Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  "We knew the boy, Beaver. We can't let them plant him in an unmarked grave someplace, no matter what wrong he did to us."

  "He watched them try to kill Fargo!" I argued. Fat lot of good it did me to disagree, though. Hank had made his mind up, and he was on the phone with the funeral home before I could finish my sentence.

  Hank said taking responsibility for Ashley was ironic; I said it was Ashley's way of thumbing his nose at us from beyond the grave. That remark earned me a verbal lashing from Hank and two full days of the cold shoulder and blue balls, but I wasn't going to pretend to feel differently.

  Jethro took up a collection from the regulars at Outland, folks who'd come to watch Ashley perform as Miss Ginger. Many gave generously, but Hank and I still had to dip into our skimpy savings to make up the difference. I begrudged every cent we spent, and although I suppose that makes me a horrible person, it was how I felt. Ashley betrayed us in the worst way possible, short of killing Fargo himself. He took our trust and shit on it, then threw it into our faces, laughing while he did it.

  "Let it go, Beaver. He's paid for his sins," Hank told me the night before the wake. We were lying in bed, neither of us feeling very sleepy. I was on my favorite soapbox again, namely us putting out what little money we had to bury a man who'd done us wrong.

  I guess Hank was right, and besides, there wasn't anything I could do about it without incurring Hank's wrath, so I shut up. I rolled over and tried to get some sleep. The following day was Ashley's wake. There would be two viewings, one in the afternoon, and another in the evening, and I knew I was going to need all the energy I could scrounge up to make it through the day.

  ***

  The Roosevelt Funeral Home was a rambling, two-story whitewashed Victorian in downtown Twilla. Frank Roosevelt, the owner, was named after the man who'd been President when his mama, Ida Roosevelt, had her cherry plucked by a Fuller Brush salesman who'd skipped town the day after. Frank never let the fact that his mama wasn't married when she'd gotten pregnant stop him -- he'd worked hard and followed in his grandfather's footsteps, taking over the funeral home when the old man died. Today he was stooped and white-haired, and while his sons did the actual work around the place now that he was seventy, Frank still made an appearance at every wake.

  Frank looked like a skeleton dressed in a black suit, more bone than man, and his handshake felt as fragile as a handful of chicken bones. His voice was still surprisingly strong, though, considering his frailty. "Sorry for your loss, boys," he said, reaching for our hands. "It's so hard when the young ones pass."

  Hank and I refrained from saying much. Neither of us felt inclined to speak ill of the dead at a wake, no matter how we felt inside. We just nodded, thanked Frank for his condolences, and filed into the room where Ashley's viewing was being held. It was originally the parlor of the house, redone in neutral colors and lined with folding chairs. The casket, the cheapest one in the Roosevelt catalogue, was plain pine, and placed at the head of the room. There were several sprays of colorful flowers set around it, carnations mostly, with a few lilies thrown in here and there.

  I knelt in front of the casket next to Hank on the small, red velvet kneeler. Ashley didn't own a suit, so Jethro had run up to the Walmart to buy him one. It was dark blue and fit him well; the Roosevelt boys had dressed him in a white shirt, and a blue-and-black striped tie. The lower half of the coffin was closed, but I knew Jethro had bought shoes for him, too.

  Ashley's death hadn't been easy. I knew it right off, and felt a stab of regret for all the grousing I'd done over paying for his funeral. Hank was right -- Ashley had paid for his sins, in spades. Not even the Roosevelt boys' deft hands and thick makeup could completely hide the damage done to his face, or erase the terror frozen in his features at the time of his death. He didn't look peaceful at all, not the way a man should after he'd passed from this mortal coil, as the saying goes, and for the first time since we'd heard about his murder, I felt pity for him. Nobody deserved to die like that, not even a little weasel like Ashley Wills.

  Fargo cried. I suppose as much as he said he hated what Ashley had done to him, Fargo was feeling the memory of the love he'd once felt for Ashley, or maybe it was both put together, the love and the hate warring, that set him to weeping. He knelt at the casket and bent his head, shoulders shaking. I was about to go to him, but Skeeter beat me to it.

