"Guess I'd better call Fargo's mama," Hank said softly. He set Ashley away from him, and led him to the chair next to the bed. "You sit here and wait with Beaver." Hank looked at me, and I nodded. I'd keep watch over Fargo while he made the call. Hank looked pale and shaken, and I added him to my list of worries.
A few more minutes ticked by, counted by the clicks and whirrs of the machines. "Who done it, Ashley?" I asked softly when I couldn't hold the question behind my teeth a minute more. "Who done this to him?"
Ashley's eyes shot up toward mine, and I could see the fear in them. "I--I don't know. It was dark, and raining, and...I just don't know."
He was lying. I knew it right off, from the way his eyes slid away when he started to talk. I also noticed that, while Ashley's clothes were ripped and his wig was gone, there wasn't a mark on him. Not a scratch.
My blood started to boil, but I tamped the anger down into a tight little ball in the pit of my stomach. Now wasn't the time for me to lose it, not with Fargo's life hanging by a thread. I'd get answers, but later, after I knew he'd be all right.
Or we buried him.
Hank returned with Jethro in tow. Even without his Miss Amanda clothes and make-up, he was a mother hen, clutching Ashley to his chest and clucking over him. God help them both if they had something to do with Fargo getting beaten. Somehow, I just couldn't believe that Jethro would have anything to do with it, but I was fairly sure that Ashley did, or at least knew more than he was saying.
There was no other explanation for him having escaped without a single scrape or black-and-blue. How'd his clothing get torn up if he ran before they could lay a finger on him?
"Fargo's mama ain't coming," Hank whispered in my ear. I could see fury boiling in his eyes. "She made sure to tell me that she gets any money he has, and his truck if he dies."
"Fuck her. Don't pay her no mind, Hank. Where the hell was she while he was getting the shit knocked out of him right outside her front door? Probably stoned out of her gourd and sleeping it off. He don't need her. He's got us." I took another look at Fargo's poor, savaged face then tried to steel my spine. "I'm gonna go look for the doctor. Stay with him, and keep yourself calm, okay?" I gave Hank a quick kiss, touched Fargo's hand one more time, and slipped out of the room.
Jethro followed me. "Beaver? Beaver wait up! Listen, something damn strange is going on. Did you notice that Ashley..."
"Yeah, I noticed. Keep him away from Fargo, Jethro." I looked hard into Jethro's eyes, and saw that he was nearly beside himself, confused and worried. I was sure he didn't know anything about what happened. "I think he knows a lot more than he's telling."
I watched Jethro stalk back into the cubicle and pull Ashley out by the elbow. Ashley was sniveling and squeaking, and I could see Jethro's fingers digging white-knuckled into his arm. They disappeared around the corner, heading toward the exit.
The nurses at the station were sweet and efficient. "Oh, good! We were hoping his family would come. The... boy... who was with him, well, he wasn't very much help," one of them said. Her name badge read "Ida," and she was a short, older woman with a genuine, kindly smile. "I'll page the doctor for you. I can tell you Fargo needs surgery, though. His condition is critical, poor dear."
"Thank you ma'am. I'd be obliged." I leaned back against the counter, my legs shaking, as she went to do as she'd promised. Only a few minutes later, a man with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, tall and dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, came up to me. He looked about my own age, every one of his years etched deeply on his face, and he wasn't smiling.
"Mr...?"
"Green," I lied automatically. "Fargo's uncle."
"Mr. Green, your nephew is in bad shape. He's taken quite a beating. His worst injury is internal -- he has abdominal bleeding and needs immediate surgery. I don't know if we can save his spleen, nor do I know the extent of the damage. We're going to prep him now and need you to sign a few papers."
"What are his chances, doc?" I asked, petrified his answer would be "not good."
"I hate to give odds, Mr. Green. He's young and presumably in good health. His lungs are clear and his heart is strong. It depends on the amount of damage I find when I open him up. The surgery is survivable, certainly. We'll have to take it one step at a time, okay?"
Well, it wasn't as good as a "he'll be fine" and not as bad as "no chance." I decided to opt for hope. The nurse handed me a clipboard with a few papers attached to it, and I hurried back to the room and fetched Fargo's wallet from his jeans. Back at the nurse's station, I fished out his insurance card and tried to concentrate on filling out the form as best I could. It was hard to focus. All I kept wondering was whether I'd be filling out forms for the undertaker next.
A few minutes later, Hank appeared at my elbow. "They're getting him ready for surgery."
I told him what the doctor had said and finished the paperwork, handing it back to the nurse. She smiled and waved her hand at an orderly. "Clark will take you upstairs to the Surgical Floor. There's a family waiting room you can use, and the doctor will find you there after the surgery."
"Thank you, ma'am," Hank said.
I broke away and trotted into Fargo's room. I didn't care that the nurses tried to shoo me out -- I wanted to see him again before they took him. I touched his hand, and his face, and remembered how he always had a smile on, always laughing and joking, willing to help us out when we needed it. He was a nice kid who'd turn out to be a good man -- if he survived. "You're gonna be fine, Fargo. You just wait and see. Me and Hank will be waiting on you when you wake up." That was all I could risk saying without breaking down. I left and caught up to Hank and the orderly.
