The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  *

  C.C. informed me Monday that I would be accompanying the chief and the adult members of the Rourke clan on a four-day campaign swing of the state, beginning Tuesday. The primaries were almost here, and recent polls had shown the chief trailing slightly behind Senator Evans.

  McNearny had proposed the modern-day equivalent of a whistle-stop tour, concentrating on the smaller, conservative rural communities the chief’s handlers considered key to his election. The chief, his family and his advisors would be traveling by chartered bus. I and Jim DeCarlo, another of C.C.’s staffers normally in charge of the Xerox room, would travel ahead of the bus in a rental van with banners, posters, press kits, bumper stickers, and assorted PR paraphernalia.

  Arriving two hours ahead of the bus, it was our duty to meet with the chief’s local supporters and be sure they had all the materials they needed for a rousing spontaneous display of enthusiasm when the chief himself rolled into town. Having thus dispersed our materials, we would speed on down the road to the next stop and repeat the process.

  I’d never spent much time in that part of the state but was quickly reminded that my world—the world of gay bars, Sunday brunch, and Gay Pride rallies—was not the same world as the Bubba-land I found myself in. There, pickup trucks outnumbered other vehicles by two hundred to one and patriotism, as the locals saw it, went considerably beyond singing “God Bless America” on the Fourth of July.

  For me, the whole experience was summed up in a gun-rack-in-the-rear-window pickup we were lucky enough to be stuck behind for about thirty miles on a two-lane road. It was covered with bumper stickers: “America for the Americans!” “America First!” “Buy American!”

  It was a Toyota.

  Actually, the tour was a pretty shrewd political ploy. At each stop, Kevin would introduce the family, give a brief speech praising his father’s accomplishments and plans for the future of the state, then introduce the chief. The chief would recite one of five brief canned speeches prepared by his team and designed to fit the perceived particular interests of the specific community. If time allowed, and it usually didn’t, he would take two or three planted questions from strategically placed supporters in the crowd. Again everything was finely honed to avoid any possibility of spontaneity on the chief’s part.

  It also meant, of course, that I had almost no opportunity to talk with Kevin and could not possibly have heard from Patrick. Even the overnight stops were set up so the van would stay wherever the bus’s first stop would be in the morning.

  That I had to share a room each night with Joe was bad enough—I didn’t even have the freedom to go out alone to check out the wholesome, corn-fed hunks who somehow seem to abound in small-town America. Most of them were already married with four kids by the time they were eighteen, of course, but there were more than enough fleeting eye contacts to make it pretty clear one or two of them would be more than willing to see what they were missing.

  *

  The tour went relatively smoothly—the chief didn’t stick his foot in his mouth more than a couple of times. Mrs. Rourke’s task was to stand beside her husband and beam with pride, and those who had never seen Kathleen Rourke beam with pride missed a classic example of the actor’s art. Sue-Lynn and Sean were on prominent display as often as possible, and when Kevin wasn’t speaking, he could be photographed with his arm (left arm, remember) lovingly around his wife’s shoulders.

  I took great pride in making it through the entire four days without yielding to the often-overwhelming temptation to throttle Jim DeCarlo, who insisted on outlining in excruciating detail every sexual encounter he’d ever had from the age of fifteen to the present. I wouldn’t have been interested even if he’d been gay, but he was a card-carrying Breeder and damn proud of it.

  By the time we got back into town on Friday afternoon, I swore that if I had to listen to one more glowing description of aroused female genitalia, I was going to stub out my cigarette in the guy’s eyeball.

  *

  There were several messages on my machine, none of them from Patrick. I remembered then that Bacchus’s Lair only did their full drag shows on Friday and Saturday nights. I wondered where Patrick was the rest of the time—if he was as promiscuous as Kevin said, it was a pretty sure bet he’d be known in some of the bars or baths around town.

  But there were a lot of bars. And quite a few baths.

  The last thing I wanted to do was to go out after being on the road all week, but I felt I had really screwed up (again, no pun) by letting my crotch rule my head with Patrick. I also felt guilty for the feeling that I had somehow let Kevin, and myself, down, and I determined to make it right.

  I called Bob, ostensibly to see how things were going with him, but also to check to see if he might be at Bacchus’s Lair—if he were, I couldn’t risk trying to contact Patrick. It would open the door to too many questions. Luckily, Bob said he was staying in for the evening.

  I debated on whether to take a nap after dinner and before getting ready to head to Bacchus’s Lair for the second show—which of course triggered one of my little internal dialogues.

  Getting set for another all night session, Hardesty?

  No, damn it. I’m just tired. I’m not planning on any sex tonight.

  Of course you aren’t. And pigs can fly.

  To prove myself wrong, I forced myself to stay awake and spent the evening chain smoking and watching TV.

  *

  I’d called ahead for a table near an exit, and arrived about ten minutes before the start of the second show. No sign of T/T, and I was mildly curious as to whether anyone had seen me going into Judy’s dressing room. Of course, whether they had or hadn’t, I was willing to take bets the waiter would have told everyone, especially given Judy’s reclusive reputation.

