“Danny’s not a puppy. I’m just helping out for a little while like…” Randy cut off what he was going to say, but Zachary, naturally, couldn’t let it go.
“Like your uncle Kevin would have, right?”
Damn his intuition. And damn the barrage of memories evoked by such a simple comment.
Thomas and Zachary headed out soon after, and the rest of the night flew by. It wasn’t until Randy locked the door of Mata Hari, set the alarm, and climbed into his pickup truck that he gave into the shit storm that Zachary’s innocent words rained down on his heart.
• • •
Kevin Chambers had been Randy’s hero. His idol. His mom’s brother lived near them in Portland, and worked as a Maine state trooper. Uncle Kevin had seen something in Randy even when he was twelve—a deep love of art—that he wanted to nurture despite what his sister and brother-in-law thought.
Kevin took him to museums every Sunday that he was off-duty and spent hours talking to Randy about painting and sculpture. Kevin and his partner, Luc Simard, brought Randy to New York for his fifteenth birthday, and not only sprang for expensive Broadway tickets but spent a full day with him in the Metropolitan Museum.
His mom occasionally tried to understand, but his dad just sneered. “That queer shit,” he muttered, and it wasn’t clear if he meant the museums or Kevin himself. “He ever touches you, boy, tell me and I’ll shoot his ass.”
It was so ridiculous that Randy didn’t even bother to respond. Kevin was more a father to him than his own dad, and it was Kevin who taught Randy how to be a man. Kevin was a blond giant, even taller than Randy’s eventual six-foot-three, and he loved to lift weights and work on his body. So Randy, gifted from his mother’s side with a big frame and muscles that were responsive to hard work, wanted to do that too. Kevin helped him train and grow. When Randy went out for football during high school, Kevin worked with him on running, tackling, and throwing.
Randy loved to have dinner with Kevin and the smaller, black-haired Luc. Although not into body building himself, Luc prepared healthy, protein-rich meals to help his partner and his almost-nephew meet their goals. Kevin always asserted that body building was eighty percent about nutrition, so Luc took it on himself to make sure they got what they needed from food. Randy’s mom refused to make the dishes that Luc did because Randy’s dad didn’t like “all that queer rabbit food,” so Luc taught Randy how to cook for himself.
When Randy came out to Kevin and Luc in his junior year of high school, neither seemed surprised. They talked with him late into the night about how to approach his parents, but in the end it made little difference. His mom seemed sad and resigned, and begged Randy to keep quiet about it. “What will I say to everyone?” she moaned.
His dad, though. When his dad raged and accused Kevin of molesting his son, Randy leapt to his feet and used his muscled frame to herd his much smaller father into a corner. It was still the 1980s, when gossip and smears could have devastating consequences. In a low but deadly serious voice, Randy growled to his dad, “Neither Kevin nor Luc ever touched me. You repeat that bullshit to anyone else and your teeth are going.” His dad never brought it up again as far as Randy knew.
When it came time for college and Randy wanted to pursue art history, his dad sneered. “It’s loans or scholarships, or you ain’t going. I ain’t spending my money so you can be even more of a homo. You pay for it or just go to work. What the fuck is a degree in art history going to do for you anyway?”
Randy remembered telling Kevin he was probably going to try night school at the community college for a while and work in the grocery store close to his house to save up some money for a university.
Kevin and Luc shared a glance, and Luc nodded. Kevin said to Randy, “No, you aren’t. You’re going to U of Maine or anywhere else you can get into. You’ll get as much in scholarships as you can, and Luc and I are going to pay for whatever else you need.”
“No way, Kev. You and Luc need to save for retirement.”
Luc reached across the kitchen table and gripped his wrist lightly. His bright hazel eyes drew Randy’s gaze, and he said quietly, kindly, “Randy, we think of you as our own son. Please. Let us do this for you.”
If Kevin had blustered at him, he would have been every bit as stubborn as his uncle and refused to take the money. But the gentle words from his uncle’s partner left Randy defenseless. He scraped his chair back and threw his arms around both men. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back somehow.”
