The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  While the police were in evidence, their presence seemed mostly—and unnecessarily—to be intended to keep anyone from entering the cordoned-off area. Nothing was done to interfere with the memorial. Not even the chief would have been stupid enough to try.

  When we heard that Bob planned to attend the service, we insisted he go with us, and we kept a close watch on him. But he just stood with everyone else, staring into what remained of the open door of the Dog Collar. There were many tears shed in the crowd, but none from Bob.

  The “ongoing investigation” into the fire remained ongoing. I had spoken to Tom briefly on the phone. He couldn’t say much, of course, but I got the impression the arson squad, at least, was sincerely doing its best to piece the puzzle together. I had several questions I wanted to ask him, but they would have to wait.

  We tentatively planned to meet at the memorial on Saturday, but there were so many people there, we missed each other. I called him again the following Monday and left a message on his machine.

  On Thursday, the newspapers and TV stations headlined the story that an arrest had been made in the Dog Collar fire—the bar’s owner, for “criminal endangerment” of his patrons by exceeding occupancy limits, for putting up the toxic mesh, and for not providing more than one exit from the basement, where most of the victims had died.

  As for the arrest of the actual arsonist…

  Chris had bought his tickets and would be leaving on the morning of the twenty-fifth, the day I was to head up to the police chiefs’ meeting. Our plans for his going-away party had changed drastically, of course. We still wanted to have all our friends over for one last time, but the emphasis had definitely shifted from party to gathering.

  My days at work were hectic, as C.C. got out his drums and whips to beat us into rowing the chief’s barge ever faster. Endless press releases, lengthy phone calls to newspapers throughout the state offering fill-in-the-dots-with-local-color stories; requests for interviews with the chief were declined on the grounds of his deep involvement in the fire investigation. Personal appearances were kept to an absolute minimum with the same excuse—the fire had, in fact, given the chief a perfect alibi for not having to run the risk of facing real people.

  Stories were “leaked” by the chief’s insiders as to how profoundly he regretted not being able to be out there among the voters, but that his commitment to his duties and to protecting the citizens of his home city had to take precedence over politics. Made him seem noble as all shit.

  Only a few contacts with Kevin, all by phone. He was spending much of his time making quick trips around the state, speaking to church groups and various conservative organizations on his father’s behalf, trumpeting the message of the chief’s deep concern for the restoration of law, order, and moral values. Sue-Lynn and the baby accompanied him whenever possible, of course, and anyone seeing them together would have had little doubt they epitomized everything America—and, therefore, the chief—stood for.

  The bars were suffering huge financial losses, their business down by as much as eighty percent. Even the lesbian bars were affected, although none of them had ever been firebombed—the Dog Collar had served as a clear warning that no one was safe. Bacchus’s Lair had announced it would be closed “for remodeling” for at least two weeks. A couple of the more well-off bars did go to the considerable expense of installing sprinkler systems and adding emergency exits, but for the foreseeable future, it didn’t matter.

  *

  We had invited Bob to Chris’s going away gathering, but he understandably declined, inviting us instead to dinner at his apartment on the twenty-third, which we accepted with thanks.

  On the Saturday before Chris’ departure, about twenty of our friends came over to say goodbye to him and to our relationship. The mood wasn’t somber, but it was definitely subdued. We laughed, but it was the laughter of warmth and remembrance of good times, not of wit. Several of our friends had known Ramón or others who had died with him, and there was an almost tangible sensation of an all-too-rare phenomenon—the recognition of the value of friendship and life, and of how brief each could be.

  No one got very drunk, and there were no tears as each of the guests departed. It was as though everyone shared the unspoken agreement that tears are for the dead, not the living, and that, while Chris would no longer be as immediate a part of their lives as he had been, he was still alive.

  *

  We slept late Sunday morning then did the post-party cleaning up—washing dishes, throwing out food we’d forgotten to wrap and put in the refrigerator before we went to bed…

  Like I said, the usual.

  We treated ourselves to our last Sunday brunch at Rasputin’s. The place was busier than I’d expected, but Chris pointed out that it was daylight, and many people felt relatively safer then.

  I got the impression as we talked that we both felt as though we’d stepped over some sort of threshold and that, while we would no longer be lovers, we would remain loving friends. I think we were both very grateful for that.

  *

  Another blurred week followed. At work, I was increasingly fielding media requests for personal interviews with the chief. I had been instructed that any such request was to be booted up the food chain to the chief’s handlers, so it wasn’t my responsibility to lie through my teeth about his sincere regrets that his pressing duties prevented blah-blah-blah. With the print media, I did my best to determine what their editors were looking for and tailor standard press releases to the requester’s specific needs and/or questions.

  For the releases, I dipped into the chief’s well-worn little collection of acceptable standard responses. This worked pretty well, and since those of the chief’s pronouncements that were not firebombs were often ambiguous, I would choose those I thought would sound perfectly harmless on the surface yet have potential for the strongest negative subliminal reaction from the targeted audience. I knew I was walking a tightrope, but it was worth it.

