by Anel Viz
"What a question! You know what they are!"
"I meant something in the nature of criminal records."
"I think one of them spent some time on the streets before one of those so-called safe houses took him in. I wouldn't be surprised if he stole or prostituted himself to survive."
Another reason in favor of safe homes, Worthy reflected. The kids weren't the only ones at risk. "Then he'd have been underage and his record would be sealed," he pointed out. "And his having lived in one only makes him more suited to carry out your mother's instructions." In his opinion, Mrs. Redding didn't stand much of a chance, and it was his duty to tell her so. He would have done it even if the case were more to his liking.
"Could we petition to have the house left to some other… charity?" The catch in her voice showed it went against the grain to call that kind of organization a charity.
"For example?"
"A group that cures them."
"You'd find yourself in the center of a maelstrom. Have you any idea what a hornets' nest that would stir up?"
"A home for unwed mothers, then."
"Doubtful. We have three of those in Macon. Here's what I'll do. I'll run a background check on those men and see what I come up with. I must ask you this, though. Can you think of any other reason, any reason at all, why your mother might have chosen this particular charity?"
"No," she said firmly.
"Then I'll get to work on it."
"How long do you think this will take?"
"Months, probably."
"Could I possibly get permission to move into the house while this drags on? It's wearing, living in a hotel with three small children."
"There's no reason for you to stay in Macon."
"I want to stay. I'll go crazy living on the other side of the country, wondering what's going on. I'd drive you crazy with my phone calls."
He thought she probably would anyway.
"I'll see what I can do," he said.
The interview left Liz feeling unsettled but no less determined. She wondered if she ought to have told the lawyer about Ronnie. She brushed that uncertainty aside. Why bother? Ronnie had been dead for years, and their secret dead and buried with him. All anyone had ever known was that he'd run away; not one of their neighbors suspected why.
Judge Harris Cole
The morning Eric was due to leave, Christian Worthy phoned to tell them that when he filed to contest the will the probate judge ordered that Liv surrender the key to the house.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you're disputing her not leaving it to you."
"But I was going to give the place a thorough cleaning," she protested. "If we let it stay as it is much longer it'll be unsalvageable!"
"I'll set up a meeting with the judge as soon as possible. We can probably get him to agree to allow you to clean it if Marker doesn't object, and I don't see why he would. I'll get in touch with him right away. Maybe we can make a joint request."
He called back an hour later to inform her she was expected in court at four thirty. Not only did Marker not object, he thought it was to everyone's advantage to get the place cleaned as soon as possible, and Jay and Baron concurred. "In fact, you can move in as far as they were concerned," Worthy said.
"I only want to clean," Liv insisted.
"Just saying. You wouldn't be allowed to live there even if you wanted to. The law is absolutely clear on that score."
When Liv told her husband about the court appearance, he exclaimed, "Already?"
"He's not hearing the case, Eric. I need his permission to keep the key so I can clean Mama's house."
"Frankly, I'm surprised the attorney didn't advise you to drop the whole thing. I thought he'd try to talk you out of it."
"He isn't giving me much hope, but he says there are a few angles worth pursuing. He's going to run a background check on the two."
It sounded as if they meant to play dirty, but Eric kept the thought to himself. "So long as you're back in time for me to catch my plane," he said. He had a seven o'clock flight.
"The lawyer says it shouldn't take long."
"Good luck. These things always do."
* * * *
Harris Cole had had his clerk contact Evan Marker to get the details of the will. The reasons behind the woman's objections were clear enough, and he vaguely sympathized with her, but there wasn't much he could do about it. A distasteful business, all in all. If the media got hold of it—and the gay rights groups would make sure they did—it could create quite a stink nationwide. Thunder from the pulpit, editorials in the liberal press, interference from politicians, picketing, vigils, protests, everything a probate judge usually gets to avoid and most definitely not the kind of brouhaha he welcomed this close to retirement. Hardly worth an insignificant piece of property of only moderate value. He already regretted having agreed to hear the woman's petition. On the other hand, since none of the interested parties objected to her entering the premises…
Her lawyer, Christian Worthy, made a formal request that his client be allowed to clean her mother's house. The premises were unsanitary, he explained, her dead body having sat in the living room with eight cats for over a week until it was found, and she didn't have air-conditioning.
"I'll allow this much," he ruled. "Your client may enter and clean the house, but first she must go there in the company of her mother's attorney and make a complete inventory of its contents. She will, of course, have to cover the costs out of pocket."
"Costs?" the woman asked.
"His time, Mrs. Redding," Worthy whispered.
"Once the inventory has been submitted to me," Judge Cole continued," she may go there alone to clean or hire someone to help her. I'll go further. She may, if she so chooses, pack its contents in cartons for eventual shipping, but under no circumstances are they to be removed from the premises until I or another judge have ruled on the validity of the will."
He hoped it would be another judge.
"Once it's cleaned, can I move in with my children until a decision is handed down?" the woman interrupted.
