Fingering The Family Jewels

by Greg Lilly

  “Don’t even try,” he warned.

  I felt like I should at least attempt it, but I knew the old bastard would rather kiss a black man square on the lips during a news conference than change his long-held right-wing views.

  GLADYS APPEARED ON Ruby’s doorstep a few minutes after Mark left. The phone rang nonstop, family members wanting to congratulate me or condemn me depending on their relationship with Vernon. So, as Ruby fielded the phone calls, I was lucky enough to open the door to Gladys the Bitch.

  She pushed her way through the door. “Why did you do it?” “Just to piss you off.” I followed her as she circled the den before lighting on Walterene’s chair next to Ruby.

  “Well, you did a fine job. The whole town is talking about it. My phone has rung all morning/’ she said.

  I pointed to Ruby talking on the phone next to her. “Join the club, Gladys. I didn’t realize I was talking to a reporter.”

  “So, you just tell your life history to a total stranger? I thought you had better sense than that.” She appeared more haggard than usual. Her eyes were sunken into her thin tight face, hands with road map veins fiddled with the strap of her leather handbag. She looked as fragile as I had ever seen her. “You know people are trying to make Vernon fail, and this gives them plenty of ammunition.”

  “Why are you so concerned with Vernon ‘s campaign? Isn’t the family fortune enough for you?”

  ” Vernon is moving this family beyond Charlotte. Grandfather knew we would achieve great things here, but Vernon is taking them to the next level.”

  “But that’s Vernon,” I said, “what does that do for you personally?”

  “Nothing for me, but it puts Tim and Vernon ‘s boys in the national market. The business will expand to compete with firms from Atlanta, Washington, and New York. That is, if this mess you’ve started doesn’t affect his campaign. Why on earth did you tell them you were part of this family?”

  “Because I am, and I’m not ashamed of it, no matter what you do.” I waited to see if she was listening.

  “Ashamed of us? Why, you ungrateful fool. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Oh, so now I owed her for being brought into the world. “Yes, I know you gave me life, but how long do I have to keep repaying you for it?”

  Ruby hung up the phone and shot Mother a disapproving look. “I get off the phone with one cranky old lady and have to listen to another one in my own house. Gladys, relax, it’s not the end of the world.” She nodded her head toward the phone. “That was Edwina. She’s not quite clear on what ‘gay’ means. I assured her that didn’t mean Derek wore women’s clothes.” She winked at me, and reached across the side table to playfully punch Mother’s arm. “What a hoot Edwina is; could you imagine our big handsome boy here wearing a skirt and blouse? Lordy, Lordy, that would be funny.”

  Ruby with the giggles got me laughing. I looked at Mother; she sat stone-faced. “Oh, lighten up, Gladys. Vernon ‘s evil plan to take over the world is still on track.”

  “You two deserve each other-both crazy as loons.” She pointed at me. “You need to get down to Vernon ‘s campaign office to straighten this out.”

  I decided to give her this one and not tell her I had already promised Mark I would go. “If you really think I should, I will.”

  Her suspicious gaze told me she doubted my sincerity. “I’m serious, Derek. You have to work with them to get this back on track.”

  “Mother, I said I will.”

  She seemed stunned, fumbling for her car keys. “Well, thank you, Derek. It’s the least you could do.”

  Damn, she just can’t let it go. “No, Mother, the least I could do is nothing. But I’ll talk to his camp; I’m not saying how far I’ll go for them, but I will talk to them.”

  After she left, I went back to the bedroom to find the book of matches with Daniel’s phone number. I wanted to confront the jerk who’d caused all the trouble.

  Dialing the number, I composed my message for his voicemail, but to my surprise he answered on the second ring.

  “This is Derek Mason. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know how much trouble I’m in?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Daniel tried to calm me. “I reported what I thought was public knowledge. You told me these things without hesitation.”

  “I didn’t know you were a reporter.”