Kevin hugged him tightly. “Make art. Or at least make the world better. That’s all we want from you.” Randy was still young enough then that he couldn’t keep himself from crying.
Two years after that night, Randy was twenty and crossing campus to get to his class in European history when his roommate jogged up and said Randy’s family was trying to reach him urgently. It was before cell phones, so he ran to the nearest pay phone and called his mom. He could tell she was crying as soon as she answered.
“Randy? Oh Randy. I got something terrible to tell you.” He swallowed hard. Somehow, he always thought afterward, he’d already known. “Kevin was killed. He was trying to calm down this man who was high on something, and the man shot him. Oh Randy. Can you come home right away?”
The funeral was a blur. Kevin had died in the line of duty, and the police gave him the highest honors. It was only when they were entering the church that Randy realized Luc was stopping to enter a pew several rows behind the area reserved for Kevin’s family. Anger building, Randy hesitated next to Luc. This was wrong.
His mom tugged his hand and said, “We talked about this, Randy. Luc and me. This ain’t the place.”
Luc seemed so lost. So helpless. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and though his hair was brushed and his black suit was neat, he seemed about to collapse. But he reached out and touched Randy’s wrist. In his quiet voice, he said, “Sit with your mother. I’ll be okay here.”
Randy didn’t want to make a scene at his uncle’s funeral, so he sat in the pew next to his mom. His dad sat on her other side and muttered that the faggots were out of their lives now and thank god. Randy twisted the funeral program in his hands so tightly it ripped.
The graveside service was worse. Chairs were reserved for Randy’s mom and the other immediate family, near the coffin draped with the Maine state flag. Randy searched for Luc, and found him in a small throng, blocked from the open grave by the many strangers who came to show their support for a fallen trooper. When Randy’s dad took one of the family chairs, Randy had enough. He stepped into the crowd, grateful for his size as well-wishers parted before the expression on his face. When he reached Luc, he took his arm and gently drew him forward.
His mom glanced up as they approached the grave site. “Oh no, Randy. Please don’t. Not today. Not here.” Some of the officers nearby muttered and turned their heads away from Luc. Randy’s dad sneered until Randy leaned down into his face, letting all of his bulk cast his smaller father in shadow, and said one word.
“Move.”
His dad turned red and started to bluster, but he must have seen that Randy wasn’t going to back off. He slid sideways out of his chair and away from Randy’s reach, stepping around to stand behind Randy’s mom. Randy lightly pressed Luc to sit and took the chair next to him. The crowd muttered a bit, the troopers were scandalized, and his mom was crying. But Randy heard Luc say in his ear, “Thank you, son,” and that was all he needed.
He attended the trial of Henry Winiarski, the man who had killed Uncle Kevin. Just nineteen at the time and strung out on PCP, he had one prior offense for selling drugs. Winiarski was charged with murder, but convicted of manslaughter. Luc spoke at the sentencing hearing of the loss of his friend of twenty years; the prosecutors had warned him not to go further for fear the judge would give a lighter sentence if he knew the deceased officer was homosexual.
It was left to Randy to tell the judge about the uncle who had meant everything to him, and whose life had bee
n snuffed out by a stupid boy who willingly took drugs and went on a rampage with a gun. Randy called Kevin his true father, and he testified about how Kevin had given him guidance, college tuition, even taught him football. The judge was a rabid supporter of law enforcement and apparently a football fan, and he sentenced Winiarski to life in prison.
Kevin had left Luc everything including his insurance and all his benefits, but the State of Maine refused to provide survivor benefits to Luc, and Luc didn’t want to fight. When Randy’s mother and father tried to contest the will, though, Randy would not let Luc back down. Randy moved into Luc’s house and testified against his parents about Kevin’s wishes to provide for Luc. It was a near thing but the will was ultimately upheld.