  I don’t remember much of the show at all; even T/T’s set was something of a blur. Partly my being tired, I guess, and partly my continuing mind-vs.-crotch battle over the prospect of another meeting with Patrick. Well, this time I wasn’t going to be so easily suckered. I had a goal that didn’t involve my crotch, and I damned well was going to reach it.

  When the house lights went out, signaling the start of Judy’s set, I had an odd knot in my stomach. She began with “I’m Nobody’s Baby,” followed by “Just in Time,” and ending with “Zing Went the Strings of My Heart.” She seemed to be studiously avoiding any direct eye contact, although I knew she was aware I was there. Apparently, word of my admission into the sanctum sanctorum had made her leery of being too obvious in front of the other employees.

  However, at the end of her last number, she did give me a glance and an almost imperceptible movement of her head, indicating I was to come backstage after the show.

  Even before the applause died away, I was off in my own little world, pondering the whole Judy/Patrick thing. When Patrick was up there on stage as Judy, there was no question in my mind the correct word was “she.” Patrick, at that moment, was Judy Garland.

  But the moment the dress, wig, and makeup came off, it was “he,” without a doubt in the world. And, oddly, Patrick as Judy left me physically cold, whereas Patrick as Patrick…

  My mind cut me off: Yeah, yeah, yeah, enough philosophy already!

  I took my time finishing my drink, and then got up and headed for the hall to the bathroom and the dressing rooms. A guy was buying a pack of cigarettes from the machine, so I waited until he had finished and walked past me back into the main room before stepping inside the door.

  To my surprise, T/T was standing just inside, waiting for me. This was not the bubbly Tondelaya O’Tool, or even T/T, but Teddy, and a very serious Teddy at that.

  He took my arm and bent his head closer to mine, and said in a low voice, “You be very careful, you hear?”

  Then he turned without another word and headed back to join the other performers in the main dressing room.

  I knocked on Judy’s dressing room door and once again heard the familiar “Come in.” Patrick was
just removing the last of his makeup, and looked up at me via the mirror.

  “I got your message,” he said, using a tissue wrapped around the tip of his middle finger to remove a bit of eyeliner. “I called, but you’d apparently already left the apartment. When I didn’t get you, I thought you’d probably show up here. You want a quickie here first, or wait till we get to your place?”

  He’s doing it again, I thought, mildly pissed by his automatic assumptions but weakening.

  “We have to talk, Patrick. Talk first, fuck later.” That last part was added by my crotch; it wasn’t what I’d intended to say at all.

  Patrick got up from his chair and reached for a shirt on the clothes rack. Without looking at me, he shrugged and said, “Whatever.”

  When he’d finished dressing, we did the locking-the-door-exit-through-the-closet routine and ended up in the alley again. As we walked past the back of Salvation’s Door, we could hear the sound of a piano coming from the direction of Kevin’s office. Liszt, this time.

  Patrick looked up toward the music.

  “He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.” I was surprised, in the dim light of the alley, to see an almost sad look on his face.

  “Kevin plays. I sing,” he said, almost to himself. And then his face changed again, and he was his old cocky self. “Let’s move it along, hot stuff. I can’t wait for another twelve-inch injection of old Doc Hardesty’s Mad Root!”

  Flattery will get you anywhere! I thought.

  When we were safely in the car, and I was pulling away from the curb, I decided now was as good a time as any to start our long-overdue talk.

  “How come you disappeared the other night?”

  “Glad you missed me!” he said with a grin. “But, honey, you better know right now, I don’t do sleepovers. Too much like commitment, and I’m not big on commitment.”

  Point made.

  “Why drag?”

  “Why not? I haven’t the slightest doubt about whether I really want to have a dick or not. I find it’s the guys who aren’t so sure who have the problem with drag.”

  “Have you always done it?” I asked as we waited for a traffic light to turn green.

  “Oh, sure, honey! All my life!” His voice had a sharpness and bitterness that startled me. He must have noticed my reaction, and his voice returned to its normal tone.

  “When Kevin and I were eight years old, we were left home alone one day while dear old Dad went to visit Mother in the hospital—she’d just had Colleen. We were playing around the house, and went in to our parents’ room—which was our first big mistake, since that room was strictly forbidden without knocking first and getting permission.”

  I got the feeling he was talking more to himself than to me. He apparently suddenly realized it and shot me a quick sidelong glance before continuing.

  “Anyway, we went into their closet and decided it would be fun to dress up like Mommy and Daddy. Kevin got dressed up as Daddy, and I put on one of Mother’s housecoats and a big picture hat.”

  He paused, and without turning to look at him directly, I could see out of the corner of my eye an almost pained expression on his face. He was quiet a moment then sighed and continued.

  “So, guess who chooses that very minute to walk into the room?” His voice was bitter. “Dear old Dad, of course, who proceeded to grab me by the shoulders, pick me up off the floor, and slam me into the wall so hard it knocked pictures down in the other room.

  “Then, just in case I didn’t get his message, he proceeded to beat the crap out of me. Chipped a tooth, almost broke my arm. I’m eight years old, for Christ’s sake!”

