Virginia Lovers

by Michael Parker

  She was watching when he finally faced her. “You’re asking me?”

  “No.” He reached for his drink again, rattled the cubes, put it down without drinking. “I’m asking me.”

  Neither of them spoke for a long time. The chicken sizzled in the skillet. A timer buzzed for the rice. Thomas could hear music drifting up the hallway, and for a second he thought Pete was home, and this thought made him want her to put her arms around his waist, rest her cheek against his shoulderblade, and he wanted to tell her yes, maybe he did blame Danny, and he was ashamed, not so much of what happened and who was at fault, not of who Danny was, whom he preferred to sleep with, but of that part of him that had liked his younger son—despite all his problems and the pain he’d caused all of them—better than his older one.

  “Thomas,” she said to him, and when he saw her arms crossed so tightly across her chest, as if protecting her heart from the things he was thinking, the things he could not say, he picked up his drink and moved without a glance or word her way to the cabinet, where he poured more whiskey to take into the den and drink alone.

  He woke the next day disoriented, to the sound of the alarm, which Caroline mercifully turned off—she was already up and dressed, though it was only six-thirty. She’s off to work, he thought, and he pressed a pillow over his head and tried to smother the whiskey fumes lingering from a late night of watching television alone in the den. Once, late, past midnight maybe, Danny had come to stand on the threshhold of the den, and he’d asked Thomas what he was watching and Thomas said without turning to him, “Mindless crap,” and Danny had asked if he was going to bed, and the idea that the child had already become father to the man had so shamed Thomas that he snapped, “When I’m ready.” The memory floated back now, and made him not want to face his son today.

  Maybe he would not have to. He remembered it was Thursday, he could sleep late. He always slept late on Thursdays, went into the office around nine to putter around before his standard Thursday-afternoon golf game with Strickland and two other friends. It took a few minutes to place himself in this new life, this new schedule, where there were no more Thursday-afternoon golf games, no more sleeping late on Thursdays. He and Danny were due this morning in Croom’s office for questioning.

  “I’ll take the Vega and meet you there,” he told Caroline at the breakfast table.

  “Can’t we all ride together?”

  “Need to drop the Vega off at the office,” he said, too stiffly he knew. He did not trust Caroline’s mood this morning, did not feel comfortable with her lack of reaction to his stumbling into bed well past two. She treated him as if he were excused for such indulgence, which increased his guilt, though Thomas felt he was allowed this overindulgence. He wasn’t sloshed every night—only, say, twice a week. Which meant that he deserved those two nights, for being so good the rest of the week—for stopping while he was ahead.

  When he went into the bedroom to find a tie to wear, she followed.

  “Danny’s nervous about today. When I got up he was sitting at the kitchen table, in the dark. I’ve been trying to get him to eat something. Maybe you could talk to him?”

  “If he won’t eat for you, he damn sure won’t eat for me.”

  She sighed, then sat down on the bed. She smoothed the bedspread with her hand as tears dripped onto her blouse.

  He knew he should go to her, hold her, but he was suspicious, felt this was some kind of trap: he’d hold her, tell her it would be okay, that he loved her, and she would pull him close and then attack.

  “I want you with me today, Thomas,” she said.

  He found the tie he was looking for, draped it over his shoulder, and as he left the room told her he’d meet them downtown.

  Down at Dawson’s, men he would have normally stopped to visit nodded as he walked in, left him alone at the counter. He drank three cups of coffee while staring at a calendar of the Trent High football team the athletic boosters sold each year. Danny, broad-shouldered in his pads, cradling his helmet, kneeled a few players to the left of Lee Tysinger. Tysinger’s grimace was obviously fake, but it made him look like a killer, especially compared to Danny’s face, which was blank, as if he was pretending he was not there. Thomas wondered if the other boys teased him in the locker room, if they called him names. He wondered if Danny showered with the other boys, or waited until they were through and showered alone, lest the sight of all these naked boys …

  He couldn’t finish the thought, or the coffee. He tossed some bills on the counter and drove to the police station.

  Sean Merritt, the district attorney, was already seated in Croom’s office. Sean was in high school when Thomas moved to Trent; he’d known the boy for years, still thought of him as a boy even though he had gone away to college and law school and spent a few years clerking for a judge up in Raleigh before he’d come home to marry a local girl, hang out his own shingle, run for D.A. Thomas had always gotten along well with Sean and often relied on him as a source for stories. Still, he was surprised to see him there.

  “Danny’s on his way,” Thomas said to Croom. “His mother’s bringing him.”

  “You don’t mind if Sean sits in while we question Danny, do you?” asked Croom.

  “Not sure I see the point,” said Thomas.

  “I’m investigating this thing, Tom,” said Sean. “If he’s got some information about the Tysinger boy, I want to hear it.”

  “I understand that,” said Thomas. “But I figured Croom would let you know if there’s anything you need to be aware of. After the interview. In other words, isn’t it unusual, your sitting in at this stage?”

  “I’m just here to listen in, Tom,” said Sean. “Nothing to worry about.”

