A Lethal Legacy

by P. C. Zick

  Because of my confusion, I felt that the book had stalled. I hoped the different cultural and artistic atmospheres in the Village would inspire me as I waited for the muse to direct me.

  Gary managed to find me the perfect efficiency above a used bookstore overlooking Washington Square Park. The apartment was big enough for him to stay over sometimes if he didn't want to take the long train ride out to Long Island. I didn't see it until the day I arrived, but he hadn't disappointed me. The dark woodwork would have been oppressive in the winter, but in the summer with its ceiling-to-floor windows, I could see the treetops. By midday, the sun shone brightly, lightening the atmosphere in the room considerably.

  The activity in this small section of Manhattan throbbed with excitement by early evening. I wrote every morning and afternoon, but by dinnertime I ventured out to the cafes, bars, and coffee houses that made the Village famous.

  That summer, many of the younger kids couldn't stop talking about the music concert to beat all music concerts in August. It would be held in upstate New York and many groups had already been booked.

  I listened politely but had no interest in going because I wasn't familiar with the music. I still listened to Elvis and the early Beatles. Somehow, the new rock missed its mark with me. But I wrote about all I heard, never realizing the opportunity I would be missing by not taking the talk about the Woodstock concert seriously.

  I had several notebooks filled by this time about all of the characters I met on my travels. I knew the people I met this summer would eventually become a part of the rich tapestry of my novel that I had decided would trace the history of the past decade.

  One night in July, Gary and I sat and watched the tiny black and white TV in the apartment as Neil Armstrong took the first steps on the moon. I became even more convinced that this era would have an historical impact on the future like no other time in history.

  I also heard rumblings about raids on a few of the neighborhood bars around my apartment. The police knew of open homosexual activity at several of these establishments and decided that it must be stopped. They began raiding the bars and forcing everyone to leave. They especially picked on an establishment called the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street. One night soon after my arrival in June, I tried to get Gary to go with me to the Stonewall.

  "The Stonewall? Why do you want to go there?" Gary asked when I suggested it.

  "Because I want to see what's the big deal that the police have to go in and harass these folks."

  "I don't think it's a good idea, Ed. What if the police come while we're there?"

  "Then I'll see what happens. I've heard they get a little rough with the guys in there."

  "I think we'd better stay out of it. I can't afford to get arrested."

  "Maybe you're right. Where do you want to go then?"

  I did go visit the next night on my own. The police didn't show up, but lots of other people did. For the first time in my life, I saw men openly affectionate with one another. I felt a little like a voyeur, so after one drink I left, wondering why the police would find it necessary to come in and disturb such a peaceful setting.

  At two in the morning in late June, my phone rang, waking me up.

  "Ed, is Gary staying in the city with you tonight?" Pam asked.

  "No, I haven't seen him. He's not home yet?"

  "No, and he usually at least calls if he's staying with you. Will you call me if you hear from him?"

  "Sure, Pam, don't worry. I'm sure he was held up with a client after dinner. You know how it goes."

  "Yes, that's one thing for sure, I know how it goes." She hung up the phone.

  I had just drifted back to sleep when the phone rang again.

  "Ed, you awake?" Gary asked. There was a great amount of noise in the background, and I had difficulty hearing him.

  "Gary, is that you? Where are you? Pam's worried."

  "Listen, can you come down to the precinct station around the corner on 10th Street? Bring your checkbook. I'll make it right when I get out."

  "Have you been arrested?"

  "I'll explain it all after you bail me out, Ed. Please come right away." Gary sounded scared and angry at the same time.

  The Sixth Precinct house overflowed with hysteria when I arrived. There were probably two hundred men and women herded into the lobby. An officer greeted me at the door.

  "You here to get someone?" he asked me as I tried to find Gary in all of this mess.

  "Yes, Officer. I'm here to pick up my cousin. What happened?"

  "A riot, outside the Stonewall Inn. A bunch of queers started throwing rocks and bottles at us when we were just doing our job. What's your cousin's name?"

  "Gary Townsend. I see him over there."

  I made my way through the crowd to Gary who sat on a bench against the wall with his head held between his hands. I noticed some blood on one fingernail, but otherwise, he seemed unharmed. He didn't fit with this crowd in his suit and tie, but here he was, right in the middle of it.

  "Gary, hi," I said when I reached him.

  "Ed, let's go. We have to go to the desk over there and sign some papers. They didn't put us in cells; they just want our money." He jumped up and began pulling me toward a very haggard looking woman sitting at a desk in the corner arguing with a rather ugly female dressed in a tight evening gown. When I approached the desk, I suddenly realized that the gown actually housed the body of a man.

  "Please, just go sit in the corner, Sir. I can't help you right now."

  "That's m'am to you," he said as he flounced over to the benches under the windows.

  "Yes, may I help you?" the officer asked.

  "I want to get my cousin released. Gary Townsend."

  "That'll be $250, please. Make the check out to 'New York City Police,' and I'll need one form of ID."

  I handed her the check and signed all of the papers before guiding Gary outside into the fresh night air.

  "I called Pam and told her you got a little drunk and would be sleeping it off at my place," I said as we headed back to my apartment.