"Y'all go on up. I have to find Jethro," I said, meeting Hank's eyes. "I'll catch up in a few minutes."
"Beaver, what's--"
"Not now, Hank. I'll explain later. Go on, I'll be right up." I couldn't go sit, watching the minutes tick by while Fargo was in surgery until I had some answers. I needed to know who'd done it, and Ashley was going to tell me, whether he wanted to or not.
Chapter Five
The rain had stopped, although it was still windy. Puddles of water dappled the sidewalk as I stood in front of the emergency room, looking for Jethro and Ashley.
For a minute, I thought they'd left, but then I spotted them near the vending machines in what used to be the smoking area, near the parking lot. Ashley was sitting on a bench, his head hanging low, while Jethro paced back and forth in front of him. Even from a distance, I could see how wound up Jethro was -- his muscles were tight and his step stiff. He looked furious. They didn't allow smoking on hospital property anymore, but he was puffin' away on a cigarette anyway, lifting it to his lips and snatching it away with jerky movements. Blue smoke curled in a ribbon around his head before the breeze took it.
I glanced at him, but my attention was on Ashley, who refused to look up at me. "Ashley, what in hell happened this morning? Who did this to Fargo?"
He turned his head away slightly and didn't make a peep other than a gasping sort of moan.
"Ashley, I'm not a violent man, but so help me, I'm gonna get the truth out of you if I have to shove my fist down your throat and drag the words out!" My fuse was lit and it was a real short one. I was gonna blow up, and God help the man who was standing too close when I went off.
"Tell him, Ashley," Jethro said. I glanced at him and saw that his jaw was set tight. He obviously already knew what had happened, but wanted Ashley to tell me himself. "Tell him!"
"They'll kill me if I tell him!" Ashley squealed, shoving his hands through his hair. His fingers tightened, and I wondered if he was fixin' to tear it out by the roots and save me the trouble. I knew then I was right -- he did know more than he'd told us before.
I took a step toward him. If he didn't come clean, it was gonna take the hand of God Himself to stop me from ripping his ass apart. "Listen to me, you little fuck! They won't get the chance to kill you because if'n you don
't tell me, I'll do it myself!"
"Tell him, goddamn it!" Jethro yelled. Ashley jumped, and even I was startled -- I didn't think Jethro had that tone or volume in him. A pair of nurses walking on the far side of the hospital entrance stopped, throwing a look in our direction. I ignored them.
"They made me! They told me they'd hurt me if I didn't!" Ashley cried. His voice was high-pitched and he was shaking worse now, rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his middle.
"Who made you do what?" I asked. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, to believe nobody was that good an actor. He was crying, snot bubbling from his nose, and he still wouldn't look at either of us.
"S-Sanford Matthews and some others. There were five of them, but I don't know all their names. They jumped me when I got home last Friday night from Outland, pulled me into their van and drove me around. Oh, God! I was so scared, Beaver! I thought they were gonna kill me."
"What did they say?" No pity on this boy, not yet. Gotta worry on Fargo first, I told myself.
"They said something about the heathens on the state board refusing to take back your business license, and how the church needed to take matters into its own hands. Then they told me that I had to call them the next time I could get Fargo alone at his place."
"And so you did?" I waited for an answer that didn't seem to be coming. Ashley covered his face with his hands, his chest and shoulders heaving as he sobbed. "Answer me, Ashley! You called and told them you were driving Fargo home?"
"Y--yeah. I did. I'm sorry! I thought they wanted to talk to him is all! I didn't think they would beat on him like that! I'm so sorry, Beaver!" He finally looked up at me and I saw terror in his eyes. The boy was petrified. Whether it was of me or Bellows or both, I had no idea. "When I saw how bad they were hurting him, I ran away to call for help! I swear!"
"Why didn't you call me or Jethro before it happened?"
No answer, just another whimper. He ducked his head down again, bending far down over his knees.
"Ashley? I asked you a question, son. Why didn't you call somebody?"
"I want to go home. P--please? Let me go home now, M--Mama," he hiccupped, and turned his big, teary eyes up at Jethro.
Jethro's face was like a stone slab, without the slightest hint of pity. "Funny how they didn't beat on you, too, huh? Ripped your clothes up, but didn't lay a finger on you? How much did they pay you, Ashley?" He reached down and grabbed Ashley's arm, dragging him to his feet, the other hand cupping his chin. His fingers -- I noticed Jethro was still wearing his fake nails, polished blood red -- dug into the soft flesh under Ashley's jaw. "Answer me, boy! How much?"
"A h--hundred dollars!"
Oh, Hell no! I don't think I ever needed Hank by my side as much as I did right then, but he was upstairs in the waiting room, a million miles away. There was no one to keep me from tearing the kid apart. "You gave Fargo up to those bastards for money? Let them bash his face in, his ribs, break his jaw? Nearly kill him? For a lousy hundred bucks?"
Suddenly, I was facing Jethro. He'd pulled Ashley behind him and turned that stony face toward me. "Calm down, Beaver. Killing Ashley ain't gonna help Fargo."
