by Greg Lilly
but I won’t spout some ACLU crap about non-discrimination. Discrimination is against the law. I stand by the law.”
“There’s not a law on discriminating against gays and lesbians.”
“There isn’t a law about discriminating against Republican senators either,” he shot back.
I didn’t have the energy to try to win the point.
“Dad,” Mark ventured, “let’s just say we’re against discrimination of all kinds.”
“But what happens when the gays want to be added to the list?” Vernon puffed the cigar. “Everyone wants special privileges.”
“Right,” I said, “like I had the special privilege of being banished from the family because I said I’m gay.”
“You didn’t have to broadcast it. You could have kept it to yourself.” Vernon snuffed out the cigar on the bottom of his shoe.
“Fine. I’m hitting a brick wall. No discrimination, and more blacks and women on the campaign.” I summed it up.
“Okay. I can live with that.” Vernon turned to Robertson. “Bill, what will this do to my other platforms?”
“We’ll talk through all the possibilities, Vernon.” Bill Robertson stood and turned to me. “Thanks for coming in, and please no more reporters?”
“Yeah, at least he seems a little more open than before.” I shook his hand and left.
Mark followed me out, closing the office door behind him. “Derek, thanks for talking with us. I think you did Dad some good.”
“A little more of an open mind.” I shrugged. “Hopefully, he will add some diversity to his campaign; it wouldn’t hurt him to get some new ideas.”
Mark patted me on the back. “So, what’s Ruby cooking for dinner?”
Dinner? I had forgotten to call and cancel dinner with Daniel. “Oh, I don’t know, I guess I’m going to meet an old friend.”
“Kathleen said she would like to have you back again before you leave town.”
My mind swarmed around Daniel and dinner. “Yeah, that would be nice. I’ll talk to you later.” I hurried out of the office and drove through Myers Park to Sedgefield. Pulling into Ruby’s driveway I saw her weeding flowers under the big oak, Mr. Sams’ oak. What if Vernon did it? Had I just assisted a murderer’s campaign?
A FEW MINUTES after eight o’clock, I parked in front of Daniel’s house. The setting sun stretched shadows across his carefully maintained lawn. Several large azaleas weighted down with scarlet blooms lined the foundation of the house, and a pin oak stretched its massive limbs showing off its new tiny thin leaves over the house. Through the warm humid air, the spicy scent of charcoal and steak drifted from the back of the house. I climbed the stairs to the long porch and rang the doorbell.
“Hello, Derek, come in,” Daniel greeted me at the door. “I wasn’t sure you would come, but I’m glad you did.”
“Well, I said I would, didn’t I?” The front room looked like where he spent most of his time, television and stereo in one corner with a large sofa and chair facing them, one wall covered with bookcases stacked with books and magazines; the paintings on the wall revealed an interest in classical architectural drawings and Greek mythology, the twins Artemis and Apollo flanking his fireplace.
“Can I get you a beer? I have steaks on the grill.” He led me to the kitchen and handed me a Michelob.
“Thanks. Nice place you have here.” I wanted to get things out in the open. “Daniel, why did you write that article?”
He leaned against the counter and took a swig of his beer. “Like I told you on the phone, I didn’t know you being gay was a big family secret. It intrigued me how Vernon Harris dealt with having a gay nephew, especially with his history. I’m sorry I stirred up trouble for you; honestly, I would not have written a word about it if I’d known the story would affect you this way.”
“Everything said tonight is strictly off the record, right?” I asked, but still wasn’t sure if I trusted him.
“Of course, yes, I’m off duty as a reporter.”
“Most of my family is very distant to me, but there are a few I love dearly.” I thought about Walterene, Ruby, Valerie, and Mark. “I came here for the funeral of one of those few.”
His dark brown eyes cast down. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Anyway, I had a talk with Vernon today, and I think we both feel a little better about what’s happened.”
“How so?”
I smiled at his question. “Thought the reporter hat was off tonight.”
