The Burning Plain

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The Burning Plain Page 34

by Michael Nava


  “That’s okay,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Someone broke into my house recently. I’m a little jumpy. Come inside,” I said, unlocking the door. I led him into the kitchen and automatically set about making a pot of coffee. “How did you get here?”

  He fell into a chair, dropping his backpack. “I ran away at the airport. We had to fly to San Francisco to catch a plane to Salt Lake. When they started calling our flight, I told my Dad I had to use the bathroom. As soon as I saw him board the plane, I ran outside and jumped on a bus that took me to San Francisco. I wandered around there for a day deciding what to do. I went to the Greyhound station to buy a bus ticket to here, but I only had enough money to get to Santa Barbara. I hitchhiked the rest of the way.”

  “Why didn’t you call Phil Wise in San Francisco?”

  “I only talked to him once. I didn’t know if he would help me. I knew you would.”

  “You look like you’ve been traveling for weeks.”

  He grinned with shy pride. “I know. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “When did you get into LA?”

  “Yesterday. My ride dropped me off at the beach. I slept there last night and then I started walking to your house. This is a big city. It took me all day.”

  “You walked here from the beach? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I needed time to think,” he said.

  “To think about what, Rod?”

  “Everything that’s happened since my dad told me he knew about you and Mr. Wise. It’s been like bam! bam! bam! One thing after another.” His voice trembled. “And this city, it’s so big, Mr. Rios. There are so many people and all of them look like they hate being here. It’s totally overwhelming.”

  “Especially on an empty stomach. I’ll order some takeout while you clean up,” I said. “I’ll show you the guest bathroom. You can take a shower if you want.”

  “I don’t have any other clothes,” he said.

  “We’re about the same size,” I replied. “You can borrow a pair of jeans and a tee shirt.” I glanced at his feet; they were boats. “You’re on your own for shoes.”

  He started to laugh, then broke down, shaking and sobbing. I didn’t understand why an offer of clothes should have that effect on him, but then I hadn’t spent two days on the road, running away from parents who wanted to commit me to a psychiatric hospital to a stranger who might or might not take me in. And I hadn’t been sixteen in nearly thirty years, but I remembered, dimly, that emotionally, sixteen was like walking over a suspension bridge in a high wind, and if you were gay on top of it, those winds could reach hurricane velocity. Whatever the trigger, he had earned his tears.

  I squeezed his shoulder. “It’s all right, Rod. Everything will work out.”

  He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my stomach.

  I watched him empty carton after carton of Chinese food, pausing only to ask, “What’s this?” before he inhaled it. Cleaned and combed, in a white tee shirt and black jeans, he looked as wholesome as a Gap ad except for the incipient worry lines that bracketed his mouth and furrowed his forehead. As he drank a liter of Coke, I remembered the line from Robert Frost, “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” But it wasn’t any kid stuff that had etched those hard lines in his face or caused the hurt in his eyes. He explained what had happened after an anonymous caller told his father Rod was about to abducted by two adult homosexuals.

  “He said you and Mr. Wise would torture me and murder me,” Rod said between bites of kung pao chicken. “Like that guy who kept people in his refrigerator …”

  “Jeffrey Dahmer,” I said. “What did you tell your father when he confronted you?”

  “I told him the truth,” he said. “I said you were lawyers who were going to help me stop him from sending me to a mental hospital. I told him I wasn’t crazy, I was just gay, and that’s how I was born and nothing was going to change it.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “He hit me. He said he was going to beat the devil out of me. My mom had to stop him. He told me to pack.” He mashed a grain of rice with his fork. “My dad never hit me before. Never.”

  “He panicked. People don’t behave very well when they panic.”

  He stuffed another bite of food into his mouth and chewed anxiously. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  I’d been expecting the question, and dreading it. Rod was now a runaway, but that didn’t change his legal status as an unemancipated minor subject to the control of his parents. Pending the outcome of the petition Phil had filed in juvenile court, I was duty-bound to notify Rod’s parents of his whereabouts and return him to them. They would then ship him off to Utah and remove him from the California court’s jurisdiction. If I harbored him until the court acted on the petition, I would be breaking various laws including, but not limited to, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Moreover, I couldn’t even tell Phil that Rod was in my custody without putting him in the position of either having to disclose Rod’s whereabouts to the court or risk contempt by refusing.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “Phil filed the petition to declare you a ward of the court. It’s set for hearing next week. We’ll have to show up for that.”

  He frowned. “What if my parents try to take me back?”

  “You’ll be with Phil and me.”

  “What if the court says I have to go with them?”

  “Then you’d have to go with them,” I said, “but we could ask the court to order them to keep you in the state until the case is resolved.”

  “You know they’ll send me away,” he said.

  “They would be breaking the law.”

  “My dad says there’s man’s law and there’s God’s law, and if there’s a conflict, a Christian has to follow God’s law.” He pushed his plate away. “If the court makes me go back to them, you’ll never see me again.”

