“Why the sudden change?”
Paula looked at me earnestly across the table. “I really feel that Edward is so stressed out, it’s just imperative he get some relaxation right away. And I’m done in myself.” She gave a brave little smile. “I had to decorate a five-room model apartment in one of Daddy’s condos and it’s about finished me.” She sighed, and her head drooped piteously.
I was curious. “What’s got you so worn out, Son . . . ah, Edward?”
Paula answered for him. “Well, first, there’s been that terrible arson case.”
I was startled. Fire was always a danger in Provincetown. Lots of old wooden buildings built close together, a hot blaze and a high wind could spell disaster. But arson? I looked at Sonny.
He looked back neutrally. “Liz Mason,” he said succinctly.
Oh, I knew about that. Liz’s boyfriend kept a bunch of tools and fishing gear in her garage. It burned down, and she swore her ex-husband had set it.
“Ah, the Mason case,” I nodded sagely. “It’ll be a long time before Provincetown forgets that conflagration!”
Sonny glared.
“And that giant car-theft ring,” Paula added.
Goodness, we were beginning to sound like Chicago in 1930. But I figured that one out myself. A few weeks back, a bunch of teenagers got beered up and made some sort of bet about who could hot-wire and joyride the most cars out to Race Point in a single night. They were perking right along, emptying out the town, when a cop noticed what seemed an awful lot of traffic for an October night.
I shook my head. “Yes, that was a mind-boggling challenge. Well, Edward, I can see why you need to get away. I take it you got the time off okay?”
“Yes. Chief Franks will be available if needed. His wife is doing much better. They seem to have stabilized whatever was causing her irregular heartbeat. And Captain Anders is around. At least he looks like a cop, until you see the only paper on his desk is Barron’s. So yeah. It’s okay. Mitch will be able to handle things. He’s a lot smarter than he thinks he is, kind of a nice reversal nowadays. He just needs a little confidence.”
Sonny leaned across the table and handed me a three-by-five card. “This is where we’ll be—phone and room numbers are there, too. You are the only soul who has this, so don’t lose it. And do not give it to anyone unless you think something is really wrong. Mitch or Anders will want to call if somebody runs a red light. Mother will want to check on us if she hears a plane crashed in Argentina. Mary Sloan will call if her Santa Fe gets splashed. Don’t ruin the first real vacation I’ve had in years.”
“Don’t forget, Sonny, I won’t be here either.” I gave in and hooked a second cruller. “Not Monday through Wednesday, anyway. You sure you don’t want to leave it with Mom? You can trust her.”
“Nah, not for just three lousy days.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a really grand time,” I said.
Paula placed her hand tenderly on Edward’s arm. “He just insisted that’s where we go. It sounds just a tiny bit touristy, but I’m sure the scenery is lovely.”
I took the last bite of my cruller and managed not to lick my fingers. “Well, I’m sure it is, too, and Edward tells me the crafts are quite beautiful. They fashion lovely pottery and hand-woven cloth. Not to mention old-time instruments like dulcimers, hand-carved just like they were nearly four hundred years ago.” Why did my conversation with Paula sound as stilted and Victorian as the Green Mansions décor?
“Yeah.” Sonny had no such problem. “That fascinates me. I read up on the area a little bit. Did you know there are some backwoods areas down there where the people still speak a sort of Elizabethan English dialect?”
Paula slapped his hand playfully. “Oh, Edward, of course they speak English. I know it’s terribly—ah, rural—but even so, it’s still America down there.”
I did not look at Sonny. “I’d better let Fargo out.” I excused myself. By the time I got back, they had their coats on. Sonny wished me luck on my trip. I wished them fun on theirs. Sonny and I hugged. Paula favored me with another brief handshake and they left.
Fargo and I both made it to the couch before we fell asleep.
We awoke two hours later, and I at least was much refreshed. I let him out, filled his water dish, filled his dry food dish and started frying some bacon. He had two slices, plain. I had two BLTs with extra mayo, thanks, and it was time to begin my evening.