“It is, sorry. Let me check on the steaks, medium-rare okay? I thought we’d eat outside.” He walked out the kitchen door to a large private patio set up with an intimate table for two in candlelight.
“Wow, you went to a lot of trouble for not being sure if I’d show.”
“I hoped you would.” He flashed a bright smile framed with dimples. “So, you and Vernon are okay?”
I thought for a moment. “As okay as can be expected. I have a question for you. How far back does the newspaper keep copies of each edition?”
He took the steaks off the grill and added them to plates with baked potatoes and steamed vegetables. “How far back are you looking to go?”
“Late forties or early fifties.”
“Yeah, on microfiche. You looking for something?”
I took a bite of the steak. “Wonderful, you’re a good cook.”
“My family had a restaurant a few years back, I helped the cook after school. Now, what went on in the late forties that has you so interested?”
I didn’t trust him enough to reveal my suspicions about Mr. Sams’ death, but I wanted to see if anything had been in the paper about it. “Just researching some family accomplishments. You know plenty about my family, what about the Kaperonis clan? They owned a restaurant; what else?”
Daniel sat back in his chair, smiled, and said, “Typical Greek family: we all lived close to each other, tried the restaurant business for a while. My mother and father live in Madison Park, just below Woodlawn Road. I have two brothers and a sister.”
“Where are you? Youngest, oldest?”
“I’m the middle boy. David and Emily are older, then me, then Theo. In fact, David works for your family. He’s an architect working with your cousin Margaret’s husband, Gerald.”
“Does he like it?” I waited for him to finish chewing.
“Sorry, yeah, Gerald’s a good guy. I hear Margaret’s a bit of a bitch, if you’ll excuse me being so blunt.”
“No, that’s fine, I want honesty.” I remembered Mark’s sister as being very opinionated and headstrong. “What seems to be the reason for her bitchiness?”
He grinned with his eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Now this is all hearsay, I don’t know anything firsthand.”
“Go ahead, forget the disclaimers.” I moved my leg against his under the table. Why not? I’m only in town a few days.
“David says Gerald has a place in town. He doesn’t make the drive down to Ballantyne each night like a good husband should.” He looked down at his plate as if he wasn’t sure if he should be telling me this.
“No big deal. Maybe they’re going through some rough times? What about the kids? They should be teenagers by now.” Margaret had two of the most beautiful little blond boys, always laughing and hanging onto their father’s hands.
“Guess the family doesn’t keep you up to date in California. Jerry, the oldest, got caught shoplifting at Southpark. Vernon pulled strings and had all charges dropped, but not before little Jerry cussed out the security guard in the middle of the food court. Racist little shit, too; he used the N word when a black police officer arrived. They threw him in jail overnight just to scare him.”
“Margaret must have had a fit.”
Daniel shook his head. “Old man Vernon handled everything, He was the one who told them to leave his grandson in jail.”
Some things never change; they all stand back and let Vernon, and before him, Grandma Ernest, handle things. No one ever questioned heir de
cisions, offered alternatives, put up a fight; right or wrong hey had the last word. I looked up at the shadow of the towering pin oak over Daniel’s house; a vision flashed in my mind: a limp body swung from a strong limb in the darkening spring sky.
Chapter Eight
DANIEL TALKED ON about the politics of Charlotte and of North Carolina, but my thoughts kept returning to the hooded gang chasing an old black man through the woods. Men leaving their elegant homes in Dilworth and Myers Park, banding together, and crossing the railroad tracks into the Wilmore neighborhood to dispense justice. Sedgefield was probably little more than two or three miles back over to the “white” side of the tracks from Wilmore. Back then, it must have looked like a refuge of forest for a fleeing man, or maybe it was the horror of death for a captive man drug into dark woods full of potential gallows.
“Derek, are you okay?” Daniel asked.