  "Thanks, Ed, thanks for everything." We walked in silence the rest of the way.

  "Aren't you going to ask me?" Gary finally broke the quiet when we settled on my couch with our beers.

  "Ask you what?"

  "Damn it, Ed. Why are you always like this?" Gary said.

  "Like what? If you have something to tell me, Gary, tell me. Otherwise, it's none of my business."

  "You're not even curious about why I was at the Stonewall tonight?"

  "Yes, I guess I am since you refused to go with me."

  "If I'd gone with you, then you would have figured out that I'd been there before," he said.

  "This wasn't your first time?"

  "No, Ed, it wasn't the first time. I go down there about two or three times a week, and I meet people there."

  "People?"

  "Homosexuals."

  "What are you saying?” My question hung in the air until Gary finally lifted his eyes to meet mine.

  "I'm a queer, Ed," he said. "What do you think old Philip would make of that?"

  I watched Gary for a few minutes as I tried to absorb his news. He began picking at his finger where I had noticed blood earlier. For some reason, I wanted to find a bandage for his wound rather than responding to his news.

  "Gary, I don't understand. What about Pam?" I asked.

  "I've told you before about how it was with girls, right? That never changed, even with Pam. It was a miracle she managed to get pregnant because I've only managed to complete the whole act with her a few times since we married. And believe me, Ed, it's always been just an act for me." Gary continued to pick at the finger.

  "What happened?" I asked pointing at his hand.

  "Nothing, just a hang nail."

  "Quit picking at it, or it will bleed," I said. I knew without a doubt Gary would make it bleed.

  We sat up until dawn as Gary explained what happened with his life during the pa
st decade. He told me as a teenager he pushed all thoughts of homosexuality from his mind because of his father. The closest he’d ever come to discussing it with someone had been on those walks with me. However, he never could go further than those meager attempts.

  He suffered immeasurable guilt all through high school and college when he developed crushes on his best buddies. He never enjoyed sex with his female partners unless he fantasized about one of his male friends. In Chicago, he met a man who finally forced him to admit the truth. They fell in love. However, Gary still couldn't face the truth publicly, so in order to hide the reality from everyone else, he married Pam who had been a friend of a friend. He confided the terror he felt whenever he imagined someone finding out. Yet he couldn't stay away from places like the Stonewall.

  "Are you involved with anyone now?" I asked.

  "Yes, sure, I'm involved, as you say, with about a hundred nameless, faceless young boys. A new one every night, Cuz." His hair usually combed back smoothly, fell over his forehead. His gaze rested on the carpet in front of him.

  "Does Pam know?" I asked.

  "No, but she doesn't understand why I don't find her attractive. She tries to get me into bed and when she fails, she drinks. She drinks a lot. And she's a lousy mother. And I blame myself for it all."

  "Gary, quit being so hard on yourself. You've been caught in an intolerable situation." I said. "Are you sure staying married is the right thing?"

  "You know when I moved here, I thought it would all work itself out. There were actually places for me to go where I could meet others like me. Then the raids began, and even though I got scared, I still kept going back because for once in my life, I felt like I could manage both areas of my life."

  "What happened to the man in Chicago?"

  "He didn't think I should marry Pam. He also didn't like the fact that I found it impossible to be faithful to him. Once I admitted I was gay, I couldn't get enough. So he decided to leave when I got married."

  "What now, Gary?"

  "I think now I'd like to try again with Pam and the baby. I don't have anyone special in my life, and I can't go back to the Stonewall. Maybe I can succeed at being a better father than Philip."

  "Are you sure? You can shut off the other just like that?"

  "I can damn well try, Ed. I certainly can't let anyone else know that I'm a homosexual. I know I don't have to ask you to not tell my big bad secret."

  "Of course not. If you do give it one more try with Pam, promise me one thing. The minute you know it's not going to work, leave. Don't hurt Pam anymore."

  "But if I leave, what happens to Kristina?"

  I didn't have an answer to that question. What would happen to Kristina if she was left with a mother who didn't love her, at least not the way a mother should love a daughter.

  As light began to edge its way into the windows, Gary and I prepared for sleep. I looked over at my cousin lying on the couch. I suddenly realized I hat was wrong with my novel. The story belonged to Gary, not to Pam.

  He sits at the bar alone with his thoughts when he notices him sitting at a table, also alone. Their eyes meet for a split second, and they know. He picks up his drink and moves closer. As he sits down at the table to introduce himself, the front door of the bar slams open and several blue-suited policemen enter. He pushes his chair back and tries to sneak out the back way, but he is caught with no escape.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kristina and I sat for a long time holding one another. I broke the spell when I reached for the lamp on the table next to us and turned it on.

  "Ed, you know you told me about your first marriage. But what about your second one?" Kristina asked.

  I sighed. This creature before me was not going to let me forget the past. Why not tell her? After all, without her knowing it, she sparked a memory from my wedding to Kelsey that involved Kristina as a young toddler; a memory I relived when she touched the side of my face gently in an effort to comfort me.