  I felt mildly sick to my stomach, and my loathing for the chief boiled dangerously close to the surface. I’d never understood before why he was nicknamed “The Butcher” but hearing what he’d done to his own children…

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “And Kevin?” I asked, finally.

  Patrick laughed, but there wasn’t even a hint of humor in it.

  “Kevin? Kevin was dressed up as Daddy, you see, so he was the little man. He was just playing a harmless child’s game—dear old Dad didn’t even give him a second thought. But, me…

  “And my darling little brother just stood there while my father beat the shit out of me, and he didn’t do a God-damned thing! He…” His voice had begun to tremble, and he suddenly stopped talking and stared out the window.

  You really want to know all this, Hardesty? I asked myself, and the reluctant answer was Yes.

  “And your working at Bacchus’s Lair is a way of getting back at your father?”

  Patrick looked at me and shook his head.

  “Oh, I don’t work at Bacchus’s Lair. I own it. Grandpa Corchoran, who built up a tidy fortune in graft as chief of police, left Kevin and me a trust fund, not to be touched until we turned twenty-five; the other kids weren’t born yet. So, when we reached twenty-five, I took my money out and bought the bar.

  “Did you know Daddy owns the building? Well, his corporation does. I think it’s marvelous that while Daddy hates fags, he has nothing against taking their money. And my doing drag there is just…well, sort of poetic justice.”

  *

  When we entered my apartment this time, Patrick was considerably more subdued, as was I. I think he realized it was time he got everything out in the open. We sat in the two chairs flanking the fireplace, and I didn’t even offer him a drink or coffee. I think we both were too preoccupied to notice, or to care.

  “How old were you when you knew you were gay?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Always. Our parents were such total shits—I can’t recall one single time in my life when I saw my father kiss my mother. And if they weren’t able to show affection for each other, you can be damned sure they couldn’t show any for us.

  “So we clung to each other—at first mostly figuratively, but more and more it became literally, too. After the little ‘How-I-Began-My-Life-in-Drag’ episode, they moved me out of our room and into a little guest room in the attic.

  “But late at night, one of us would come to the other’s room, and we would just lay in bed and hold each other. When we reached puberty, the holding got a little beyond holding, and then a lot beyond holding. But we could never, ever sleep together!”

  I was so absorbed in listening to Patrick’s story, it never occurred to me to interrupt him, and he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I recognized what we were right from the beginning. But not Kevin! Oh, no! Kevin got religion. We would finish a wild sixty-nine that drove both of us crazy, and Kevin would run into the bathroom to wash his mouth out, and then he’d come back and rant and rave about what terrible, evil, perverted creatures we were, and how we were doomed to hell forever. That wouldn’t stop him the next time he got a hard-on, of course, but it was always the same afterwards, and it got worse.

  “Finally, he wouldn’t let me touch him—he’d go on and on about abominations and evil and the devil and how he had been saved from damnation because he had accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior, and on and on and on.

  “And the more he came under Daddy Dear’s control and never questioned and never ever stood up for himself or for me, the more I went in the opposite direction. I rubbed their noses in it every chance I got. Daddy had his angel in Kevin; I made damn sure he got the Devil in me.”

  I decided to say something.

  “So, you agreed to go away.”

  “Yes. And it was the best thing I could ever have done. I found out I could be happy for the first time in my life.”

  “But you came back.”

  “Do you think I could have stayed away? And let dear old Dad do to the entire state what he did to Kevin and me? Oh, no! Somebody has to stop him.”

  Finally! I thought.

  “And just how do you plan to do that?”

  Patrick gave me a very wry smile.

  “I have my ways.”

  “But—” I started
to say.

  He cut me off with a shake of his head.

  Realizing he was not about to tell me and not wanting to push too hard, I opted for another track.

  “Will you at least see Kevin?”

  He looked at me as though I had surprised him somehow.

  “Do you really think I should?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “Kevin isn’t ready. He can’t face me. Kevin puts on a pretty white-bread face, but there’s so much more going on in there you can’t even begin to imagine! I will talk to him, though. There are a few things we have to say to one another.”

  Patrick leaned forward in his chair, put his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him, much as Kevin did. He looked at me soberly for a moment, then his face broke into a slow, wicked grin.

  “Now can we fuck?”

  We could.

  Chapter 17

  Patrick woke me around five by kissing me hard and slipping his tongue into my mouth. Despite our having been at it nonstop for more than three hours, I was instantly ready to go again, but he pushed me away.

  “Gotta go,” he said, getting out of bed to put his clothes on.

  I started to get up to drive him…where?…but he pushed me back onto the pillow.

  “I called a cab.”

  “Will you leave me your phone number?”

  He had his back to me, putting on his pants, but I saw him shake his head.

  “No. I’ll see you at the bar.”

  “But you will talk to Kevin? And try not to upset him this time?”

  He turned to look at me, buttoning his shirt.

  “You’ve really got the hots for Kevin, haven’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s not a matter of the hots. I’d just like to see the two of you make peace with one another.”

  He looked at me rather strangely and once again a look of sadness crossed his face.

  “It’s a little late for that now, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s never too late.”