  When Caroline and Danny were ushered into the room by a desk sergeant, Croom shot Thomas a look. He shrugged slightly to show that he didn’t understand, at which point Croom asked to speak to him out in the hall, and where he questioned Thomas whether Caroline should stay.

  “It’s liable to get, well, pretty personal.”

  “She’s his mother. I reckon she can handle personal.”

  “Well, of course. But there might be questions asked she doesn’t want to hear the answers to.”

  “If I were to go back in there and ask her to leave, Croom, you’d have another crime on your hands.”

  As soon as he finished speaking he felt the shame coloring his face. She’d be angrier at him for alluding to their troubles in public than she would if he asked her to leave.

  Croom tried to put Danny at ease before he began his questioning, but Danny was as stiff as Thomas had ever seen him. Not a frightened stiff—more a surly composure, as if he wanted everyone to know how uncomfortable he was.

  “I was invited,” Danny replied when Croom asked him what he was doing at the party.

  “So you and Brandon Pierce were friends?”

  “I knew him.”

  “How long had you known him?”

  “Since seventh grade, I guess.”

  “Did you notice anything about Brandon the night of the party?”

  “Well, he was pretty wasted.”

  “Drunk, you mean?”

  “Yes, drunk. He was really drunk. He threw up all over himself. I had to help him get cleaned up. I took him into his parents’ bedroom and ran the shower for him.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, Brandon was really upset. He was crying.”

  “What was he upset about?”

  Danny glanced at his mother, then out the window. “He was mad about the way people treated him in this town.”

  “And how did they treat him?”

  “According to him, terribly.”

  “You say according to him. Didn’t you believe him?”

  “Well, yeah. Like I said, he was drunk, he may have been exaggerating a little, but he was right, people gave him a hard time.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Why?” said Danny.

  “Why di
d they treat him badly?”

  Danny went blank again. Thomas tried to send him the strength to tell the truth, but his son would not look at him. He had not looked at him, in fact, since the questioning had started.

  “Because he was gay.”

  “A homosexual?”

  Danny smiled. “Yes, a homosexual.”

  Danny’s smile and his crisp enunciation of the term made Thomas sweat. He could see the way this thing was going. Now that Danny had no reason to hide the truth—now that his chance at a scholarship was shot, now that his little brother was gone as a result of his negligence—he did not care enough to hide his disdain for people like Croom who would help him if they could. Thomas wanted to ask for a time-out, yank Danny out in the hall and lecture him, but he knew that he was not in charge here, and—a far worse thought—knew that Danny would pay no attention to him now. From now on, no doubt.

  “And how did you know he was a homosexual?”

  “Because he told me. I knew it anyway.”

  “How?

  “Takes one to know one,” said Danny. His voice fell faint and he gazed out the window as he spoke, though both Sean Merritt and Croom were looking at Thomas until he met their eyes, forcing them to focus elsewhere.

  “You’re a homosexual yourself?” Croom said after a pause.

  “Yes.”

  “And did Brandon know this?”

  “Yeah, he knew.”

  “And did anyone else know?”

  “No, sir. Well, maybe some people suspected, but they didn’t know. I mean, I didn’t go around broadcasting it.”

  “Let’s get back to the night of the party,” said Croom. He was visibly embarrassed now, though Thomas knew him well enough to know that he would keep up the hard questions. “What happened while you were in the bedroom with Brandon Pierce?”

  “I listened to him complain for a while.”

  “And then what?”

  “I went to the bathroom, right off his parents’ room, to get him a washcloth. He’d gotten sick again. While I was in the bathroom, Lee Tysinger came into the bedroom.”

  “And what did you do next?”

  “I stayed in the bathroom.”

  “For how long?”

  “For a good while. A half hour at least. Maybe longer.”

  “Why didn’t you bring Brandon the washcloth?”

  “Because Tysinger was in there.”

  “You didn’t want to see Lee Tysinger?”

  “Well, it didn’t seem like he wanted to see me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he and Brandon were having sex.”

  Thomas watched Sean Merritt scribble words on a legal pad. Croom asked Danny how he knew what was going on in the bedroom if he was in the bathroom at the time.

  “The door was cracked.”

  “You cracked the door yourself when you went to get a washcloth?”

  “I used the bathroom first. I guess I forgot to close it all the way, because it was cracked enough for me to see what was going on in the bedroom.”

  “And you stood there and watched these two boys have sex with each other?”

  “Yes.” Thomas reached for his wife’s hand. She allowed him to take it.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Burst into the room and say hi? Tysinger would have killed us both then.”

  “You saw Lee Tysinger kill Brandon?”

  “No, I didn’t see it, but I know he did it. Who else would have done it?”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Croom. “So you’re in the bathroom still with the door cracked and the boys were in the bedroom as you say having sex. What happened afterwards?”

  “When they were through, you mean? Brandon asked Tysinger to come back later, after everybody left, and spend the night with him. He said they’d have their own private party when everyone else was gone. He told Tysinger how much he wanted to wake up in his arms, take a shower with him, fix him breakfast.”

  “And what did Mr. Tysinger say?”

  “He told Brandon he wouldn’t stay overnight with him even if he was gay. Brandon kind of lost it then.”