The judge cut her short. "You are not to address the court unless I ask you to. You are represented by counsel," he remonstrated, adding, "And my answer is 'Absolutely not'."
Worthy hastily apologized for his client's lapse before explaining the situation to her. "I'm sorry, but the law doesn't make exceptions for personal convenience, and the house is precisely that item in the will which is being contested."
Harris Cole didn't need to be told why she wanted permission to live in the house. He understood perfectly: Cooped up in a hotel room with three young children for no one knew how long. Blah blah blah. That was her decision. These things took time. If people weren't willing to be patient, they should leave well enough alone and bow to the wishes of someone who had gone to the trouble of making a proper and airtight will. Yes, airtight, as far as he knew, like it or not. The whole thing was at best a colossal waste of time.
Mrs. Heymer, the court stenographer, was staring at them, appalled. What on earth is eating her? Cole wondered. She knows what the law says. Then he remembered she belonged to Pastor Rich's church. He should have dealt with the matter in chambers. He'd better have a word with her before she went home and tell her to keep it under wraps. It wouldn't hurt to make the Redding woman some concessions, either.
He threw her a crumb.
"Mr. Worthy," he said, "since Mrs. Redding will probably want to have her children with her when she cleans, your client may also use the stove and store groceries in the refrigerator." Then he brought his gavel down on the bench to signal the end of the hearing, something he never did in this kind of case. He felt somewhat sorry for the woman, going through all that heartache and expense when nothing but disappointment awaited her. Well, she'd brought that on herself.
On herself and on us, he thought as he left the courtroom. A lot of pointless busy work for everyone involved. Only the Lambda lawyer would consider it worth the effort. (Lambda wo
uld certainly be providing the lawyer who'd represent Christ and Franklin.) Ought he to advise her to drop her suit and then recuse himself? A tempting option, but there was still time for that.
Jessie
"How did it go?" Eric asked. He didn't sound sincerely interested. He'd finished packing his bags and was obviously itching to get to the airport and back to Idaho.
"The judge says I can clean the house and put everything in boxes, but he won't let me live there until the case is decided one way or the other."
"I thought you didn't want to live next door to those people."
"I changed my mind."
"I wish you'd change your mind about more than that."
"I know that, and I won't. I think I can win this, Eric. Mr. Worthy checked, and a group home there would be in violation of the zoning laws."
"I'm sure there's a way around that. I doubt it will stop anyone."
"Can't you at least try to be supportive?"
"Just being realistic."
The phone rang. "You get it," Eric said. "It's probably more lawyers."
"Mrs. Redding?" a voice said. "My name is Jessie. Er… you saw me in court today. I was the stenographer."
"Yes?"
"I wanted to tell you how distressed I am. I mean, how Judge Cole refused to let you move into your mother's house. Your house! It seems so unfair to make you and your children stay in a hotel."
"Thank you, but there isn't much I can do about it, is there?"
"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, I talked it over with my husband, and he agrees we should ask you stay with us until this business is taken care of. We have a very large house, and there's just the two of us."
"You're very kind, but I wouldn't want to intrude."
"Oh, but you wouldn't be intruding. We love children and haven't been able to have any of our own. And we've a finished basement you can use as an apartment—two little bedrooms, your own bath, a large play area for the children. There aren't any toys or children's books, but we're close to the library, and we do have a television and stereo set down there."
"But I don't even know you!"
"We could meet, couldn't we? How about y'all come have dinner with us tonight?"
"I don't know. I'll have to ask my husband. We never do anything without consulting each other."
Liv glanced back and smiled sheepishly at Eric, fully aware she had brushed aside all his objections to contesting the will and would go on disregarding what he said.
"What was that all about?" he asked when she got off the phone.
Liv knew Eric wouldn't like the idea, but she had her way. She didn't have to wheedle or browbeat him; her arguments were unanswerable. The children needed more room. The least they could do was meet these people and see the accommodations. They had a dog; the kids would like that. She'd insist on paying them something, of course, even if they refused. How could they be anything but nice people when they'd made such a generous offer? He could change his flight plans. He'd only miss another half day's work if he caught a morning plane. What would Jessie and her husband think if Eric didn't come to see where his wife and children would be living and with whom? How could he be so selfish? "Don't you go making up your mind in advance," she said. "Give them a fair shake."
They brought a box of chocolates. Eric had suggested wine, but Liv knew Georgia better. They might not drink alcohol. As it turned out, Dennis, Jessie's husband, did—beer. He was a burly man with a very pink face. His right arm hung useless by his side, the result of an accident on the job. Jessie pointed out that since he no longer worked there'd always be someone to watch the children if Liv had to see her lawyer or go to court.
Their hospitality was impeccable, yet Liv saw at once that her husband felt uncomfortable there. She, on the other hand, felt right at home. She'd grown up in Macon. She enjoyed the familiar Southern home cooking, and the country western music on the radio, the tacky artwork on the wall and the Christian magazines on the coffee table didn't bother her as they did him. She didn't even mind their all holding hands to say grace before the meal. Maybe they only did it because they had company. Eric hated it, though.