"Yeah? Well, maybe not, but it'll help me feel a whole heap better!" I growled, trying to shoulder Jethro out of the way. He was stronger than he looked. I couldn't budge him. I resorted to screaming at Ashley over Jethro's shoulder. "He could die, Ashley! It's your fault! You might as well have put a bullet in his head!"
I was half-crying myself, spitting and gulping air at the same time. I turned on my heel, unable to force myself to keep breathing the same air as the slimy little bastard. I stopped only long enough to hiss over my shoulder in a murderous whisper. "Jethro, if'n I find him anywhere near Fargo or Outland again, I swear I'll send him home to his mama in a box, and if Fargo..." My voice failed me for a moment, but I soon found it again. "If Fargo dies, this little rat-faced bastard better hole up somewhere good and deep, because I'll be gunning for his scrawny ass."
I left and headed back inside the hospital and found the Men's Room. I was trembling so badly I could barely turn the water on. I splashed some cold water on my face and leaned forward, bracing my arms against the sink, staring into the mirror. My whole body felt numb. Matthews was a member of First Corners Church, and that pointed to Bellows.
Was it a case of a couple of men gone gay bashing? We'd heard tell of that sort of thing going on now and then. The papers -- or at least the Righteous Messenger -- made it sound like nothing worse than some kids going out cow-tipping on a Saturday night, except the cow in question was usually a young gay man, and he wasn't just tipped -- he was near beat to death. Was Bellows involved? Had he ordered the attack when the state refused to take back Outland's business license, or because he'd failed to get the reporter to take his side at the bar? Had I pushed him too far when I'd lost my temper that night and threatened to have him arrested for trespassing?
I didn't know any of the answers for sure. I had the sinking feeling Bellows was in it up to his eyeteeth, but only one thing was obvious to me, and it was staring me right in the face, as big and bold as you please, like a giant neon sign. No matter who was behind it, the attack on Fargo wasn't random. He was just the sacrificial lamb. The attack was a smoking gun pointed directly between Outland's eyes, at me and Hank. It was a message, and I read it loud and clear.
Get gone, or get dead.
I turned away from the mirror and headed up to the waiting room.
***
Fargo pulled through.
It was four of the longest hours of my life, though, mostly spent pacing back and forth across the white, shiny tile floor, counting my steps silently in my head. Eighteen steps from wall to wall, north to south; twenty, east to west. Two of the tiles were cracked. Three were discolored a sickly yellow. The magazines on the table were outdated and dog-eared. A baby's pacifier had rolled under one of the chairs; it lay in the shadows collecting dust.
Sometimes Hank matched me step for step. Sometimes he paced and I sat, staring at my hands, wondering when they got so old-looking. My skin was like tanned leather, a million tiny cracks and a lifetime of scars stamped on it.
The television was off, and I was grateful because I couldn't stand the thought of being forced to listen to a game show or some soap opera, but then other times I wished it were on, no matter what program was running. At those times, I wanted some background noise, something to drown out my thoughts, to fill the silence.
Every tick of the big, round-faced clock on the wall sounded as loud as thunder in the room, and brought me back to the night two years ago when Hank had his heart attack. It was a different waiting room on another floor of the same hospital, but it was close enough to give me that weird feeling people call déjà vu. That night was one of the worst of my life. Hank and me were together nearly twenty-five years by then, and the possibility of losing him left me feeling as lost and lonely as a child. As we waited for news on Fargo, I caught myself glancing at him, as if to make sure he was really there with me. Made me wonder what I would do if ever the day came when his side of the bed would be empty. It wasn't the first time since his heart attack that I prayed I'd die first, as selfish as it sounded. I couldn't help it. Living without him was too painful to think on.
My mind drifted even further back, to when both he and I were a pair of young, fresh-faced men just beginning our lives.
It was 1983. Stonewall was nearly fifteen years behind us, but here in the Bible Belt, nothing much had changed. In the big cities, the age of free love gave way to disco balls and polyester leisure suits, then calculators and stock portfolios, but we remained as we always had been. Folks like me, or who I was beginning to suspect I was, remained in our respective closets, living lies. You didn't come out in Haggerty County, not back then, not if you didn't want to bleed all over the jailhouse floor. Sodomy was illegal, and they rarely arrested a man for having sex with another without beating the ever-loving shit out of him first. That was on
ly if, of course, the police got you instead of a mob. If they got you first, you'd likely turn up in a ditch somewhere, cold, stiff, and blue.
I met Hank at a gas station, of all places. I was driving an old Ford back then, not much more than four bald tires under a rusting metal chassis. It was a shitmobile, for sure, belching steam and farting smoke, but it was paid for, and got me where I needed to go.
Until then, that is, when it barely wheezed into the station before dying for good and true, gushing oil like black blood.
I had my head stuck under the hood, trying to figure out what'd broke this time, when a shadow fell across the engine.
"Need some help?" The voice was deep and pleasant, and I looked up into a smiling, handsome face.
"What I need is a miracle, I think. Only the hand of God can get this hunk of junk moving again," I answered, slamming down the hood. "It's done."
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