The sound of my name brought me back to the present. “Oh, yeah, I was just entranced by the size of that tree. I forget how lush and strong trees get back here. San Francisco trees are battered by the Pacific winds and odd climate; they don’t get big unless you get away from the coast.”
” San Francisco is a great city, not a tree city like Charlotte, but it has lots of other things. Do you get energy from the outdoors?”
My thoughts went back to that first time with Mark on our camping trip. “Yes, I believe I do.”
“Me too,” Daniel agreed. “I love being outside with the trees, working in the yard, feeling connected to the earth…”
“That’s a Southern thing,” I kidded, becoming more attracted to him by his rustic pleasures-no pretentiousness here. “Southern literature has a common theme of special ties to the land.”
Daniel sat back and considered it. “But Western writing has that too. Northern, Eastern literature? I don’t get that much from the New York writers’ club. The center of their universe is that little island up there.”
“That’s why they’re in New York. They get energy from people, lots of people and activity,” I said. “Southerners and Westerners get a charge out of the land, the history. I always thought that appreciation for our surroundings came from the Indians; sorry, Native Americans.”
He smiled at my political correctness. “Being of Greek descent, I never thought about that. My family left Greece, their land…” His thoughts took over, then he brightened. “Hey, you look like you might have some Indian in you, dark hair, prominent cheekbones, tall, wide shoulders, narrow waist…”
“I’ve heard Cherokee blood ran with the Harris blood, but don’t put that in the paper,” I warned. “I can just imagine the uproar: not only is he gay, but he’s a half-breed.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Oh, did you know that about one percent of North Carolina ‘s voting population is Native American? That surprised me,” I said. “I didn’t expect it, I thought everyone here considered themselves black or white.”
Daniel stood up to gather the plates and put his hand on my shoulder, then whispered in my ear, “The world is not all black and white, my young friend.” He kissed my neck, and a trembling volt of electricity shot through my body.
I stood with shaky legs. Wow, he’s a lightning bolt. I steadied myself with the back of the chair and then helped clear the table.
We settled on the living room couch with soft smooth jazz music and a bottle of even smoother merlot. Daniel told me about his work, but my thoughts drifted back to Vernon. He seemed too willing to give in to my suggestions. Why did they care if I felt included in his campaign? Was it just to shut me up? I didn’t intend to give any more interviews. How would Vernon turn the article around to win votes?
He spouted religious doctrine as second nature, but I hadn’t heard him say anything about homosexuality being against his personal beliefs. Votes, that pushed the conversation along; how to keep votes, how to win votes. The religion angle had to be just a ploy to gather the conservative Christians into his camp. I took a sip of wine and tried to catch up on Daniel’s story.
“… I made the editor’s changes even though I didn’t agree with her, but it turned out that my source couldn’t come up with concrete proof the husband was with his mistress when the wife was shot.” Daniel kicked off his shoes and put his feet on the coffee table.
“How would you investigate an old crime? Something where most of the witnesses would be reluctant to talk?” I watched his dark eyes dart back and forth as he thought.
“How old a crime are we talking about?”
“Maybe, fifty years or more.”
“Fifty years? Anyone still alive that was involved?” he asked.
“Well, probably.” I didn’t want to get into details.
“Okay, first you get in real good with a handsome reporter.” He scooted closer to me.
The spicy scent of sandalwood, sage, and the lingering aroma of mesquite, charcoal, and sizzling steaks drifted around the warm heat from his body. “And?” I led him on.
He positioned his right arm around the back of the couch, resting his hand on my shoulder, and moved his left hand across to my waist. “And, you close your eyes…”
I did. Pulling my body close, he gently brushed my lips with his. His mustache tickled, and I smiled. He whispered, “Then, you relax.”
I felt his kiss again, this time stronger, more urgent, more passionate. My desire grew, pulling at the roots of my lust. Excitement surged to every nerve ending. I could hear the rhythm of my pulse beating in my ears as he nibbled my earlobes and ran the tip of his tongue down the side of my throat. My hands caressed his broad back, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his jeans. A rush of cool air brushed my chest as my own shirt fell to the floor, then a warm, safe sensation flooded me as Daniel’s hairy chest pressed against mine. I reached to the side table and clicked off the light.