  "Come on, Fargo," I heard Skeeter whisper. "Come on, now. Let's go sit down, let the other folks pay their respects." It warmed me to see how gentle Skeeter was with him, considering Fargo was sobbing over his former lover. Skeeter was a good man, I realized. Fargo was luckier than he knew to have him.

  The five of us, me, Hank, Fargo, Skeeter, and Jethro, sat in the front row of chairs, where Ashley's family would've been had they thought enough of the boy to come. Behind us sat several dozen of the regulars from Outland. Will, otherwise known as Miss Charity, Big Pete and Little Pete, Merle, and Shelby Joe, among others, filled the next couple of rows of folding chairs, their whispered chatting sounding like the soft buzz of bees.

  Behind them sat row after row of strangers, folks none of us had ever seen before, come to pay their respects to a man they'd never met. They'd been drawn to the Roosevelt funeral home by write-ups about Ashley's murder in the papers. Although there was no mention of Ashley's sexuality in the coroner's report, someone must've tipped off the papers. The Twilla Gazette's article, wedged between the ones about the opening of the new Shop 'N Save and League Night at the Bowlarama read, "Local Gay Found Murdered in Meridian," and the Bugle's story, third down on the fifth page of the paper, was titled, "Hate Crime Stuns Small Community."

  I wondered who in town was stunned besides us.

  I thought a few of the strangers were just plain curious, come to stare at the coffin as if it were an attraction in a circus sideshow, but most of them seemed sincere enough. They filed in, one at a time or in pairs, and knelt or stood at the casket for a moment. Some shook our hands, and a few hugged us before taking a seat at the back of the room, or in one of the other two rooms the Roosevelt boys opened up to handle the overflow.

  The afternoon passed quick enough. At four o'clock, Frank Roosevelt walked to the head of the room and announced that the viewing was over, thanked everyone for coming on Ashley's behalf, and invited us back for the second viewing at seven.

  We were the last ones to leave. None of us was feeling very hungry, but we decided to head over to the diner for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It seemed a waste to drive all the way back home since we needed to be back for seven o'clock.

  No one told us about the scene playing out in front of the funeral home. We'd come to the viewing early, the first ones to arrive, and none of us had been outside since.

  The good Reverend Bellows and the First Corners Church had come to pay their respects, too.

  "What in the hell is wrong with them?" Hank hissed, his hand squeezing my forearm as we paused on the stoop, looking across the street at a line of people walking back and forth on the sidewalk holding signs and placards.

  God hates homos! Ashley Wills roasts in the fires of Hell! Repent, change, and be saved before you share his fate!

  Between them and us were nearly all the people who'd come to the viewing. They stood three and four deep on the sidewalk in front of the funeral home, staring at the protesters from First Corners. Their rumbling was like the groaning of a volcano just before it erupted, a shout of outrage breaking free now and then. If they blew, things were going to get ugly, not that I blamed the crowd at all. I knew exactly how they felt -- insulted, furious, and more than ready to beat some sense into the people across the street.

  I couldn't decide if it was lucky for us or for Bellows that the cops saw fit to keep him and his congregation on the other side of the street, behind a line of police cruisers parked at the curb. Had they been within reaching distance, I figure we'd be up to our eyeballs in flying fists. The police formed a line between the crowd and the protesters, backs to
their cruisers.

  "Don't they have any decency?" Hank asked. "Haven't they done enough to us already?"

  "Get back inside, Hank," I growled, gritting my teeth hard enough to hurt. "Grab Fargo, and get in." My fists curled into hard balls at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms. I'd been pushed about as far as a man could go, ass to the wall, and was going to snap. I could feel it, felt the anger giving strength to my muscles. I wanted Hank and Fargo out of the way, inside where I knew they'd be safe, before I charged across the street and ripped Bellows up one side and down the other.