  Kevin was increasingly used as the chief’s substitute for second-level requests, primarily from TV and radio talk shows. Sort of a bait-and-switch deal, but he was becoming pretty effective as the chief’s spokesman, and he sure as hell came across as a lot more personable. If he were running for office, even I might have considered at least listening to him. I could only imagine the pressure he must be under.

  On Wednesday night, while Chris was busy boxing up some of his smaller things I’d ship to him once he got settled in New York, I was surprised to answer the phone and hear Kevin’s voice. I was glad I caught the call rather than Chris or our answering machine—which still started with “Hi, you’ve reached Dick and Chris…” I didn’t give a shit whether Kevin found out I was gay; it’s just that his knowing would have opened all sorts of doorways I’d rather walk than be pushed through.

  “Kevin. This is something of a surprise.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, Dick. I wouldn’t be bothering you at home if it weren’t important, but something has come up and I’m really not sure I know how to handle it. And now it’s come up, I’m sure it will come up again. I really need your objective advice.”

  Well, that was certainly cryptic, I thought.

  “Of course, Kevin—that’s what I’m here for. What is it?”

  “I don’t really feel comfortable discussing it on the phone. Could you come over to the shelter?”

  “Tonight?”

  There was a pause and then: “Well, I have my prayer and meditation every evening from ten until midnight, but if you could make it before then…” Another pause. “But if you would prefer to make it tomorrow morning, I’m sure it can wait until then.”

  With only a couple more days left for me to spend time with Chris, I really didn’t feel like going out.

  “Well, if you really don’t mind, Kevin, I am in the middle of something here, and—”

  “No, no, that’s fine, Dick. Tomorrow will be fine.”

  “I can meet you at around nine-thirty, if
that won’t interfere with your schedule.”

  “Nine thirty will be fine.”

  But now I was really curious.

  “I know you don’t want to go into detail on the phone, but could you give me some idea of what it’s about, so perhaps I can do some thinking about it between now and then?”

  There was a long pause.

  “It’s about Patrick.”

  *

  Having called work to leave word where I’d be, I drove directly to the shelter, swinging by Marston’s to drop Chris off. By mutual unspoken agreement, we wanted to spend as much of our last days together as we could, and even a twenty-minute ride into town was twenty minutes we wouldn’t have had.

  Although, as usual, there weren’t many people on the streets around the shelter, once inside the doors there seemed to be a lot of activity going on. People I assumed to be volunteers were coming down the stairs with armloads of sheets, others were carrying stacks of fresh bedding back up. Tables were being scrubbed and set in the dining room.

  There was no sign of Kevin. I stopped one of the passing sheet-carriers to ask where I might find Reverend Rourke, and she nodded toward the end of the corridor, which I assumed meant he was in his office.

  As I climbed the stairs, I heard the sound of music. Piano music. I recognized it as Beethoven but couldn’t place the composition. The door to the office was again partially open, and I saw Kevin seated at the old upright I’d wondered about the first time I’d come into the room.

  I waited until there was a pause then knocked. Kevin swung around on the equally old piano stool and smiled, a little sadly, I thought.

  “You play very well,” I said as he got up to greet me.

  His handshake this time was…different somehow, even stronger than usual, and I got an odd impression of urgency.

  “Thank you,” he said, as the handshake slowed to a hand-hold. “I’ve always loved music.” When we released hands, he stepped slightly past me to close the door. “Thanks for coming, Dick.”

  The wooden chairs, I noticed, were cleared off, and he gestured me to a seat. We resumed our now-usual position facing one another, but this time, rather than clasping his hands lightly between the arms of the chair, Kevin put his elbows on the arms and his hands in praying position. He lowered his head slightly until his index fingers were just inside his lips, fingernails cradling his two front teeth.

  Not prayer—thought.

  With his head still slightly down, he looked at me, through his long eyelashes. He had me hooked, but I waited for him to speak first.

  “I had a radio interview yesterday in Allen,” he began, sitting upright, hands still in the prayer position but the index fingertips now against his lower lip, tapping it lightly.

  I started to ask, How did it go? but it was obvious it hadn’t gone well at all.

  “And…?”

  “And the interviewer got into some areas that both surprised and shocked me. I realized too late that he was trying to use the interview to increase his own ratings by being confrontational and obnoxious.”

  “And he asked you about Patrick.”

  Kevin lowered his hands onto the ends of the chair arms and nodded.

  “Not just questions,” he said. “Rude questions. Insulting questions. If I’d had any idea Patrick’s name would even be mentioned, I would have refused the interview from the outset. I was told this man has a reputation for hard-hitting questions, but I had no idea how low he would stoop.”

  “Did your father’s advisers arrange this interview?”

  “No. I was in Allen to address a Citizens for Decency meeting, and at the end of the meeting, a reporter came up and asked if he could have a brief tape-recorded interview. I didn’t see any harm in it, so I agreed,”

  “Well, that’s a mistake I’m sure you’ll never repeat.”