Luc insisted he keep paying for Randy’s college, but Randy’s world had been shaken. Art was important, but it wasn’t enough anymore. Kevin had lost his life, Luc had lost his partner, and Randy had lost his illusions that the world was a fair and good place.
He understood that the love of two men, no matter how sincere and profound, could never be truly safe. He wanted to change that. It should be safe, dammit, and fuck people who hated something pure and sweet and good like Kevin and Luc’s love for each other. He switched his major from art history to criminal justice and entered a career in law enforcement.
Every few years after that, Winiarski applied for reconsideration of his sentence, or for commutation. Maine had abolished parole in the 1970s, so Winiarksi’s options were limited. But he tried again and again. Randy had registered himself and Luc with the victims notification system in Maine; whenever Winiarski tried another avenue, they received word. Each time Randy got one of those notices, anger flared anew. All he had to do was picture Uncle Kevin standing next to him in a museum in New York, and he’d book a flight to Maine to testify before the sentencing judge. He would always move heaven and earth to make sure the court remembered the value of the life that had been taken.
Winiarski’s latest attempt to get out of prison came a little more than two years ago. The original judge who sentenced Winiarski retired and a new judge inherited the case, so Randy made an extra effort. He appeared before Judge Carolyn Rhodes in a black suit. He spoke to Judge Rhodes of Kevin’s love of justice, and how that inspired Randy to become a Secret Service agent. He described Kevin’s love of art and how he tried to honor his uncle’s memory by funding a small scholarship to the Maine College of Art in Portland.
But he did not mention Kevin’s love of Luc, or talk about the man who grew older and more frail, alone in a small, creaking house he’d intended to share with the love of his life.
It was enough, though. Judge Rhodes denied Winiarski’s application, and the world continued to turn.
The money Kevin left to Luc was starting to run low, and Randy worried about the man he considered his remaining father. Luc was still a tough bird, despite the arthritis that crept into his hands. Randy tried a few times to get Luc to move to Virginia and live with him, but Luc always just patted his arm and refused.
“I feel close to Kevin here, and Maine is where I grew up,” Luc told him. “I belong here.” Randy sent money to Luc every month, but it wasn’t like he was rolling in it either. He hoped Mata Hari would truly take off and put him in a better position to care for Luc when he needed it, but that day remained years away.
• • •
Randy was so caught in his reverie that he almost missed his exit. He liked Zachary, and he knew Thomas had a shot at a great life because of that young man’s presence in it. But that night—really morning—he cursed Zachary for his carelessness in evoking painful memories.
As he pulled his truck into his driveway, Randy saw the lights in the great room were on. Danny was apparently still awake, probably watching a movie. Zachary’s words from the bar reverberated in his skull, and he had to agree with the truth of them.
He wanted to help Danny the way Kevin and Luc had helped him. If Joe didn’t find a good placement, Randy would suck it up and tell Danny to stay with him.
He would not send that scared young man back out into the darkness of P Street Beach alone.
Chapter Eight
After a restless night thinking of Kevin and Luc, interspersed with moments of irrational anger at a slender, bearded Englishman with whiskey-colored eyes, Randy awoke on Sunday morning with a need to push aside all the crap in his head. When they finished breakfast, he posed Danny near the window that overlooked his front garden. The light was brighter than he would ultimately want for the painting he had in mind, but the illumination in Danny’s eyes and on the planes of his face would help Randy’s sketches. Randy told him he could talk as long as he kept relatively still, and so Danny made random observations about how his mom had loved Halloween, romance novels, and torch songs.
After an hour or so of sketching, Randy put away his drawing materials and then settled on the sofa, feet sprawled in front of him with his computer on his lap and a cup of coffee in easy reach. He was reviewing an article published by one Jack Fraser of the Kensington Museum when Danny set aside his paperback and got himself some juice. As he returned, he passed behind Randy and paused to read over his shoulder. “What’s post-impressionism?”
“It refers to a movement that took place in the art world after the influence of impressionists like Monet began to fade.” Danny moved around to a chair and tucked his feet under as he sipped from his glass. He kept his eyes on Randy and appeared to be waiting for more. “Do you really want to hear about this?” Danny nodded.