  Jethro's arms encircled me from behind and practically lifted me off my feet, dragging me back inside the funeral home. "No, Beaver! Let 'em be. If'n you go after them, you'll set off a fucking riot! Look, the police are waiting right over there for somebody to start trouble! Come on, stop fighting me, goddamn it!"

  I didn't, and he'd toted my ass inside bodily, with me struggling every inch of the way. Frank led us all into his office, and poured us a round of scotch to help settle us down. "Best if you just let 'em be," he said, handing me a glass with two fingers of amber liquid. "Drink that, and calm your ass down, Beaver. I already have enough business. Don't need you giving me anymore."

  "It don't never end, does it?" Fargo asked, tossing his back. "Nothing's ever going to change. They can do whatever the hell they please, and nobody can stop them."

  No one saw fit to argue with him.

  I drank the scotch, feeling it burn away a little of my anger, but it was Hank who finally distracted me from Bellows and the rest. He looked pale, his drink sitting untouched on Frank's desk. His eyes looked watery, his lips bluish, and he seemed struggling to catch his breath. I watched him pluck a tiny pill from his plastic pillbox and slip it under his tongue.

  "Frank? You got a back door to this place? I need to get Hank out of here," I said, setting my empty glass down on the desk next to Hank's. I fished inside my pocket for the keys to the truck. "Jethro? Think you can pull my truck around back?"

  "I'm not leaving, Beaver," Hank said. "Ain't going to let them win this one."

  "This isn't about winning or losing, Hank. You don't look good. I'm taking you to the hospital," I said, tossing Jethro my keys.

  Hank's jaw tightened, although I couldn't tell if it was from pain or determination. "I'm staying, Beaver. I'll be all right."

  "Don't be stupid, Hank. If you don't think you need to go to the hospital, then fine. We'll go home instead," I insisted, nodding at Jethro to go get the truck. "You don't need this, Hank. We paid our respects -- we don't have to stay."

  Fire flashed in Hank's eyes. "Yes, we do, Beaver! Let me ask you something... what happens tomorrow? Do we stay away from the funeral, too? Are we going to let them chase us away for the rest of our lives?" Hank yelled. The color rushed back into his face, turning his cheeks red. "I'm staying right here. Let 'em walk grooves into the sidewalk across the street. Let 'em wave their signs and shout their hate until they fall over from exhaustion. I don't care. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Hank..."

  "No, Beaver," Hank said, settling back into his chair. "We ain't never really come out, you and me. Whenever we went to town, we pretended to be nothing more than roommates. We never even held hands in public, never gave anybody any reason to suspect we were more than just friends."

  I blushed, feeling ashamed, knowing he was right. "You know how it is around here, Hank. It wasn't because I didn't want to hold your hand, or put my arm around you... besides, folks caught on after we opened Outland."

  "I know, but that's not the point! When they burned Jinx's, and closed down Horton's, we shook our heads, grumbled about how unfair it was, but we stayed out of it. Even when we opened Outland, we never put an ad in the paper, or advertised in any way except by word of mouth. We were like kids trying to sneak a beer in their daddy's basement, afraid we'd get caught. After we brought Fargo home, we hid in the house, only went to town when it was necessary. Don't try to tell me different -- it's true, and you know it. We've been keeping our heads low all of our lives."

  "We made the video--"

  "Yeah, but we didn't march into the newspaper office with a copy, did we? No, we let Skeeter upload it to YouTube and send emails because it was safe, Beaver! We didn't have to make a public stand. Well, I'm going to stay here for the viewing tonight, and I'll be a pallbearer at the funeral tomorrow. I'm not going to run off and hide this time, Beaver."

  I didn't like it, not one bit, but Hank was breathing easier, and I knew forcing him to go home would only make him more upset. I sure as hell didn't want to be the one to bring on another heart attack. Besides, although I didn't want to admit it, I knew he was right. "Okay. We'll stay, but we're not going outside, and that's final, Hank. Frank won't mind if we order in a sandwich from the diner and eat here."