  “If I don’t return you to your parents, then I’ll be breaking the law and unlike your father, it’s the only law I have. Anyway, we both know they’ll come looking for you here.”

  He bolted from the table outside to the deck. I went after him and found him searching the red night sky.

  “Rod …”

  “This girl in my history class gave a report on the Underground Railway for Black History Month,” he said. “She said there were people who would take the slaves from the South to Canada by following the Big Dipper.” He pointed to the faint glimmer of the constellation above a row of palm trees. “They stayed in safe houses on the way. I was looking at the Big Dipper last night on the beach. I thought I would be safe here.”

  “You can’t run away from being a minor, unfortunately. When you’re eighteen, your parents won’t be able to touch you.”

  He turned, leaned his thin frame against the railing, and looked at me. “What is it like to be gay?”

  “What do you mean, Rod?”

  “You’ve been gay all your life,” he said. “What is it like? You live alone, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t always lived alone,” I said. “My lover died about a year ago.”

  “He had AIDS?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you?”

  “No, Rod, not every gay man has AIDS.”

  “When I was in San Francisco,” he said, “I found the gay neighborhood, what’s it called? Castro Street. I saw a man in a wheelchair. His face had purple scars and he was so skinny I couldn’t believe he was alive. He had AIDS.”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “I guess I was staring at him because he asked if I was cruising him. I mean, he’s half-dead and still thinking about sex.” He crossed his arms. “There were men in leather clothes, and guys dressed up like nuns with their faces painted like clowns. I didn’t see anyone my age. They were all old. They didn’t look happy.”

  “You can’t tell by looking at someone whether
they’re happy or not.”

  “Are you?”

  “You mean, am I happy to be homosexual?”

  He nodded. I sat down at the edge of the chaise lounge where Josh had spent his last days lying bundled up in the sun, staring at the sky. I looked at the thin, dark-haired boy and saw myself at sixteen, the age when I also realized I was gay, and tried to think what answer I would have wanted to hear to his question. I knew that answer, but it wasn’t the one I could provide. I couldn’t tell Rod that once he came out his troubles would be over.

  “Happy and unhappy are feelings, Rod,” I said. “They come and go and they don’t have much to do with character. I mean, the worst person in the world may be happier than the best person in the world, but which one would you rather be?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I would rather be happy. I don’t know if I can find that out here, but I know what’s waiting for me at home. I’m not sure I’m going to make it to eighteen if you send me back.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll think of something. I’ll find you a safe house.”

  I put him to bed in the guest room and pondered my next move. Gradually, I formulated a plan. The first step involved calling Richie. I reached his answering machine, which now said, “Miss Otis regrets … You know the rest.” When I said “urgent,” he picked up.

  “It had better be urgent,” he sniped. “It’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m getting cold cream all over the phone.”

  “I need a favor from you, Richie,” I said. “A very big favor.”

  “A big favor? That calls for a cigarette.” I heard him strike a match. “All right.”

  “Rod Morse turned up at my doorstep tonight.”

  “I thought his evil parents shipped him off to the snake pit in Utah.”

  “He ran away at the airport.”

  “You go, girl!” Richie said. “Good for him.”

  “But not so good for his case,” I said, and explained why.

  “You’re not going to send him back to the Himmlers,” Richie said.

  “His parents? No, I can’t bring myself to do it,” I replied. “But I can’t keep him here, either. They’ll come looking for him, Richie. I was hoping you’d take him in.”

  “Me? Why me, Henry? I don’t know anything about kids.”

  “You’re paying his legal bill,” I pointed out.

  “Writing checks is one thing, changing diapers is another.”

  “He’s sixteen, Richie.”

  “Oh, great, he probably wears black tee shirts, listens to heavy metal and sniffs hair spray out of paper bags.”

  “He’s a nice kid, naive, scared. You were institutionalized when you were a kid, Richie. You must know how he’s feeling.”

  After a moment, he said, “How long?”

  “A week or two, max,” I said.

  “Well, it would be fun to have someone to watch movies with,” he allowed. “That’s all I’m doing these days.”

  “Great,” I said, “you can screen the great camp classics for him. I doubt if he’s seen them. Just tread gently.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked waspishly.

  “Like I said, Richie, he’s naive. His parents have been filling his head with scary ideas about gay people …”

  “Are you calling me scary?”

  “You can be a little overwhelming. It’s just a matter of bringing your fabulousness down a notch or two.”

  “You asshole!”

  “I’m trying to protect him.”

  “Against what? The parts of fag culture you personally despise?”

  “He’s been through a lot, Richie, and he’s going to go through a lot more. I’d like him to feel safe for a while.”

  “There’s no safety for us,” Richie said.

  “He doesn’t need to know that yet. I’m sorry if I offended you, Richie. He’s just a kid …”

  “Henry, are you okay?”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Listen, honey, I’ll take care of the rugrat. You pull yourself together.”

  “Will do. By the way, Richie? You’ll be breaking the law by helping us out.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The next day, I called Phil Wise in San Francisco and lied to him.

