Shame

by Alan Russell

  Self-consciously, Anna ran her hand along the collar of her bathrobe. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “There’s some coffee I brewed earlier.”

  “No, thank you,” Elizabeth said.

  They went to the living room, Anna using her hand to tidy her hair along the way. James and Janet were banned from going into the living room, which meant she didn’t have to clear a path.

  As they both took seats, Anna spoke. “You said that Cal gave you a message for us?”

  “In a way,” Elizabeth said. She didn’t want to be enigmatic, but she wasn’t sure how to approach what she needed to say. Elizabeth hadn’t even been sure she would get this opportunity. She knew that at least two detectives were monitoring the house, and she had half-expected them to try to intercept her. “Earlier this evening,” she said, “I promised your husband that I would help you and your children.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you know anything about your husband’s family?” asked Elizabeth.

  Anna registered surprise at the question, her thick eyebrows beetling together into one. “I know he doesn’t have a family,” she said. “His parents are dead, and he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “That’s true,” Elizabeth said. “But did he ever tell you anything about his parents?”

  Anna shook her head. “Very little. I only know that his mother divorced his father when Caleb was a boy, and that she worked as a waitress to support him.”

  When Anna and Caleb had started going out, Anna had thought his orphan status had made him that much more irresistible. She had married him when he was twenty-five, and she had been certain she could be his family, could be everything to him. Caleb’s not having any living relations had been a positive thing as far as she was concerned. He had her. It had all seemed so very romantic.

  “Did he tell you how his parents died?”

  “His mother passed away when he was twenty or so. She had a bad liver...”

  Cirrhosis of the liver, Elizabeth thought.

  “...and his father died after he was struck by lightning. But since Cal didn’t even really know him, his death didn’t affect him much.”

  Clever lies combined with wishful thinking, thought Elizabeth. Caleb had probably wanted to tell his wife a biography as close to the truth as possible, or as close to the truth as he dared make it.

  “What Caleb told you was mostly true,” Elizabeth said.

  “Mostly?”

  “His father didn’t die by lightning—though that’s a phrase that inmates often use. They call it “riding the lightning.” It’s a euphemistic phrase for electrocution.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Caleb’s father, Gray Parker, died in the electric chair. He was known as Shame.”

  The color left Anna’s face. “No.”

  Elizabeth forged ahead. She knew it was only the beginning of her bad news.

  “Your husband spent most of today at the Sheriff’s Department. He was being interviewed by homicide detectives. In the past month, several women in the San Diego area have been murdered. The police think Caleb killed them. The women were strangled, and then the word shame was written across their thighs and pubic areas. It’s the same way Caleb’s father killed and marked his victims.”

  Anna kept shaking her head, each shake more adamant than the last. She was a nurse, used to dealing with crises, but this wasn’t a situation she was trained to handle.

  “No,” she said.

  “I am not making any judgments,” Elizabeth said. “I am just telling you what information I have. I had conversations with your husband both last night and today, and in all of our talks he expressed his innocence.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. We only talked briefly tonight after he was released from questioning. He told me he was on his way home, but he must have changed his mind, or something changed it for him. That doesn’t matter; his not being here doesn’t change my promise to him. I said that I would help you.”

  “Help me with what?”

  “With all that’s about to occur. Your husband knows the trauma you’re about to face because he went through it. And he knows I’m familiar with what happens in this kind of a situation. I can be useful to you and your children.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Elizabeth Line. I’m a writer. Many years ago I wrote a book about your husband’s father, and since that time I’ve written a number of other crime books.”

  Anna stopped shaking her head. The woman had looked familiar to her. Anna vaguely remembered having seen her interviewed on television.

  “If time weren’t of the essence,” Elizabeth said, “I wouldn’t have come barging in here uninvited. But in a matter of minutes detectives will be knocking at your door. They’re going to have a search warrant, and they’re going to have a lot of questions. And right behind them will be the media, who will make your life a living hell. They’ll report dirt and innuendo and downright lies. What’s worse is that people whom you consider friends will betray you. In hindsight, those former friends and neighbors will remember all sorts of terrible things about your husband, you, and your family.”

  Anna’s breath was short, her mouth dry. She managed to say, “You make it all sound so awful.”

  Elizabeth shook her head with regret. “I just gave you the best-case scenario.”

  13

  THE MAN ENTERED the room, drew a deep breath, and looked around with the eyes of someone who had never been there before. There was a nervousness about him that caught Lola’s eye. Married, Lola decided. Out on the town and looking for some forbidden fruit. But no, that wasn’t quite it. Lola studied him from her seat at the lounge. He stayed in the back for a minute, giving her plenty of time to do her observing.

  I know him, Lola thought, but then realized that was impossible. Still, the resemblance was uncanny. And so was her feeling that this was the person she had somehow been expecting for weeks.

  The man sitting on her right had been trying to catch her eye ever since she had sat down. He finally decided to address her, even without the benefit of her full attention. “I just loved your Judy Garland,” he said. “I closed my eyes, and I swore it was Judy singing.”