  “How did he lose it?”

  “He said some things about Tysinger’s family.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “Said they were trailer trash.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He said his mother was sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “As in no good. You know, worthless.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “Lee Tysinger hit Brandon.”

  “Once?”

  “More than once. He beat the hell out of him.”

  “And you were watching?”

  “Yes. I know I should have done something, but I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say why now. Everything I can think of feels really, well, lame. I guess I didn’t think it would go as far as it did. And also, I guess I thought Brandon pretty much wanted Tysinger to attack him.”

  “Why was that, Danny?”

  Danny seemed to harden even more when Croom called him by name.

  “Because Brandon had no business asking a guy like Lee Tysinger to a sleepover.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s not the type of guy you ask to spend the night with you.”

  “And why is this?”

  “Because he’s a liar. He has sex with guys, but if it ever got out he’d deny the hell out of it just like he’s going to do when he gets up on the stand.”

  For the next five minutes Danny answered the questions asked of him briefly, in a low monotone. Twice Croom asked him to speak up. Thomas paid close attention to Danny’s explanation of why he had not come to Brandon’s aid (he didn’t have anything much to add to what he’d said before but that he felt terrible about it, knew it was wrong) what he did after Tysinger left the room (helped Brandon into the shower, cleaned him up, and put him back into bed and returned to the party), and what he did next (stayed at the party for another half-hour or so, checked on Brandon again, found him conscious and still quite drunk, and drove home).

  “You want to ask him anything?” Croom said to Merritt.

  Merritt leaned forward in his seat, as if Danny was a kid, it seemed to Thomas. He hadn’t been a kid in a long time, and it had been a long time since Thomas had treated him like a kid. He was always so responsible, so dependable; when Thomas thought to describe the boy, the term well adjusted came always and swiftly to mind. And yet he sensed a deep discontent, an inner restlessness shown outwardly in the slightest ways—pauses in conversation, long stares out windows. Didn’t everyone feel such occasional sadness? Thomas had always been big on the Human Condition. So many of his editorials alluded to its inevitability, its inescapability. Now such easy determinism struck him as nearly cruel. He wasn’t dealing with a case history; this was his son, his first, the birth that changed everything, brought him into a world where time was even more his master.

  “There’s going to be trial here in a few days,” Sean was saying to Danny. “We’re going to need you to tell the court what you told us here today.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it and more. We need the truth, Dan. And we need you to testify against Lee Tysinger. You feel comfortable with that?”

  “Comfortable?” Danny snickered, and Thomas did not care for his snicker, nor the sneer that settled carelessly across his son’s face. “You really care whether or not I’m comfortable, Mr. Merritt?”

  “Okay, Danny,” said Sean. “I guess comfortable is not the right word. What I mean is, can we count on you to tell the truth about what you saw no matter what it will cost you?”

  “Cost me? What have I possibly got to lose?” Danny let this hang for a minute. When no one challenged him he said, “Goddamn right I’ll testify against him.”

  The edge in his voice, and the words themselves, sounded exa
ctly like his little brother. It shocked Thomas, hearing Pete, though had he been there, this scene—Pete and his mom and dad together in a room with the chief of police and the district attorney—would have felt almost routine.

  Croom thanked Thomas and Caroline, said he’d be in touch, and was halfway out of his seat when Caroline, who had not shifted in hers, said, “Wait a minute. I want to know what’s going to happen to him.”

  Croom and Sean stared at her, then exchanged a glance, quick and quizzical.

  “What’s that, Caroline?”

  Croom’s smile was innocuous to Thomas, but he knew Caroline would find it patronizing, a challenge she would surely rise to.

  “Daniel may think he has nothing to lose, but we all know better. I lost one son, and I’m not about to lose another. Danny didn’t murder anybody, but he knew who did, and he didn’t come forward. I believe you could bring charges against him for that, right?”

  Thomas felt humiliated, both by Caroline’s resolve and his own failure to think of what might happen to Danny.

  “Of course if there were any charges brought against Danny, we’d consider his helping us out here, Caroline,” Merritt said.

  “What does that mean, you’d consider it?”

  “It means we’d do what we could.”

  “Not good enough,” she said. She leaned back in her chair and clutched her purse to her chest and held out until Sean Merritt agreed to her terms, which were nothing less than immunity for her only living son. Meanwhile, Thomas slumped beside her, slack with uselessness.

  “Thomas, they’re going to humiliate him,” Caroline said to her husband later that evening. They had finished their silent, agonizing supper, and Danny had slipped off to his little brother’s room to play records.

  Caroline said his name in a way that made it clear she was waiting for a response.

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “I mean they’re going to make him look dirty and dishonest. They’re going to ask him all sorts of questions about sex and they’re going to embarrass him and us too. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  He did, but he didn’t know what he could do about it save stop Danny from testifying, which was hardly an option. Thomas did not know what Caroline expected him to do. This was not a new feeling—for years he’d felt inadequate, as a husband and particularly as a father, had sensed in her some unsaid disappointment, disapproval over some duty unperformed if even recognized. The one thing he knew for sure was that he could never say to her, Well, what do you want me to do about it?