  He sighed. “Obviously. My father was furious with me, and you do not want to see my father when he is furious.” He was quiet for a moment then looked directly into my eyes. “How much do you know about Patrick?”

  “That he’s dead, and that he was gay,” I said honestly.

  “And the rumors…?”

  “About your father and Patrick’s death?”

  He nodded. “Yes.” More silence, and then: “The fact of the matter is that, now the subject has been mentioned by one sensation-monger, there will be more. Allen isn’t that big a town, but it certainly isn’t that small, either.

  “I’ve got six radio shows scheduled, and four TV interviews coming up in the next week.” He looked at me quickly. “And, yes, all were arranged by my father’s team.”

  “Well, that’s something, though now the genie’s out of the bottle, there are no guarantees. How did you respond in Allen?”

  “I said that Patrick’s death had left a deep scar on our family, and that it was quite simply too painful to discuss. Most decent people would have left it at that, but he kept persisting, kept asking more and more personal questions, even mentioned that outrageous rumor.”

  “And your response?”

  “That it was patently ridiculous, of course. I got away from him as soon as I could, but the damage had been done.”

  “Well, I think you did exactly what you should have done. You didn’t let him get you to explode.”

  “Oh, but I wanted to!”

  Again, a moment of silence, and I decided to step in.

  “You know, Kevin, we all should have seen this coming, and I’m rather amazed your father’s people hadn’t prepared you. Especially in light of the Dog Collar fire, and given your father’s openly hostile attitude toward gays, the fact he had a gay son was bound to come up, and bound to be jumped on.”

  He looked at me closely and said, “You’re wondering, aren’t you?”

  “About what?”

  “About whether I’m…one too.”

  “That’s none of my business,” I said but wondering, nonetheless. “Besides, you’re married and have a child.”

  I meant it to be ironic, but in the back of my mind, I could hear Ramón laughing.

  Kevin raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

  “Let me put the issue to rest, then,” he said, “by telling you something about Patrick and myself.

  “Although we were identical twins—I’m not sure even our parents could always tell us apart—it was as though the balance of good and evil that exists in most individuals was somehow divided between us. I am not saying I’m a saint—far from it. But whereas I always knew the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil, Patrick did not.

  “My parents did everything they could to save him from himself, but he refused their every gesture. It fell on me to be the son God had intended to give them, and that has been no easy burden, I can assure you. You cannot imagine how much trouble Patrick got me into when we were kids just because people could not tell us apart. He would often deliberately cause trouble and then claim to be me.”

  I would have grinned but thought better of it.

  “But God saw me through it all,” Kevin continued. “My parents suffered the torments of hell in Patrick’s rebellion against—in his flaunting of—everything they had raised us to believe.”

  I remained silent, listening intently as he leaned forward, hands clasped over his lap.

  “My parents are not, shall we say, demonstrative people. But I know they loved Patrick and me equally, as good Christians should. Sometimes I felt that my father loved Patrick even more, in hopes that love would save his soul. It didn’t, of course.

  “That Patrick drank, and lied, and cheated, and blasphemed in every possible way was bad enough. But that he was a homosexual as well! Can you imagine what his sexual deviance did to a man as moral and upright as my father? And it was, of course, equally difficult for me because, even though the Bible clearly states that homosexuality is an abomination in the sight of God, Patrick was my brother, and I loved him. And to love him while knowing he would burn forever in the fires of hell…”


  I’d had about enough of that specious bullshit, but rather than tell Kevin he was full of crap, I asked, “So what, exactly, happened to Patrick? Exactly how did he die?”

  Kevin looked at me oddly.

  “That’s just it,” he said. “He didn’t.”

  Chapter 9

  I sat there for what seemed like a full minute before I was able to say, “Excuse me?”

  “Patrick isn’t dead. Not in body. But he is dead to my family and, I’m sorry to say, to me.”

  “I don’t mean to sound dense, but what’s going on here?”

  Kevin gave a sad smile.

  “Sorry—I’m sure you’re confused. I realize I’m taking a very great risk in telling you all this; you are the only person outside the family who knows. But since the story is partially out, I need to explain it all to someone who might be able to understand.

  “I’m not sure why, but the first time I saw you, I somehow felt you were someone I could trust. I don’t have…many friends, and I really need someone I can confide in.”

  I almost suggested he consider his wife but decided against it and instead said nothing

  “The problem is that we have painted ourselves into something of a corner on this Patrick issue, and I need help in figuring out what to do about it.”

  He made it sound as though he were talking about termites in the woodwork.

  “But why the charade in the first place? Why lie about Patrick’s being dead?”

  Kevin sat back in his chair.

  “Well, first let me ask that you promise not to tell anyone that Patrick is alive.” I nodded, and, apparently satisfied, he continued. “As to why the charade, as you put it, I can only say it was a domino effect. One lie—well, let’s not call them lies—leads to another.