by Grace Mead
“It’s complicated,” Matt said, shrugging his shoulders. “Is there any way to do it on the down-low?” He cocked his head to the side. “There’s already been some bad press and there might be more if anyone learns what I’m up to.”
“Well, I’m not sure how much might should count right now. You go to prison and don’t know what you’re doing, you’re gonna get killed. You can come in when no one else is usin’ the gym, if Dave’s willing.”
“Thanks.” Tommy’s offer relieved some of the tension from Matt’s shoulders.
“I’ve got another regular who spent some time in the state pen. Don’t want to give you his name until I talk to him, but I’ll see if he’ll meet with you.”
“That would be great.”
“No problem,” Tommy said. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your head up.”
Matt went outside, called his mother, and asked her to pick him up. He jangled the keys in his pocket while he waited, nervous that recent events would forever unmoor him from his mother, who—no matter the distance between them—had always been his anchor. Mary arrived in her weathered Corolla within minutes and Matt levered himself into the car.
“I picked up some food,” Mary said. “I thought I’d make some orange chicken tonight, and I got you enough groceries to last for a while. I also bought you that new biography of Franklin. I know it won’t last you long, but it’s something you can do at home.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Matt, I need to ask you something.” Her voice quavered. “Are you gay?”
His nerves already raw and exposed, Matt’s anxiety surged. His stomach sickened as he glanced at the car door handle and thought of opening it and tumbling out to relative safety, but he pushed the idea away. He raised his eyes to his window without registering the view.
“I’m not sure. And I wanted to figure it out for myself before I threw everyone around me into turmoil. I knew it would be hard for you. You always wanted grandchildren, and we both wanted to name a boy after Dad.”
“Well, you know you can talk to me about anything, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re gay. I think you’re just confused after your breakup with Andrea. That was the most serious relationship you’ve ever had and that has to count for something, right? And you’ve dated other girls.”
His mother’s resistance grated on Matt despite her good intentions; she took him at his word on almost everything else. She was so fundamental and omnipresent—so important to who and what he was—that he loved her with every heartbeat. But for the same reasons—despite his enormous self-control and ability to hide so much from so many—he most often slipped up around her, the person he most wanted to protect. He’d never let a sign of his attraction to other men show through—after all, how often did sons talk to their mothers about who was hot or not? But his sadness and loneliness spilled out as anger and frustration more often around her than anyone else. Why wouldn’t she accept the possibility that it was because he was gay and closeted?
“I’ve always been attracted to other men.” Matt looked down at his lap.
“And you kept that secret for how many years?” Mary’s eyes widened.
“Since middle school,” Matt said.
“Well, you certainly should have known you could tell me. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay; I just think it makes life a lot harder. And I don’t want my child to suffer.”
Her words reinforced the hurdles and barriers to Matt’s being. Of the few whose opinion mattered, hers mattered most. But he’d been outed as going to a gay club; he wouldn’t reject being gay in a way that made it seem blameworthy; and he couldn’t deny who he might be—so he could only push back. He tried to lock eyes with her. “I know, Mom, but you have to admit that compromises your objectivity. And that’s exactly why I wanted to explore these feelings on my own first.”
Though she hadn’t yet started the car, she stared ahead: “I guess I can understand that. But we got turmoil anyway. I’d do anything for you and I want you to be happy more than anything else in the world. The thought of you going to prison breaks my heart and I think if you died, I’d die.”
“I know. Mama, I’m scared,” Matt said, his voice breaking. By being, had he put them both at risk?
“I know, baby. At least you have the best lawyers in town. And you’re telling the truth. That has to count for something, right?” She rested her hand on his forearm, reassuring him that she did want the best for him, even if she couldn’t accept the necessary range of possibilities.
“I wish I could be here for you for the next six weeks,” she said. “I’ve got to go back to work. I don’t want to, but the bank wouldn’t give me that loan unless I promised to keep my job. You know your daddy didn’t have much to leave us, and I think it’s more important to be there during the trial. But say the word and I’ll quit my job and we’ll figure everything else out.”
Matt didn’t doubt it. “Mom, you being here now is enough. I can’t complain about you going back to work when your house and job are keeping me out of jail. And you know I’ll pay you back if and when I can. I’ll be okay. We can talk on the phone.” He forced a smile.
“Enough about these depressing topics for now,” Mary said. She started the engine. “I asked that nice girl Lisa to come over to your house for dinner tonight. I think we should just have an enjoyable meal and try to take our minds off some of this for a while.”
“That sounds good. Still trying to be a matchmaker, huh?”
“Well, I didn’t know a nice boy to invite. I just thought she’d make good company.” She put the car in gear to crawl back through the Quarter.
The Toyota finally crossed into Matt’s uptown neighborhood. It had suffered less damage during the storm and the residents had the money to rebuild. But scaffolding still surrounded many houses and the tools and detritus of construction littered their yards. Still others sat empty, untouched since the waters had receded.
Around six-thirty that night, the doorbell rang. Lisa stood at the threshold carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio and Mary waved her into the house with the practiced motion of a runway attendant.