The fatigues now fit reasonably well, and after some moments of panic I found the little raccoon mask in a file drawer. I began to explain to Fargo why he had to stay at home tonight. He explained fervently to me why that should not be so. This time I won.
The players were now all in their places in our little microcosm of the world’s stage, ready for their entrances and exits, and some in their time to play many parts.
I put on my cap and went out.
Chapter 6
Just in case I was fighting any residual chill, I decided a drink was in order. Also, that would give me a chance to give my costume its first tryout on Joe, the bartender. I turned down the alley toward the Wharf Rat, pulling on my little mask as I walked. In reality, I wasn’t chilled at all. Not wishing to wear a coat, I had put on a long-sleeved T-shirt under the uniform and was quite comfortable. I just wanted a drink and some conviviality which might put me in a holiday mood, okay?
The place was fairly busy despite the early hour. As I walked up to the bar I noticed Chief Mather in his usual spot, staying late on this spectral eve. He glanced up briefly, but I wasn’t sure whether he recognized me or not. In any event, he didn’t speak.
Joe, on the other hand, ambled over as if I always appeared at his bar in army combat camouflage. “Beer or bourbon, Alex?” So much for disguise. I opted for bourbon over ice and turned around on the stool to survey the crowd.
As my barstool spun, I felt slightly off-balance and reached back to grab the bar. I missed and knocked over the beer of the man next to me. Joe quickly mopped it up and gave the man another, just shaking his hands negatively when I offered to pay for it. This really was beginning to bug me. I have never been a ballerina . . . but I’ve never been a trained elephant either. Resolutely, I refused to worry about it and crowd-watched.
Two queens in matching light orange silk sheathes split up to mid-thigh sat at one table. Killer looks . . . gorgeous legs, short black sculpted curls, kewpie doll makeup, long cigarette holders. Very nineteen twenties, very good!
Somebody had stocked the old-fashioned bubbling neon juke box that played only golden oldies, which I really like. The Beatles came on with Michelle and that unique haunting harmony. The ’20s girls got up to dance with their tuxedoed escorts. I heard Mather call for a refill in a sour voice.
A table of two straight couples were near me. Apparently tourists, they had no costumes but had wanted to join the fun and had somewhere found party hats and noisemakers. I liked their attitude. The music switched to Nina Simone, and two young girls joined the dancers, staring soulfully at each other with that first-love look that actually vibrates with the certainty it will last forever.
I’d never cared much for Simone’s style, but I liked what I had heard about the woman. She’d got her first real professional break at the Atlantic House here. And for years afterward—long after the A-House would have been professionally “beneath” her—she had returned each season as a thank-you. Maybe I liked her style, after all.
I turned back to my drink and a pair of hands touched my shoulders, massaging them lightly. A liquor-laden voice whispered sibilantly in my ear. “Oh, you delicious macho thing, you! You look just scrumptious!” It was dear boy, with two cronies in tow, all of them obviously loaded.
I swung around, knocked his arms away and jammed three fingers far enough into his solar plexus to make him gasp and bend over. “Dear boy,” I oozed back at him, “if you ever put your fucking hands anywhere near me again, I’ll put a nine millimeter bullet up your nose.”
Of course, I wa
sn’t carrying, but he didn’t know that. He spun away, white faced, and joined his pals, a couple of stools down. As I went back to people watching, I heard him order a drink and saw him pull out a well-stuffed wallet. Unless they were all ones, the wages of sheet-shaking and a little discreet sin were well over the minimum.
I floated with the music and the background noise and the second bourbon Joe had poured without asking. It was all pleasant and familiar. And I felt content enough. That scared me a little. Was I one of those people who were really meant to be alone? Forever? Enjoying my family. Enjoying much-loved friends like Lainey and Cassie, Vance and Charlie. Loving Fargo. But alone? Was I simply lazy, or careless about opportunities? Was there the perfect life partner here just waiting for my hello?
I looked keenly around the room. Not so you’d notice.
But I did notice that dear boy Lewis did not seem to be enjoying himself. He drained his glass and set it down sharply, looked at his watch with a scowl and growled to his companions, “I’m splitting. I’ll catch you later.”