  “You didn’t ask, and I wasn’t talking to you as a reporter; I thought we were just getting acquainted over a beer, then I realized who you were, and I saw a story.” He tried to make it sound so innocent. “Listen, have dinner with me tonight-as a way for me to apologize.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I wouldn’t trust you to take anything I say off the record.” I sat on the bed and flipped open the matchbook, then lit a match, letting it burn down.

  “Right, I understand you feeling that way, but honestly, I would like to see you again, strictly ‘off the record.’”

  I took a pen off the bedside table and wrote asshole over his name on the matchbook. “Sure, what about your place, tonight? You could at least fix dinner for me. What’s the address?” Like I ever intended on showing up.

  “That sounds great,” Daniel gushed. “How about eight o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  ” Take East Boulevard to Euclid, south two blocks, then left on Tremont. The third house on the left. It’s a beige house with a green shutters.”

  “Cool, see you then.” I hung up, smug with my little payback. I called him; he didn’t have my phone number or where I was staying.

  When I walked back to the den, Valerie had stopped by. Ruby fixed chicken salad sandwiches in the kitchen…

  “I hear you’ve had an exciting morning,” Valerie said as she glanced at the tattered newspaper. “Looks like this paper has had a lot of handling.”

  “Yeah, Mark, Ruby, me, Mother, we’ve all taken our aggressions out on it. So, how’s your morning at work been?”

  “Not this exciting.” She looked impressive in her olive business suit; her black hair had a few strands of gray, but it made her appear more serious, more mature, like someone I would want to do my taxes. “So,” she began, “how’d this happen?”

  I sighed, and started into the story I had recounted over and over, but with Valerie I added the part about how handsome Daniel was. I even included the payback, no-show dinner I had set up with him.

  “Derek, that’s not nice. This poor guy will be cooking all evening, then waiting for you to show.” She frowned at me and shook her head side to side like Ruby does when she talks about our brother Tim.

  “Well, he deserves to be stood up, after what he did to me.”

  “All he did was talk to a cute guy, then find out you were related to a jerk running for Senate who verbally bashes gays. I don’t know if I wouldn’t have done the same thing.” She thought for a moment. “But I guess I would have talked to you about the article first.”

  Ruby yelled from the kitchen, “That’s notnice, to stand up a date.”

  “It’s not a date,” I yelled back, then to Valerie I said, “I just wanted to hurt him back…” I realized how juvenile it sounded as I said it. “Okay, I’ll call him and let him know I won’t be there.”

  “That would be the right thing to do,” she smiled in a motherly way. Too bad she never had kids. She would’ve made a great mother. I wondered where she got that from, not Gladys the Bitch.

  Ruby called us in for lunch; we gathered around the table, and then the phone rang.

  “I thought I had that thing off the hook,” Ruby huffed. “Derek, it’s for you. Bill Robertson, Vernon ‘s campaign manager.”

  “Shit,” I stood to get it, then decided to wait. “Tell him I’ll call him after lunch.”

  Ruby came back to the table with his name and phone number scribbled on the back of an envelope. “He sounded like a nice man. Maybe you should take Valerie with you when you go.”

  “No way,” Valerie protested, “I would
never get involved with someone working onVernon ‘s campaign. He’s bound to be a Republican, and I’m a Democrat.” She smiled at Ruby. “It would never work.”

  “All I said was that you might go with him,” Ruby exclaimed, “and you were all ready to pick out china patterns.”

  We finished lunch, and I called Mr. Robertson back. I agreed to meet with him and Vernon later that afternoon. My thoughts went back to Daniel and the dinner. Maybe I should go; it wouldn’t be nice to stand him up. Besides, I’ve always thought it best to keep a close eye on people I shouldn’t trust.

  Chapter Seven

  VERNON ‘S CAMPAIGN OFFICE sat on a comer of Providence Road near the Manor Theater. I pulled off the busy road and parked behind the low brick building. The office had huge glass windows plastered with Vernon ‘s campaign posters. As I walked in, the receptionist glanced up from her phone call and motioned me into a wooden chair near the door. She didn’t smile at me or to whoever spoke to her over the telephone; instead, she scratched her scalp with the end of her pencil and stared at a People magazine. Each scratch moved her sprayed-stiff helmet of hair about one inch to the right and then back to its original position. I watched to see if anything fell out. Her face reminded me of a damp dishrag, drooping and sagging around her eyes, nose, and mouth. About the time I started to guess her age and weight, she hung up the phone and asked how she could help me.