“You didn’t have to do that, hon. Dinner’s not that fancy,” Mary said. “Just some orange chicken and Uncle Ben’s rice.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Lisa said. “Everyone at the office feels just awful about what’s happened to Matt. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. We’re just about ready to eat.”
Matt nodded at Lisa. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course I came. I’ve always been very curious about your mother. She must have the patience of a saint to have tolerated what you consider a sense of humor all of these years.” Lisa smiled and her green eyes lit up.
“Any recent examples of Matt’s sense of humor I should know about?” Mary asked. She turned down the gas stove, fluffed the rice with a fork, pulled a salad out of the refrigerator, and passed plates to Matt.
“Let me open this bottle of wine and then we can sit down and discuss your son,” Lisa said. The three sat down at an unfinished pine table and Matt was glad he’d at least sprung for four chairs. Even though each was less than fifty bucks, he hardly ever used more than one. Mary spun tales of his childhood and Lisa offered stories about his wry sense of humor at the office.
“I guess recent events have derailed Matt’s only stated career goal,” Lisa said.
“What’s that?” Mary asked.
“When they installed a defibrillator in the office a couple of months ago, Matt said his only goal as a lawyer was to have his second wife before his second heart attack.”
“Matthew Durant!” Mary said.
“What?” Matt asked. “I could still at least have two heart attacks no matter what happens, right?”
“Don’t talk that way,” Mary said. “Did he tell his boss about the wives and the heart attacks?”
“I don’t think so,” Lisa said. She smiled and shook her head. “And they know
that his work is far better than his sense of humor.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Mary said. “Matt’s always been just smart enough to get people’s goats, and it can get him in real trouble.”
“You say that,” Lisa said, “but you must be very proud. Matt graduated first in his class from LSU law school and clerked for a Louisiana appellate court.”
“Dear, please don’t recite his resume. It makes him unbearable,” Mary said, shaking her head but smiling.
“Unbearable? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve brought enormous pride and honor…” Matt faltered, lost midsentence.
His mother turned to him and said, “You’ve always made me proud. And a few drinks and some bad luck don’t change that. They never will. No matter what happens.” She placed her hand on his.
“Thomas is the best trial lawyer in New Orleans,” Lisa said. “I’m sure he’ll show the jury what really happened.”
“I can’t believe I killed a man, not to mention that I could be executed for it,” Matt said. His stomach sank further as he realized he hadn’t even separated his remorse from his fear of punishment—he’d failed at contrition too.
“Enough,” Lisa responded. “You did what you had to do, and we’ll win.”
Chapter 4
When Mary left for Lafayette the next morning, Matt felt a pang at her departure he hadn’t experienced since childhood, when she’d dropped him off at school for the first time. He already missed her so much it felt as if someone had reached in, emptied out his guts and replaced them with a lead weight.
Minutes after Mary left, Tommy called. “I spoke to Dave Anderson, and he’s coming by tonight. You should show up around nine-thirty.” Matt thanked Tommy and said he’d meet Dave at the gym then.
He brewed another pot of chicory coffee because they’d exhausted the first. He opened a biography about Alan Turing. He scanned over technical descriptions, focusing on the mathematician’s role in breaking Nazi codes, the moral dilemma between saving Allied lives and tipping the Nazis off that the codes had been broken, and, of course, the insights about Turing’s attraction to other men. Having picked up the book to learn something about how Turing had managed being gay in conservative England during World War II, Matt realized he hadn’t. The biographer concluded that when faced with the choices of conforming, rebelling, or withdrawing into work, Turing had withdrawn. And, after helping Britain win the war, he’d been convicted of criminal sodomy and suicided. Not helpful—Matt put down the book without finishing it.
Thinking a diversion might help, he turned on the television for background noise and started the Franklin biography, leaping from quote to quote from Franklin’s considerable writings, but it brought to mind his mother’s thinly veiled and overblown expectations of him—trust her, even when he was facing a trial for murder, to buy him the biography of a genius. Distracted, his shame over being outed in the newspaper, worries about the trial, and fears of decades on death row or life in prison—more daunting than death—intruded, and a wave of terror overtook him. He breathed deeply, reminded himself there was little he could do, and tried to resume reading. Conflicted over who he was and what he’d done even in his own home, he couldn’t bear to think of going for a carton of milk and facing the clerk at Circle-K. So he burrowed more deeply in between the pages of the book.
Midafternoon the phone rang. His shoulders spasmed and the book jumped in his lap, but he answered after the second ring.
“Matthew Durant?” asked a woman.
“This is he.”
“I’m Kathy Nelson from the New Orleans Observer. I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the alley that night.”
“You should talk to my lawyer.”
“Well, I just thought you’d like to have a chance to tell your side of the story. Sounds to me like the Times-Picayune has gotten most of its information from the police and prosecutors. We wanted to give you a chance to tell some folks what actually happened that night.”
“Well, it didn’t happen like the Times-Picayune said it did, but I really can’t talk about it. My lawyer’s given me very specific instructions.” Matt pursed his lips.