  “Thank you,” Lola said.

  She was still watching the man who looked like Shame. He was making his way uncertainly toward the crowded bar. His face was pale, and he kept looking around. Afraid to be seen, thought Lola. Afraid he might be recognized. But she’d seen that kind of furtiveness enough times to know that wasn’t quite it.

  Her neighbor was still talking. “My name’s Joe,” he said. “You have a wonderful voice. I was in the theater myself, once upon a time. I—”

  “Joe, I wonder if you would do me a huge favor,” Lola said. “An old friend of mine just walked into the room. I hope it’s not too presumptuous of me to ask for your seat.”

  Joe’s mouth hung open in midsentence. He recovered enough to offer a martyr’s nod. The diva had spoken. He reached for his drink and started to stand. Lola waved at the Shame look-alike and patted the suddenly vacant seat next to her.

  She’s mistaken me for someone else, thought Caleb. He turned around, but there was no one behind him and no one else around him. For some reason, the woman in the very colorful gown wanted to talk to him. Her eyes never left his. She had long eyelashes, and when she blinked, their folding and opening reminded Caleb of a butterfly’s wings. What could she want?

  Caleb was half convinced he should turn around, but he wasn’t ready to face the streets again. The black-and-whites were out in force, and he had only just avoided coming face-to-face with a foot patrol by ducking into the club. He supposed he was in some kind of cabaret. In the back of the room was an elevated stage with seating beneath it. The lounge was in the front of the building. Between it and the seating was a control panel for the lights and music. The performance was apparently over, judging by the empty stage and t
he crowded bar.

  He approached the tendered seat. “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded. Her outfit glittered even in the dim bar, abounding with sequins and chiffon. The woman on her left was wearing an outfit even more iridescent. Performers, Caleb decided. That, or they were going to a midnight ball.

  “The outfit’s an original,” she said. “So am I.”

  “So I see.”

  “Do you have a name?” Lola asked. She had a Southern accent, put honey on her words, but not cloyingly so.

  So she didn’t know him. Good. Caleb paused before answering, reluctant to give his real name. “Paul,” he finally said.

  “Paul,” Lola repeated, not hiding her skepticism.

  He nodded.

  “You didn’t ask me my name, Paul.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Her very red lips parted: “Lola.”

  There was almost a fluorescent glow to her lipstick. But she wasn’t the only woman at the bar wearing a lot of makeup. In fact, she was wearing less than most. Stage makeup, Caleb decided. She was obviously part of the troupe. But that still didn’t explain why she had called him over. He looked at her for an explanation, but all she gave back was a little smile. Lola had short, dark hair that was combed up and back, with eyes the same dark color, but her skin was lighter, cocoa colored. Instead of lifting her drink up, she leaned forward and brought her lips to her straw. Her appearance seemed to change with every shift of her head. She could have been Hispanic, Mediterranean, African, American Indian, or even Asian.

  And she could have been a woman, a very pretty woman, but Caleb realized she wasn’t.

  He turned away, embarrassed, and found himself looking around the room at anything but Lola. With all that had happened to him that day, with his life literally on the line, Caleb knew it was absurd that he should be flustered by a drag queen. But he still couldn’t bring himself to look her way. His way.

  In a voice that only Caleb could hear, Lola said, “You really didn’t know, did you?”

  “No.”

  “The marquee says ‘Female Impersonators’ in letters about as big as me.”

  More avoidance, more neck craning. “I missed it.”

  “I’ve been with lots of men who pretended they didn’t know, but you’re the first I ever believed.”

  “I was preoccupied.”

  “Must have been a hell of a preoccupation.”

  The room wasn’t big enough for him to avoid her eyes indefinitely. He gave Lola a quick look and saw a small, knowing smile come over her face. His face, Caleb remembered.

  The bartender picked that time to stop ignoring Caleb. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Coffee. Black.”

  “Put it on my tab, Michael,” Lola said.

  “Oh, God,” the bartender said, dramatically fluttering his eyelashes. “True love.”

  In a soft voice, Lola asked Caleb, “Sure you don’t want decaf?”

  “I’m sure.” But a second later he asked, “Why?”

  “Because you’re as twitchy as a treed cat.”

  Hearing that made Caleb even more nervous. He found himself smoothing his hair first with one hand, then the other. But instead of changing his order, he sat on his hands. Lola seemed to notice that, too.

  The bartender filled a coffee mug, expertly tossed a napkin on the counter, and placed it in front of Caleb.

  With not a little reluctance, Caleb turned to his benefactor and offered a nod. “Thank you.”

  Caleb directed his attention to the coffee, becoming absorbed in it, but that didn’t deter Lola from scrutinizing him. The staring made him uncomfortable. Caleb picked up a napkin and wiped perspiration from his face.

  “Are you hot, Paul?”

  He didn’t respond to the mocking tone, just nodded.