  “I’m here to see Bill Robertson. I’m Derek Mason.”

  “Oh.” She inhaled the word. “Let me check to see if he’s in his office.”

  She scurried off down a hall. I studied one of the posters; Vernon hadn’t changed much from what I remembered, same thin white hair, dark eyes, wide mouth, and not many wrinkles for his age. He probably could stand to lose some weight, but most men in their sixties have accumulated a few pounds over the years.

  “Mr. Mason?” the receptionist yelled from the end of the hall.

  I walked back to where she pointed to an open door.

  Vernon sat on a leather couch along with Mark. Across a desk, Bill Robertson, a tall, lean man, stood and offered his handshake. Vernon and Mark kept sitting.

  “Come on in and take a seat,” Robertson pointed to a side chair next to his desk. The three men stared at me.

  “Why do I feel like I’m on trial here?” I asked.

  “No, no-o-o,” Robertson soothed. “We want towork together and turn this intoa positive for the campaign.”

  I looked to a fidgeting Vernon. “Hello, Vernon.”

  “What were you thinking? I should kick your-”

  “Dad,” Mark interrupted, “Derek’s here to help us.”

  “That’s right, Vernon,” Robertson added, “he can help us reach voters who may have not considered you before now. This isn’t damage control; this is an opportunity to gain votes. Of course, we don’t want to seem too liberal and isolate our core supporters.”

  Like a child having to share his candy with a sibling, Vernon twisted on the couch. “All right, damn liberal paper makes me look bad cause I don’t like queers.”

  “Hold on,” I fumed. “This redneck jerk just lost my cooperation.” I looked from Robertson to Vernon. ” Vernon, it would be a danger to have someone as ignorant as you in public office.” I pushed my chair back and headed for the door. A vision of Vernon yelling “queer” and picketing a gay bar chilled me, but then my mind made a more startling picture: a young Vernon tossing a rope over a tree limb to string up Mr. Sams. Did he do it? My mind turn-bled the possibilities of allowing a racist, a possible murderer, to run for the United States Senate.

  “Derek.” Mark grabbed my arm. He pulled me to the side of the hall. “Please come back and talk to us. Dad’s not used to watching his mouth around family; he doesn’t think of you or me or Bill as someone he has to be politically correct around.”

  “This man is running for the Senate; he shouldn’t have to act.”

  He tried to make excuses for his father. “Dad’s just upset about the article. Publicly, he’s a sensible conservative, but he goes off the deep end when he blows off steam. That’s all he was doing, blowing off steam. Come back in and talk with us, please.”

  I relented like I had too many times before. The animated conversation between Bill Robertson and Vernon stopped when I walked back in.

  In a hushed voice to Vernon, Robertson said, “Of course, you’re right.”

  What have they cooked up? I looked Vernon straight in the eyes. You treat me with respect, and I’ll do the same for you.”

  “Fair enough,” he agreed and stuck out his hand to shake on it. I squeezed his hand as hard as he squeezed mine.

  “Wonderful,” Robertson sat back down behind his desk, “let’s talk about how a young, smart, gay nephew can benefit Vernon ‘s campaign.”

  “Now that’s a question,” Vernon grinned at Robertson.

  Silence filled the room as we all strained to think of a way to integrate a gay relative with a conservative campaign; left and right, open and closed, opposites till the end.

  “Inclusion.” Robertson looked at me, then at Vernon. “Our campaign is the campaign of the people, all people: white, black, Hispanic, Asian, straight, gay, whatever.”

  “Is that true?” I asked.

  “Sure, it’s true.” Robertson answered before Vernon could open his mouth.

  “So, where are the blacks, Hispanics, and Asians working on his campaign?”