  I went back to Michigan in August of 1969 hoping everything would work out for Gary and Pam. After Gary's arrest, I saw them frequently that summer on the weekends when either I would take the train out to their house for a barbecue, or they would both come into the city for a show. Then afterwards the three of us would have a slumber party in my one room apartment. As far as I could tell, Gary never stayed in the city without Pam after Stonewall.

  Pam even slowed down on her heavy drinking, although Gary seemed to have more than his usual amount when I was at his house. Kristina was an adorable and happy toddler, but Pam still didn't display the same type of mothering skills used with Gary and me as we grew up. She did everything correctly from changing diapers to feeding her on schedule. However, any special cuddling or cooing seemed fundamentally lacking in her interactions with her daughter. Gary made up for that missing ingredient. He absolutely doted on his daughter and mentioned once or twice to me during that summer that he hoped for at least one more child.

  Whenever I spent time at their home, I also indulged the pretty baby. It wasn't difficult to do. Kristina seemed to thrive when given attention. She even began to recognize me when I visited. I eagerly held her and played with her on the floor as she crawled about chasing the cat.

  When I got back to Ann Arbor in late August, the winds of change seemed to have permanently blown into this Midwestern college town and taken up residence. After the images of Woodstock, the concert I had heard about all summer long, hit the national consciousness, very little would remain from the leftover stagnation of the 1950s. In Ann Arbor, the first noticeable change occurred in the dress of the college students. No longer did the sorority Peter Pan collars and fraternity button-down shirts of the Eisenhower and Kennedy years exist. Instead they were replaced by brightly colored T-shirts, often tie-dyed, and jeans, the uniform of the new youth. Instead of cute dress shops on Liberty and State Streets, bead shops and head shops and small dark cafes became the fad. And everywhere I went that year, I smelled the sweet, leaf-burning odor of marijuana. I even smelled it in my classroom. My students were suddenly aware of things like Vietnam and the politics of Nixon who had been president for almost a year. No longer, did I have to prod them to write; they had plenty to say and many of their pieces made it into the school newspaper.

  Teaching became a joy as well as a challenge as I attempted to keep pace with the world around me. I had never really been political before, but now I watched as those younger than me began the protests that have come to mark this period indelibly as the one in which much of American society became radicalized. Even sweet little mothers like my own became political as they took to the streets to protest the Vietnam War. Some of these women had sons, who had been drafted, but others had young sons at home, and they hoped to make a difference before they became eligible for the draft.

  Women, blacks, and students took to the streets trying to make the world a better place while attempting to give corporate and governmental America a social conscience. One group, who also began organizing and politicizing after June of 1969, didn't receive the same amount of publicity as those other groups. I read with interest everything I could about the formation of the gay and lesbian rights organizations. Unfortunately, nothing much was written unless the news reports were slanted to make it seem as if the police were being harassed by a disgusting group of individuals.

  Right after Gary's arrest, protesters rioted every night on Christopher Street after the bars closed. For four nights, the same ritual occurred.

  My writing remained stuck because I didn't know how to express Gary's torment. I wrote about a character who wandered endlessly looking for his place in the world. At this point in my life, that character could either be Gary or myself.

  My teaching seemed to be the only satisfying part of my life that year. I couldn't get published even though I tried every summer to get something in print. So far, I had only managed a letter to the editor in the Ann Arbor News.

  I was lonely. I’d been officially divorce
d for more than a year, and I had met no one else. The sexual revolution swirled all around me, yet I found it difficult to participate. One of my friends from work tried several times to get me to go out on the town with him, and I tried. I even went home with a girl one night, but since I didn't know her, I found the whole experience distasteful. However, it did give me a release for a short while.

  One cold and cloudy Saturday in early December, I was walking around town after breakfast at the Fleetwood, an old-fashioned diner on Ashley Street. As the rain began, I slipped into one of the new co-op stores cropping up on the west side of town. The smell of fresh baked bread assaulted my senses as soon as I opened the door.

  "Hey, come on in and get dry," a friendly voice greeted me from behind the counter.

  I looked up while shaking water off my jacket and found myself gazing into the biggest set of brown eyes I had ever seen. When I investigated more, I saw that the eyes were attached to a very open and welcoming face. Blonde hair cascaded down to the middle of her back. Her tight white t-shirt would leave nothing to the imagination if she should step into the rain outside. I noticed right away that she wore no bra.

  "Hi, yourself. I guess I got caught in a downpour," I said.

  "How about some coffee?"

  "Sure," I said as I looked around the warm room. The ovens dominated the back part of the store along with long tables covered with bread pans and large bowls. The soft lighting in the retail section showed off the bread-filled glass cabinets now separating my beautiful rescuer and me. Yeast-rising bread aroused me, as I felt surrounded by female fertility and tranquility.

  "I'm Kelsey," she said as she brought me a small cup of steaming warmth.

  "Ed. Nice to meet you." I extended my hand.

  "What brings you here on this bleak day, Ed?" She pulled up a stool next to mine. The customers weren't exactly knocking down the door to get inside.

  "Just ate at the Fleetwood and decided to take a walk. How come there aren't more people in here on a Saturday morning?"