They sent the kids downstairs to play with the dog after supper so the adults could discuss the arrangements. The space Jessie and Dennis had set aside for them was more than adequate. The twins could share the double bed in one bedroom and Liv and Li'l Eric sleep in the singles in the other. Most of their talk revolved around homosexuality, however. That made Liv happy; she could unburden herself. Eric hadn't had the patience to hear her out.
* * * *
"I think I'll accept," Liv said on the way home.
"I know you will, but I don't like it."
Eric had suspected all along that the Heymers' invitation had more to do with homophobia than with Liv needing a place to live. He couldn't imagine two men going to bed together, and the thought of what they must do there turned him off, but what these people had said about them was just as abhorrent.
"Why ever not?" she asked.
"Because they're typical rednecks. You saw the guy's face—razor burn. His wife must've made him shave for company."
"They have names, you know," Liv snapped.
Eric ignored her. "And I thought I'd vomit if they said 'Christian' or 'family values' one more time. I don't like the idea of our kids being exposed to that."
"What's so horrible about Christianity and family values?"
"You know exactly what I mean: harping on it. What's that line in Shakespeare about the lady protesting too much?"
"I liked what Jessie said about keeping it out of the papers, how the gays would have a field day if they found out. In other words, harp on it."
"You told me keeping it out of the papers was the judge's idea."
"You're always finding fault. You're just prejudiced against Southerners. I'm one too, don't forget."
So I'm learning, Eric thought. It rankled that his opinion apparently didn't matter to her. Never do anything without consulting each other? Hah! Had she always been like that?
Part II: Brothers
Marc
It was one of the oldest safe houses in Boston. Marc, the director, had founded it… when? Had it been twenty years already? Here he was, a balding man in his early sixties with a bit of a paunch. How time flew! He had made the house his life.
Funny that Jay Franklin should have called just then. He'd been thinking of him. The new kid, Galen, reminded him of Jay, one of their success stories. Jay had first come to the home so guilt-ridden and wounded he wouldn't even talk about sex, which of course was the other kids' favorite topic of conversation, both as an affirmation of the sexuality they'd so long tried to keep hidden and because at that age one's hormones are in control. Not so Jay. He'd hide his body from the others when he changed into his pajamas and panic if anyone touched him. The other kids understood that and respected his space—they'd gone through similar experiences—but when it came to sex talk they were irrepressible.
In the beginning Marc had kept a close watch on Jay, thinking he might try to kill himself, and when he finally learned what he'd gone through he marveled that the boy had survived at all. Marc was still uncertain about him when Jay turned eighteen and left the home, though he had made a lot of progress. He wondered what would become of him, if he would ever find fulfillment in a loving relationship with another man. Then, a few years later, Jay came back to show off his partner, a beautiful African-American from Georgia. They were still together, living openly as a gay couple in a smaller Southern city, proud of who they were and unafraid to stand up to the ingrained homophobia of the surrounding community.
Jay had called on business. The woman next door had died and—quite unexpectedly—left her house to be used as a shelter for runaway gay teenagers, naming Jay and his partner as the people who should make the arrangements. Jay thought the house too small and its location in the middle of a residential neighborhood unsuitable, but it could be sold and the
proceeds used to purchase another. While he and Baron would gladly volunteer to help with the boys once it opened, neither had the time or expertise to set something like that up. They'd been discussing the possibilities, and somewhere along the line Jay had had the idea of calling Marc for suggestions and contacts that might come in handy.
Marc directed him to a couple of organizations in Atlanta.
"There's something else," Jay had said. "The woman's daughter is contesting the will. She made quite a scene in the lawyer's office when it was read. She even went so far as to make the counter-suggestion of donating it to 'a Christian group that cures those youngsters'. Her very words." Marc groaned. "I'm not kidding, Marc."
"I know you aren't. I doubt she'll prevail, but you should still get a lawyer right away. Have you called Lambda?"
"It's the first thing we did, but I thought I'd get your recommendations as well. I'm thinking tactics. You had to deal with the same kind of ugliness when you organized Pride House."
"Okay, I'll give it some thought."
Marc remembered all the work it had taken to set up his safe house. In those days only a handful existed in cities widely scattered around the country, and he'd just about despaired of getting it done, despite his experience and determination.
He was Brother Marc then, preparing to enter Holy Orders and assigned by his abbot to work at a Catholic shelter for troubled and runaway teenagers. It surprised him how many of them were gay and how brutally the other kids picked on them. He became convinced these boys needed a home just for themselves, and not one run by the Church. Lectures on sin and pressuring them to lead celibate lives did more harm than good.
It also led him to confront his sexuality for the first time in his life. Until then he had lived chaste and tormented by his desires. Recognizing his own frustrations and incompleteness in the struggles of his gay charges, he left the monastery and went into psychotherapy to prepare himself for what he now knew to be his true calling. He soon realized that to help the teenagers he would first have to deal with his own issues and that would mean exploring gay sexuality as well as his psyche. Inevitably, he petitioned for and was granted release from his vows.