One of his companions asked coyly, “You got a sweet trick you haven’t told us about?”
“Nah,” Lewis replied. “Going over to the Rev’s. They’ll still be having dinner. I’ll trade a couple of hallelujahs for a good free home-cooked meal, anytime.” He walked out, staring ahead, with that careful march-step you use when you’re afraid you’re going to stagger.
I had no trouble translating his cryptic comments. There was a born-again preacher man and his wife over near Shank Painter Road with a little storefront church and some sort of rambling quarters behind it. The Rev and his mousy spousy made an effort to feed some of Ptown’s young drifters. They had some rooms the girls could sleep in, and boys were quartered in a loft over the garage.
Presumably they were fed and safe, at least for the nights they were there. I hoped this was as true as their local supporters assumed. So often, I thought, the fox is the concierge of the henhouse. Perhaps I tend to be a little cynical. Actually, my Aunt Mae rather likes the Rev and his wife. But then, my Aunt Mae rather likes most everyone. Anyway, giving the Rev the benefit of the doubt, I wondered why Lewis, with that fat wallet, felt the need of a free meal with religious overtones. From what I’d seen of him, it didn’t seem like his type of hangout. Suddenly, I sensed someone at my side and looked up sharply, half expecting dear boy had returned for a noisy confrontation. It was ex-Chief Mather.
“Good work with that little pansy, soldier! Got to keep those faggots in their place!” He gave me a snappy salute, turned and left.
I was flabbergasted. Well, at least my costume fooled somebody! Or had it? Surely he hadn’t thought I was a male. Was it some sort of sardonic tease? Had I seen just the suggestion of a smile on Mather’s face? Maybe he had some glimmer of humor after all. Although . . . maybe he had thought I was for real. Why else the offensive language? I shrugged. Who knew with him?
It was getting to be parade time, so I polished off my drink and left. As I came up the alley onto Commercial Street, I saw Lewis and Mather a few yards up the street, exchanging words. I wondered what they could possibly have to say to each other. Lewis was standing with his weight on one leg, pelvis forward in a come-on pose. Mather looked stiff and pained.
Well he might. Jared Mather had years ago relegated himself to a life of pure, excruciating emotional torture. As far as I knew, I was the only person in town who was aware of it, and I had kept the secret so deeply buried, I often forgot it myself. I had learned of it completely innocently.
About five years ago my aunt Barbara was in a serious car accident. Mom and Aunt Mae flew to Delaware to be with her, and I kept an eye on their respective houses. One day after a storm, I went by Mom’s place and found no damage, but Aunt Mae hadn’t been so lucky. A limb had come down, taking out a bathroom window on its way. I looked around for something to board it up with but found nothing. I stood in the yard, pondering what to do, when I realized I was staring at Mather’s house down the hill. If anybody could effect repairs, it would be he. The day was pleasant and I walked across the fields. Over on the road, a convoy passed, horns blowing, streamers flying. I remembered a long-engaged couple who had tied the knot today and were probably on their way to the airport after the reception. I recalled she was some distant kin to Mather and wondered if he would be home.
As I walked silently up the grassy center of his driveway I heard someone groan. Was he ill? I took a few steps forward toward the window I thought the sound had come from and heard more groans . . . the unmistakable groans of a male in rut. I froze.
Then I heard a voice. “Oh, oh . . . oh, God, Jared that was good.” The voice was male, and not Mather.
“Yes, yes . . . but I shouldn’t have . . . swore I wouldn’t ever do it again! Sweet Jesus! What have I done?” It was Mather now, sounding agonized. “Oh, Lord, what terrible wrong have I done against You? I promised I would never do it again. But I did, I did. And— oh, it felt so good.” He sounded almost in tears. I couldn’t believe it—could this be the stern, emotionless figure I had known for years?
The other man laughed. “Jared, the only one you did anything against was me! And you did nothing wrong. We both enjoyed it, didn’t we? That makes it okay in my book.”