  “Rod’s in Los Angeles,” I said. “He called me yesterday and told me he managed to give his dad the slip at the airport and hitchhike down here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. He’s afraid I’ll tell his parents. I told him you filed the petition in dependency court and he agreed to show up for the hearing, but listen, I have a better idea. Dismiss the petition up there and refile it here in LA. We stand a much better chance of winning here.” I laid out my reasons, more liberal judiciary, greater familiarity with the problems of gay kids. “What do you think?”

  “Brilliant, Professor K.,” he said. “Are you sure he’s down there?”

  I looked across the room to Rod. “I’m positive.”

  “I need to see him,” Phil said. “I can fly down tomorrow morning with the papers.”

  “He’s calling me this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll arrange a meeting.”

  “Call me back,” Phil said. “And Henry, it’s better that neither of us knows where he’s staying, in case the court asks.”

  “I understand.”

  I hung up. “Come on, Rod, let’s go. Richie’s expecting us.”

  “What did Phil say?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  As we drove to Richie, I explained the situation.

  “Thank you for not calling my parents,” he said. “I know this could get you into trouble.”

  “I’m trying to avoid that.”

  “What if they say you kidnapped me?”

  “They can say whatever they like. A judge will decide what’s true. In the meantime, you have your safe house, although Richie’s not exactly Harriet Tubman.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “When Richie was a kid, his parents committed him to a mental hospital where he was supposed to be cured of being gay, just like your parents want to do with you. As you’ll see, the cure didn’t take.”

  Javier let us into Richie’s apartment. Rod was studying the pink and blue mural depicting the rape of Ganymede that was painted on the wall of the entry hall when Richie emerged from his room in parrot-green silk trousers and a bright yellow shirt. He air-kissed the sides of my face. I introduced him to Rod.

  “Bubbie,” he murmured maternally.

  “You’re Richie?” Rod said, wide-eyed.

  “None other,” Richie said, “but think of me as your Auntie Mame.”

  “My what?”

  “You don’t know about Auntie Mame?” Richie asked grandly.

  “She’s a character in a movie,” I explained. “A kind of fairy godmother.”

  “More fairy than mother,” Richie added.

  “May I use the bathroom?” Rod said.

  “Javier, show him the powder room,” Richie commanded.

  After he left, I said to Richie, “Knock it off, Richie.”

  “Are you sure he’s gay?”

  When Rod returned, I took him aside and said, “I have to go now. You’ve got my page number. Call me whenever you feel like talking. Don’t let Richie scare you. He’s really a very good guy.”

  He was staring at the mural on the ceiling, a sky held up by four lascivious cherubs. “His house is like a museum. I was afraid to dry my hands on the towel in his bathroom. You’re sure I can’t stay with you?”

  “Richie’s harmless,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

  Phil Wise came down from San Francisco the next day, met with Rod, and filed a new dependency petition in juvenile court in LA that included an emergency request to have Rod declared a ward of the court to prevent his return to his parents. We were lucky to draw a judge named John Fuentes who had run a child’s advocacy organization before his appointment to
the bench. He scheduled a hearing on the emergency request for the following Monday. In the meantime, Phil served Rod’s parents.

  The next day, Phil phoned. “The Morses filed their response to our petition,” he said. “You won’t believe the shit their lawyer let them put in their declarations.”

  “Bad?”

  “They actually use the phrase ‘agents of Satan,’” he said, gleefully.

  “That’s great. The crazier they sound, the better we look.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not all ranting and raving,” he said. “They also filed a motion to dismiss the LA petition on jurisdictional grounds and haul us back into the valley.”

  “Rod’s physically present in LA,” I said. “That confers personal jurisdiction.”

  “He’s a runaway, Professor K.,” Phil replied. “That’s the only reason he’s in LA. His home is with his parents. Got an argument?”

  “Fuentes won’t dismiss our petition if we can persuade him that by sending Rod back to the valley, he’ll be sealing his doom,” I said. “He’s the one judge in the entire county who may agree with us that trying to cure your gay kid of being gay is child abuse. All we have to do is keep his eye on the substantive issue instead of the procedural one.”

  “You’re right,” Phil said, brightening. “But you’re going to have tell Rod when he shows up in court on Monday there’s a chance he’ll be returned to his parents. Can you guarantee he’ll be there?”

  “Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure at all.

  “I’m counting on you,” Phil said.

  I took Rod to lunch, where I explained the status of his case. I forced his reluctant agreement to show up for the hearing, even at the risk of being ordered home. I had no sooner dropped him off at Richie’s when my car phone rang. It was Serena Dance. She was jubilant.

  “Good news, Henry,” she said. “Odell came through. He found a witness who identified Jim Harley at the scene of the car bombing. He arrested Harley last night, and not only did he cop to the bombing, he incriminated Asuras and your friend Donati.”

  I had been too preoccupied with Rod to give much thought to the Asuras case, but I was worried by Serena’s overconfidence. “What exactly did he say?”

 

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