one you don’t like?"
Tim groaned. "Don’t like. Don’t want. An evil rabid Republican right-winger nut-case."
"How did that go?"
"I enjoy torturing her, actually. And Sam has a son I met.
Adam. He’s black. A fashion model. Really nice, but straight.
Shame, too. Hey, no fair changing the subject. Whose fingers did you find?"
"They don’t know yet. The cops are still questioning everybody. Nobody seems to be missing any fingers. So when can I see you, Snowman? Are you still planning to take off on a trip somewhere?"
"I guess not. I spent two nights at Sam’s and I was ready to come home. Now that I’m home I didn’t even stop at the house. I just came straight to Dolores Park and I’m sitting here staring out at the city like a lovesick fool. I get homesick for San Francisco sometimes."
"Not for me?"
"Aw, aren’t you sick and tired of me? You must be, after all this winter of playing nursemaid to an invalid."
"Hell no, Snowman. I was happy I could be there for you. You know… if we could get married in California I’d make those vows to care for you ‘in sickness and in health’ and all the rest of it and I’d mean every word of them. Do you wanna get married, Snowman? We could go to Iowa or someplace."
"Oh, no. Not Iowa. I grew up in Minnesota. That’s way too close to home."
"I’ve really gotta go now. The contractor needs to ask me a bunch of stuff. Can we talk tonight? I’ll call you on your cell phone as soon as I get home."
"Sure man… later." Tim didn’t want to talk about getting married, anyway. Damn Nick! Just when the conversation was going well, when it felt like things were getting back to normal between them, Nick had to go and bring up a subject like marriage. Damn!
Tim pulled his t-shirt and sneakers back on and tossed the Altoids box back in his bag. Between the sun at the pool at Sam’s yesterday and these few minutes in the park this morning without any sun block he was afraid he’d start to burn soon if he wasn’t careful. It was time he went home anyway.
The bedside phone woke Tim from his nap. He’d been dreaming about the snowman again, but this time it wasn’t in Loring Park. It was in San Francisco. Tim couldn’t be sure where, exactly, but the fire was raging again and as the snowman melted it revealed a real man underneath. The real man wasn’t melting so much as falling apart. Its fingers came off, then its hands and arms. Tim watched a man in black pick up the body parts and pile them into a big green box. No, it wasn’t a box; it was a green refrigerator… avocado green. Arms and legs and emerald green eyes went into an avocado green refrigerator on a pea green boat. Now Tim knew where they were. It was China Basin, down by the ballpark. The man in black pulled the cord on the motor and sat down to steer the boat, heading north under the Bay Bridge with his gruesome cargo, heading toward unknown waters on San Francisco Bay.
The phone stopped for a moment and then it started in again. Tim didn’t feel like talking to anyone and hoped it would stop on its own, but it was still ringing by the time he’d ambled down the hallway to the kitchen so he picked it up in there. He must have turned off the answering machine.
"How does pot roast sound?"
"Huh? Who is this?"
"Arturo. I called to find out if you want pot roast for dinner. Artie says you’re not eating and we’re supposed to send food over to your place every night from now on. Your Aunt Ruth said you were back in town, so I was gonna start today."
"How did she find out?"
"Must have talked to Sam… I don’t know… maybe Nick.
Would you rather have chicken?
We’ve got fresh salmon on the menu tonight, but I’m sure you’ll want to heat up whatever I send over. It’ll need reheating by the time it gets there and fish is a little more temperamental in the microwave. Would you rather have chicken?"
"I don’t need you sending me any food. I’m not an invalid."
"Artie was pretty insistent. I don’t want to get on his bad side."
"Let me talk to him."
"He’s not here. He threw his back out last night."
"So who’s working the bar tonight?" Tim opened the refrigerator and looked inside. There was a carton of strawberry banana yogurt that was well past its "sell by" date, half a loaf of sourdough bread that would make a good doorstop by now, mustard, ketchup, pickles, mayonnaise, grape jelly and a plastic container with a lid. He opened it with one outstretched arm, just in case. It didn’t smell, but it was growing enough mold that he didn’t recognize its original contents—must have been something Nick left there—and Tim knew it wasn’t a Chia Pet.
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