  “Oh, we don’t have any directly working with us, but we have their support-”

  “Butif you say this, you need to have diversity on the team-”

  “Mom’s girl, Martha,” Vernon piped in.

  “Yes?” Robertson asked.

  “Martha’s black. Mom’s maid, she supports me.” He turned and smiled at Mark.

  “But, Dad, what they’re saying is we need more visible association from different people.”

  “Hell, I know what he’s saying. I just don’t want minority opinions clouding my positions. I have to have a clear and easily understandable stance on the issues. If I need to add a few tokens, then they had better be of my ideology.” Vernon sat back and lit a cigar.

  Mark thought for a moment. “We can find some minorities. I can check with some of the guys that work for the company. In the past few years, we’ve hired a lot of Mexicans to work on the construction crews.”

  “That’s fine and dandy, Mark,” Vernon leaned forward, “but I want to know exactly what percentage of registered voters fall into each category. I will agree to having representation equal to the voting public. If fifty percent of the voters are Mexicans, then half my campaign workers will be Mexicans.” He got up and paced the floor. “Hell, we’ll all eat tacos and hug.” Stopping in front of me, waving the cigar, he asked, “Is that okay with you?”

  “Sounds cool to me. I like the idea of shadowing the makeup of your team from the diversity of the state.”

  “Young man, I can tell you that this state is mostly white, then black, then the rest of you. I get a couple of black guys in here-”

  “Women? What about women?” I wasn’t going to let him slip.

  “Women aren’t part of diversity.”

  I rolled my eyes at Robertson.

  “Yes, I think they are,” he corrected.

  “Damn, will I be the only white man left on this campaign?”

  “Now, Dad,” Mark said, “I’ll get the demographics information, and we’ll know what we’re really talking about.” He left the room to find his reports.

  Vernon sat back down on the couch. “I guess since this uproar was over you being gay, you would need to be on this team.

  “I don’t live in North Carolina. But I’m sure you can find someone else to work with you.” I thought for a moment. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Sure. I just don’t know any other gay people. You guys got a newsletter or something? Maybe a directory?”

  I imagined Vernon placing a gay personal ad for someone to work on the campaign: WCM (White Conse
rvative Male) looking for energetic gay man to assist in US Senate run. This would be strictly physical-no emotional or intellectual ties required. “No, but I think there are some organizations around town where you might find some interest.”

  Mark came back with his demographics report. “State Board of Elections posts this on their Web site: Democrats 49%, Republicans 34%, Unaffiliated 16 %.”

  “See,” Vernon said, “I’m already a minority; damn state is full of Democrats.”

  Mark continued, “White 78%, Black 19%, Indian 0.8 %, Other 1%.”

  “Where am I going to find an Indian?” Vernon chuckled.

  “Male 45 %, Female 55 %. Sounds like the women have us outnumbered.” Mark handed his father the printout.

  “Doesn’t say anything here about gays versus normal people.” Vernon flipped the page over to look at the back. “No, no gays here.”

  “We’re mixed in with all the other categories.” I looked at Robertson. “Most estimates I’ve heard place gays and lesbians at 10% of the general population.”

  “What are the political issues?” he asked while taking a pen and tablet in hand.

  “I’m not exactly politically active-”

  “Until you came to Charlotte,” Vernon quipped.

  “I guess the most basic is to be treated fairly and with respect.” I stared at Vernon. “What everyone wants: no discrimination.”

  He flicked the ash off the end of his cigar onto the floor.

  “That would work for all the minorities,” Mark said. “Dad, wouldn’t you agree that no one should be judged solely on their skin color, nationality, religion, gender, or sexual orientation? That should be a positive to work into the campaign.”

  Vernon looked at Mark, then to Robertson.

  “Yes, Vernon,” Robertson said. “That would be a positive. Do you believe in it?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Robertson repeated. “But we agreed we needed to make some concessions.”

  “Whose campaign is this?” Vernon roared. “I agreed to add some minorities, and I’ll agree to treat everyone in a Christian way,