  "That ain't a problem," Frank cut in. "Ya'll can come upstairs to the house. I'll get one of my boys to run down to the diner and pick up the order."

  "Thanks, Frank. We surely appreciate it."

  Frank smiled at us and reached over to pat my hand. "I know how hard it is for you boys. My cousin Earl was that way, too. Poor bastard spent his whole life trying to be somebody he wasn't, and killed himself when he was forty-two. It ain't right, what Bellows and his people are doing, Beaver, and I never agreed with them. Ain't right at all. Just wanted you to know that."

  I nodded, remembering Earl Roosevelt. He was older than me, and worked at the plant, too, back when I first started there, before I began going out with the lumberjack crew to fell trees. I always suspected he was gay. Caught him looking at me occasionally; we'd smile at each other from time to time, give a wink now and then, but it never went past that little bit of silent flirting between us, so I never knew for certain. Never knew he killed himself, either -- the story told was that a heart attack took him. The family kept the truth of it quiet, I suppose, afraid of the scandal it might cause. Folks tended to do that, especially back then. They stuffed their skeletons into the closet and bolted the door shut.

  Hank must've decided to compromise, because he stood up and followed Frank upstairs to the apartment, trailed by the rest of us. We ordered sandwiches no one ate, and watched the clock until it was time to go back downstairs.

  I was nervous, afraid Bellows or Matthews would try to come inside. I spent the entire time sitting in the front row with Hank with my head swiveling on my shoulders, trying to keep one eye on him and the other on the door.

  Nothing happened though. Nobody I recognized from First Corners came in, and the protesters were gone when we left after the viewing was over. Guess they figured nobody could see their signs in the dark. I breathed a long, silent breath of relief, loaded Hank and Fargo into the truck, and drove home.

  "Don't worry, Beaver," Hank said, patting my leg. "It's over now. Even Bellows wouldn't be so foolish to picket at the funeral. Folks wouldn't stand for it if'n he tried."

  I wanted to believe him, but I couldn't. Something told me it wasn't over, not at all, and that the worst was yet to come.

  Lord, how I hate being right all the time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day of Ashley's funeral dawned bright and clear. I always thought funeral days should be overcast or rainy, as dismal as the event we were to take part in, but nature had other ideas. The sun was shining brightly outside, glinting off the windshields and chrome of the cars lined up for the funeral procession.

  It was a very long line, too. My truck headed it off, directly behind the hearse bearing Ashley's casket. Hank reached across me and turned on the headlights, customary for funeral processions in our neck of the woods, but I figured they'd be barely noticeable in the brilliant sunshine. Fargo and Skeeter sat in the back seat of our truck, both dressed in borrowed black suits. Behind me was Jethro's Camry, and behind him stretched at least two dozen other vehicles, most of which were unfamiliar to me and Hank.

  There was no sign of Bellows or his congregation at the funeral home, and I breathed
my first real sigh of relief since the previous day. Maybe Hank had been right, maybe they'd made their point -- or thought they had – and would leave us to bury Ashley in peace.

  The procession wound its way through Twilla and into Meridian. We passed Ashley's old apartment and the road that led up to our place and Outland, before reaching the cemetery where we'd bought him a plot.

  The boneyard was a wide, flat piece of land, entered through a tall, scrolled, cast-iron gate. The entire perimeter of the small cemetery was fenced with black iron bars tipped with sharp spear-like shapes. Small, white stone crosses and gravestones studded both sides of the narrow, dirt road meandering through it, interspersed here and there by taller, more elaborate markers with carved angels, praying hands, bibles, and such.

  We followed the hearse to the gravesite, near the fence on the right, where workers had erected a small, dark green awning over the open grave. Hank and I, Fargo, Skeeter, Jethro, and Will were to be Ashley's pallbearers. The rest of the procession held up at the gate until we were in place and ready. Frank Roosevelt's sons pulled the flowers out of the hearse, placing them beside the dark, rectangular hole in the ground, and slid Ashley's coffin out on a collapsible gurney.