“Do you really need someone to speak on your behalf? From what I’ve heard, you’re quite a talented young lawyer. Don’t you want to defend yourself in your own words?”
“I will. At trial,” Matt said, his jaw tight.
“Isn’t that somewhat unusual?”
“I really can’t say anything else. Good-bye.” He punched the disconnect button and hurled the phone as hard as he could. It hit the wall, split into pieces, scotched the paint and dented the sheetrock.
“Damn it!” he shouted.
He’d clamped down a little too late and risked tipping off the prosecution that he’d testify at trial, increasing the odds they’d spend more time focused on his history and any indiscretions. The reporter was right. It was unusual for a criminal defendant to testify on his own behalf, but he’d spent most of his life building a reputation different from most criminal defendants and was determined to use it when he needed it most.
He went over to his computer, googled the Observer, and found a trashy tabloid filled with celebrity gossip. The lead story accused Brad and Angelina of importing babies from foreign countries for bizarre religious ceremonies. Matt hoped even it couldn’t fabricate a story from his four words. And besides, who’d ever heard of the Observer?
Matt spent the remainder of the day housebound talking himself into a panic and then talking himself down again. Cooking dinner didn’t require enough of his attention. He started to prepare some tilapia to cook with basil, tomatoes, and white wine, but it gave him too much time to think. So he stuck a frozen pizza in the oven instead and, while it cooked, he read and watched TV.
At nine-thirty that night, Matt went to the gym. Tommy and Dave Anderson came forward to greet him in the otherwise empty room. Dave was shorter than Matt by a few inches, but with impossibly thick biceps and thighs: he looked like an onyx fireplug.
“Tommy filled me in on what happened to you,” Dave said, standing with his legs spread and arms at his side. “He said you’d like to work on some practical self-defense, just in case.”
“Yeah. I’m a bit worried about the impact it could have on public perception, but I trust Tommy.” As he spoke, he focused on a point in space to Dave’s right.
“You can also trust me to keep my mouth shut,” Dave said. “If Tommy says there’s no way you tried to buy coke and kill someone to cover it up, that’s good enough for me. And I don’t care who you want to fuck.” Dave looked Matt squarely in the eyes and Matt felt compelled to meet his gaze. “What kind of shape are you in?”
“He’s in pretty good shape,” Tommy said. “He can go fourteen rounds in a combination of bag work, mitt work, and no-contact sparring.”
“You’ll want to get in better shape, but I want to spend our time on moves that would be illegal in a boxing ring. Mike Tyson, ear-biting illegal,” Dave said. “I’ll leave conditioning to Tommy. This may seem like a strange question, given what’s happened in the last week, but do you have any problem attacking someone in the really vulnerable areas? I mean the eyes, the nose, the throat, and the balls.”
“Not if I have to,” Matt said, pressing his lips together, head tilted downward, and shaking his head. “I just want to be able to protect myself.”
“All right. We’ll start with a few moves today. The first is known as the Liverpool kiss. You aren’t that big, so a larger man’s probably going to get close to you and try to grapple. He gets in that close, you may not be able to throw an effective punch. The simplest move is to head butt him. A powerful head butt can break a nose or cheekbone. So, we’re going to practice head butts for a while.”
Dave walked Matt over to a heavy bag shaped like a dummy and showed him how to lead with the top of his skull. He practiced the head butt by itself first, slamming the hardest part of his skull into the dummy’s face. Tommy then set the
timer and Matt began working through three-minute rounds, unleashing a flurry of punches and body blows that culminated with smashing his head into the dummy’s face.
It felt good to vent, but he probably overdid it. He had a mild headache by the time Dave signaled for him to stop and Matt was relieved—better to break the phone than his head.
“We’re only going to practice one other move today,” Dave said. “This requires a bit more skill. I usually don’t recommend kicks to someone without significant martial arts experience because it’s too easy for your opponent to catch your leg and put you on the ground. But I think we can teach you one effective kick.
“Assume your opponent is standing squared off to you and you’re in a normal boxing stance.” Dave took the position he wanted Matt to imitate. “You’ll turn and pivot on your left foot, bring your right knee straight up, then swivel at the hip so that your leg’s roughly parallel to the floor, and then stomp down at a forty-five-degree angle. You want to shift your weight the same way you do when throwing a punch, but the kick’ll have a lot more power. Aim for above the knee and try to break whatever you hit. If you break it, you can run away.”
“So, I’m going to break a guy’s knee then run?” Matt raised his brows.
“You’re going to put the guy down hard and then run away whenever possible,” Dave said. “Let’s practice.”
Matt repeated the kick slowly at first, but he built up speed until it was a single fluid motion. The dummy’s front legs bent back all the way to the floor with each of his last twenty repetitions. Learning the new moves wasn’t too taxing and he’d only built up a light sheen of sweat.
“So, can I get good enough, fast enough? Matt asked.
“Depends.” Dave shrugged. “You’re in good shape and I can teach you how to fight dirty pretty quickly. But prisoners have a hell of a lot of experience fighting. You’re supposed to be smart. You’re going to have to maneuver yourself into fights you can win.”