WHEN I WALKED into Ruby’s house the next morning, she shook her head and sipped her coffee. “And you wanted to stand him up.”
“Well, he turned out to be a nice guy. In fact, a really nice, great, incredible guy.” I knew I gushed, but I had just had blue-ribbon sex, the type of passion that only comes from crossing the line from repulsion to desire. Twenty-four hours before, I had wanted to kill him; now I wanted to go back to his bed and sleep the day away.
Ruby poured a cup of coffee for me and guided me into a chair. “Is he coming over?” She smiled. “I’d like to meet this young man who has you in such a daze.”
“You will, you will.” I picked up the newspaper, hesitated, then looked at Ruby.
“Oh, yes. Vernon has made a statement.”
On the front page, Vernon ‘s picture had a caption: VernonHarris agrees to help nephew overcome battles. I scanned the short article, not written by Daniel, that said Vernon realized I needed help “to deal with certain issues.” The old man kept everything vague, and the reporter didn’t push him for specifics, almost as if Bill Robertson had written the article himself. I let it drop on the floor. “There’s no getting through to him.”
“That’s for sure,” Ruby seconded. “Oh, Gladys called to see when you were going back to San Francisco. I told her I wanted you to stay, to move back.”
“Bet she about had a hissy-fit over that.” I drank the hot, sweet coffee and entertained the idea of living in Charlotte: Daniel, Ruby, Valerie, Mark, Grandma… the entertainment value lessened… Vernon, Gladys… “No, I don’t think this is the place for me.” I glanced at Ruby’s soft face full of mixed emotions, obviously still grieving the loss of Walterene. “Why is it some family members are so close and others can’t stand the sight of each other?”
“That’s the family bond,” she explained. “We get thrown together because of family ties, and like any bunch of people, some will get along and some will grate each other’s nerves. But we keep together because we’re tied together by blood, love, and duty.”
“Duty? Mark talks about duty.” I tried to make that fit into my life, “My duty is to be true to mys
elf.”
“Mark sees something larger,” Ruby said, pouring us both more coffee and heaping sugar into it. “I think he puts himself after his father’s happiness and Kathleen’s, and his brother’s and sister’s. Guess that isn’t always the place to put yourself, but sometimes you don’t always come first.”
“What is your duty?” I asked.
“As a young girl, it was me. To be happy. Papa Ernest would tell all us grandkids what we should be doing, what our mission in life was to be. Of course, the girls were to get married, have children, and take care of their husbands. Walterene and I never cared for that.” A faint smile played across her lips. “But I think Mark still believes that a Harris takes care of the family first, then worries about the individual.”
“Do you think I’m being selfish?” I felt self-centered talking about my own happiness before all else.
“Lord, no,” she said. “You have to be at peace with yourself before you can even think of other people. Are you at peace?”
I sighed and thought. “Yes and no. My biggest unease is still my mother. Why does she not want me around? If family is so important, why am I being asked constantly when I’ll leave?”
Ruby looked down at her lap. “Gladys is an odd bird.”
“She hates me because I’m gay; she’s ashamed of me. But I don’t get it; she’s not that religious, and her church isn’t as conservative as most. What’s her personal disgust with me?” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes; was it from anger or something else?
Reaching over to hold my hand, Ruby said, “Honey, Gladys doesn’t hate you.”
The tears spilled down my face.
She continued, “People don’t want to be reminded of things they see in themselves, things they don’t like. You’re as stubborn as she is, and as proud. You two are like a mean old blue jay attacking his image in a window. His own reflection makes him want to fight.”
“Was she like this as a girl?” I asked. I couldn’t remember her ever being a loving, caring mother; she had always seemed distant, like children inconvenienced her.