Mather’s anguish exploded into anger. “Anything is okay in your book! Why in hell did I drink champagne at that double-damned wedding? I know better than to drink too much! Why, oh, God, why? Can You forgive me? I repent, I will never, ever do this again. Jesus, save me.” He sobbed the deep, racking sobs of a heartbroken child.
The other man now sounded irritated. “Jared, don’t go on a crying jag with Jesus. Obviously you wanted this as much as I did. We’re both single. What’s the big deal? I’m dying of thirst,” he added practically. “What have you got to drink? Beer, I hope.”
It suddenly occurred to me that when they got up—which would be any second—they would see me through the window. I couldn’t have that. Mather would never believe I hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping for God-knows how long!
Quickly I ran halfway back down the grassy path. If I hadn’t been worried that animals of some variety would get into Aunt Mae’s house, I’d have kept right on going back to my car. Instead, I stepped onto the crunchy gravel and walked noisily back toward the house. And I sang. When I sing, people listen. Sonny says my voice has the deep resonant beauty of a water buffalo with strep throat.
Sure enough, by the time I reached the back porch, Mather was already coming through the door, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was barefooted, tousle-haired and red-eyed. And he looked as guilty as any criminal he had ever arrested. “Alexandra! I—I’m surprised to see you. Can I do something for you?”
I told him what had happened and asked him if he could board up the window.
He agreed to go “right over” and stood in the doorway, waiting for me to leave. There was no evidence of his guest.
I was shaken. I couldn’t get it off my mind. Two single adult men get a little blitzed at a wedding. They have sex. What harm? To whom? Yet Jared Mather was a soul in torment. And how many years had he been like this? I wished I could offer him comfort. I knew no one could. No gay person could, nor any straight person either. And certainly not his God. Obviously, Jared was gay, and knew it and could not abide it. Every day must be torture. Those most basic desires—for human contact and affection and physical pleasure were to him, unforgivable crimes.
I made a vow. If anyone ever found out Jared Mather was gay, it would not be from me. This would not become a funny story on the cocktail circuit. It would not become grist for the Ladies’ Aid Society gossip mill. And it would never be good for backroom laughs at Police Headquarters. Jared would not be outed by Alex. I didn’t much like him. I thought his religion was hateful, dangerous and false. I thought he was smart enough to know he should have had professional help years ago. And I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life. Talk about ambivalence!
I realized I had unthinkingly tu
rned down toward the parade route and heard music coming toward me. I put thoughts of Mather behind me and let the holiday eve take over. The lead-off band was the Ptown Gay Men’s Fife and Drum Corps, with a really accomplished version of the “Colonel Bogey March.” They looked good, too, in their Revolutionary War–styled uniforms, with the white stockings that showed off their shapely legs and the tight, tight breeches that showed off everything else.
Hard on their heels was the Lesbian Mothers’ Association. Kids not strapped or tethered were being herded along with modest success at staying in step. Then came hordes of people in fantastic costumes, and behind them a pink VW beetle with lots of clowns in, on and around it. They had their routine down pat, so that it looked as if all the people really came out of the car.
A flatbed truck with some hay bales for décor and six women playing down home bluegrass music followed. A banjo, a guitar, three fiddles and a bass were twanging out a real shit-kickin’ hoedown. They were superb, and I hoped they might be playing someplace in town for a while. Maybe Cassie and I could catch them—we both love bluegrass, in small doses, anyway.
Next we were favored by the Bare-Breasted Broncos, a lesbian motorcycle club from New York. Despite the fact that most of them were magnificently endowed and set the ol’ gonads to snapping in high-speed bluegrass rhythm, many of us wished fervently that these ladies would not tire themselves out coming so far to visit. But they were ever faithful. By morning at least three of them would be in the medical clinic, four would be detained in local cells and most would have been in fights for making improper advances to other women’s partners . . . some of which would be surreptitiously accepted.
Suddenly, across the street, I thought I saw my witch waving and shouting at passersby. Behind the Broncos, and in front of a group billed as the Queens from Queens, I nipped across the street. Now where the hell was she? She had disappeared again! Of course, I wasn’t really sure it was my witch, and I had no idea what I would have said if I had caught up with her.
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 6