“Anyway, Brousseau was one of the post-impressionists. That’s who I’m reading about.”
“I guess I’ve heard that name. Do you have any paintings of his?”
Randy had to laugh. “Don’t I wish? Original Brousseaus sell for tens of millions of dollars. But you must have seen pictures of his stuff, right? Captured Innocence? His self-portrait? Here.” Randy typed into his laptop and pulled up several images of Brousseau’s work. As Danny sat next to him on the couch, he leaned in to see the laptop screen.
Randy enlarged the image of a young woman sitting at a dressing table while she contemplated what appeared to be an engagement ring on her hand. “This is Captured Innocence. It’s probably Brousseau’s most famous work. You know this one, right?” He clicked some more, “And this is called Madonna of the Castle.” The image of a wealthy woman in fine clothes holding her infant son on her lap, a castle visible through the window behind her, filled his computer screen. The intentional aping of Botticelli’s Madonna made Randy smile contentedly. “I love this painting. The original hangs in the Getty Museum. I got to see it on a trip out to California.”
“It’s really pretty,” Danny said, and Randy realized the boy’s hand was on his knee. Ostensibly, he was resting it there as he leaned in to share the computer, but his fingers were starting to twitch against Randy’s leg.
Shit. He really didn’t want to embarrass Danny, but this was so not going to happen. For many reasons. Randy groaned inwardly, but he had no choice other than to address this head on.
He sat back slightly to catch Danny’s attention and held the boy’s eyes as he reached down to remove the hand from his knee. Danny blushed deeply and scooted away.
“We talked about this,” Randy said as kindly as he could. “You’re safe here, you’re my guest, and we’re going to get you fixed up. That’s it.”
Danny glanced everywhere but at Randy. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No, don’t be sorry. I’m flattered, but nothing is going to happen between us. Okay?”
“Okay.” The kid’s restless gaze flew around the room; he was desperate to be away from Randy, at least for a little while.
“Why don’t you get dressed?” Randy suggested in a brighter tone. “I’ll take us out to lunch.” Danny practically ran upstairs.
After lunch, Danny asked Randy to bring him to Mata Hari to help out. “There really isn’t anything more for me to do out here, and I’d like to help out.” Randy s
aw no reason not to do it, as long as Danny didn’t try to sneak a drink, so he introduced Malcolm to Danny and put him to work. Randy kept one eye on him all evening; he was pleased with how Danny did.
A few hours into the evening, a pair of men standing near the bar made a crude comment as Danny walked by with a tray of glasses; his ears turned red. Randy growled pointedly at the duo. “He’s underage and off limits, guys. Chicken isn’t on the menu here.” He maintained his menacing stare until they apologized before taking their drinks to another part of the bar.
With the extra pair of hands to help Malcolm, Randy had time to wander the bar and chat up customers. Some were regulars whose names he was making an effort to learn, and there were a lot of new faces as well. Miss Ethel was sailing through some of the most popular show tunes on her piano, everything from Avenue Q to Hello Dolly and even South Pacific. Her crowd of fans stood three deep and roared the words as she kept the tempo easy and fun. Randy couldn’t sing for shit, but he enjoyed the sheer happiness that filled the bar when Miss Ethel had her boys worked up.
Idly, Randy wished that Jack would wander in for a beer. He’d like the chance to talk about an exhibit he noticed was opening in a few days at the Hirshhorn. Maybe he’d see if Jack would like to go with him…
He sighed as his traitorous brain drew him back to the art historian with his unsolicited advice. The man may have been clueless about hurting Randy’s feelings, yet it hadn’t stopped Randy from spending far too much time pondering someone who was only in town for a short time. So why do I keep thinking about him?
Maybe it was as simple as Jack living the life Randy had once wanted for himself. Or was it the vulnerability he sensed? The fear that showed in Jack’s eyes? Maybe it was the same thing that made him help Danny, an urge to step in and protect.
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