  Lola moved a little closer to him. “Fact is, Paul, when you realized what a den of iniquity this is, I’m surprised you didn’t run out of here like a bat out of hell.”

  “Maybe I was tired.”

  Lola’s glowing lips edged near to his ears. “And maybe I know more than you imagine I do, Mr. Parker.”

  Caleb tried to hide his reaction but didn’t succeed. Lola moved away from him, forcing him to be the one to draw closer.

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “You couldn’t be anything but your daddy’s son. I used to study his picture for hours at a time. He intrigued me. I wondered how a man so pretty could be so evil. That’s always been a fascination of mine, how people so pretty outside can be so ugly inside.

  “My auntie used to say, ‘Pride and grace dwell never in one place.’ Was your father a prideful man?”

  “I really didn’t know my father.”

  “Pride makes us do all sorts of hateful things. When Auntie used to catch me looking in a mirror she’d say, ‘Pride goes before, and shame follows after.’ I wonder if your father knew that saying.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  The movement of curtains at the entrance made Caleb start, but it wasn’t the police, just another patron.

  “What’s troubling you?” Lola asked.

  “Some people are convinced I’m suffering from a hereditary disease.”

  He kept glancing back nervously.

  “There’s a side exit,” Lola said. “Maybe we’d better leave.”

  They walked two blocks without saying anything before Lola got tired of that. “If we’re supposed to be looking like a couple,” she said, “or even like friends, we’re not doing a very good job of it. I’d suggest you walk next to me, not two steps behind.”

  Caleb closed the gap between them.

  “You need a ride somewhere?” Lola asked.

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “I’d like to think that I’m rescuing you,” Lola said, offering the smallest flounce of her skirt.

  “I’m wanted by the police.”

  “Are you guilty?”

  “No. But if I was, that’s not something I’d be likely to confess.”

  “Are you trying to talk me out of helping you?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out why you’re helping me. You don’t strike me as a professional do-gooder.”

  “Maybe you’d think differently if you saw me in my nun’s habit. It’s very modern, very chic, the kind of threads a nun on the fast track to being a Mother Superior might wear.”

  “You’re a funny guy....”

  “Gal. Or lady. Or even bitch. Just make me something female. That’s the etiquette.”

  “Miss Manners.”

  “Better.”

  “I was trying to tell you that you don’t even know me.”

  “I know you.”

  “Just because I look—”

  “That’s how I noticed you, not how I know you. I took one look at you, sugar, and I saw more than the spitting image of your father. What I saw was someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now if you have a problem accepting help from the likes of me, then you better get over it, Jack, or Paul, or whatever you’re calling yourself, ’cause my car is right over here.”

  There was no night attendant in the outdoor lot on Second Avenue, just signs posted everywhere. Half the signs said that management wasn’t responsible for any valuables lost, while the other half warned that those who hadn’t paid, or weren’t displaying a current parking sticker, would have their cars towed away. Management seemed to have all bets covered.

  Lola walked by herself over to a canary-yellow Mustang convertible. She didn’t look back, just opened her door, sat down, closed the door behind her, and then started the car. Caleb stood undecided for a long moment, then finally moved. He ran over to the Mustang’s passenger door and tapped on the glass. The window lowered, but only slightly.

  “My name’s not Paul,” he said. “It’s Caleb.”

  Lola reached out with one of her long fingernails and opened the lock.

  “Buckle up, Caleb,” she s
aid.

  As they waited for the light to change on Broadway, a siren sounded. Caleb visibly tensed, turning to the sound. Flashing red lights raced at them. Caleb only started breathing again when a fire truck roared by.

  “You want to talk about it?” Lola asked.

  Caleb didn’t. But he had to. He let out a long sigh, and it was as if he let the air out of himself. His explanation came out flat, monotone: “There’s a murderer out there who’s copying my father. He’s strangling women and writing the word shame on their bodies. He’s managed to kill in such a way as to place me at every murder scene.”

  Lola didn’t say anything. The silence built between them.

  “If you want to let me out, I understand.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about the murders?”

  “You have, just not the details.”

  “And the police think you’re the killer?”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “What’s their evidence?”

  “My lack of any alibis, and my heritage.”

  “That’s it?”

  A lifetime of being beaten down was voiced: “That’s enough.”

  “With your hangdog attitude, it just might be. Right now you’re wearing a Kick Me sign on your backside.”

  “All I’ve ever wanted was to be left alone.”

  “That your ambition in life?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a life.”

  “Compare it to the one I’m leading now.”

  She could hear his teeth grind down on his own bitterness.

  “I’m the son of Shame,” he said. “Before last night, that wasn’t something I had admitted in more than twenty years.”

  “You never told anyone about your father?”

  “No one. Not even my wife.”

  “Your big secret.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve been there, sugar. I know what it’s like to try to hide something from the world. The difference between you and me is I came out of the closet, and you were outed. You sure were outed. But the big question is why?”