No Good Deed

by Michael Rupured

  George winced, a pained expression on his face. “I’m sorry. My wife and I never had children. She… well…. Roland is my only sibling, and James was his only child.” His gaze shifted from Philip to a framed portrait of an adolescent James on his desk. “I’ve always been fond of him and have long regretted not asking him to live with us when my brother put him out.”

  Philip saw the sadness in George’s eyes he’d seen when he booted him from his apartment, and again at James’s funeral. He thought about what he’d do if anything ever happened to Thad. He sighed, pinching the top of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “No need to apologize. My nephew is four. I can’t imagine….”

  “When Roland and I came to your apartment….” He regarded Philip with a glum expression. “I had no idea he was going to do what he did. He said we’d pay our respects. I never would have come had I known.”

  Philip remembered the stunned look on George’s handsome face and knew he was telling the truth. Perhaps assuming the two brothers were cut from the same cloth was unfair. George seemed to be made of a much finer fabric than Roland. “But what about paying the newspaper not to print anything about his death and leaving his body unclaimed?”

  “All news to me too. Roland told me he’d asked the paper not to print anything about the suicide, but I had no idea he’d given them money not to print any kind of death notice. We had a huge fight about him abandoning the body after we left your apartment. By the time I got to the morgue, you’d already made arrangements for his funeral.”

  That explained how he’d found out about the graveside service. Their eyes met. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr. Walker.”

  “Please, call me George.” His gaze dropped as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a checkbook. “You must allow me to reimburse you for his funeral expenses.”

  “Thank you, no,” Philip said, pausing for a moment to wonder if money was the only remedy the Walker brothers believed in. “If you want to honor James, pay for a funeral for Daniel. Am I the only one who cares that his killer is getting away with murder?”

  George closed the checkbook and returned it to the drawer, his face inscrutable. “Let me put an investigator on the case. I’ll have him dig around to see what he can find out.”

  “Thank you. I’d be forever in your debt.” Philip got up from his chair.

  George stood and walked around the desk, offering his hand to Philip. “No, Philip. The debt is mine.”

  Philip gave his hand a firm shake and was surprised when George didn’t immediately release his grip.

  “Thank you for taking such good care of James. I suspect his years with you were the best of his too-short life.” He squeezed Philip’s hand again.

  The intimate gesture caught Philip off guard. George’s gray eyes reflected sorrow and something else he couldn’t quite identify. Realizing they were still holding hands, he let go. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure. If Sergeant White contacts you again, call me. And whatever you do, don’t answer her questions.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  TAKING THE train home from Baltimore had been a wise decision. The tears started flowing when he’d seen Thad in his little sailor suit, Mary and Alex behind him, the three of them waving from the deck as the giant ship pulled away from the harbor and headed out to sea. The cab driver who drove him from the port to Penn Station asked if he was okay three times. Unable to regain his composure, Philip had waved his hand and nodded, signaling he was fine as he sobbed into his handkerchief.

  By the time they reached Penn Station, Philip had pulled himself together and was in control of his emotions. He paid the cab driver, adding a generous tip, and set out for the ticket window. He was fine until a little boy walked by in the exact same sailor outfit Thad had been wearing, and he lost it again, managing to hold his tears in long enough to buy a one-way ticket back to Washington. As the scenery passed by his window, he dabbed at his eyes now and then with a soggy handkerchief, wondering what had happened to the spare he’d brought along for this very reason.

  As the train pulled into Union Station, Philip glanced at his watch. Three o’clock. Right on schedule. He had plenty of time before his eight o’clock date with Beau. The temperature was not quite freezing, with a chill wind. Rather than walking home as he’d planned, Philip hailed a cab.

  At the apartment, Philip unpacked, read the newspaper, and took a little nap. After showering, he stirred a package of onion soup mix into a container of sour cream, set a bag of potato chips in a bowl to open later, and arranged pickles, olives, and fresh vegetables on a plate with an assortment of cheeses. Then, for himself, he blended peanut butter, strawberry jelly, and a touch of honey together in a coffee cup, spread the mixture between two pieces of bread, and trimmed the crust precisely as his mother had done for him. He remembered telling her about the sandwich a friend’s mother had served, with peanut butter on one side, jelly on the other, and no honey.

  “His mother doesn’t love him as much as I love you,” she’d said.

  The memory surprised him. More often than not, thinking about his mother made him angry. Losing a father was bad enough, but they’d lost her too. Rather than rising to the challenge, his mother had succumbed to her grief and fear. How different would their lives be had they buried his mother and been left in his father’s care? He sighed. Oh well. In the words of Doris Day, “Que Sera, Sera.”

  He polished off his sandwich and cleaned up the kitchen before changing into black wool slacks and a black turtleneck sweater with black loafers. James had bought the outfit for him to wear to a New Year’s Eve party this year. That there would be no party didn’t prevent him from wearing his party clothes.

  At eight o’clock on the nose, just as Philip expected, Beau knocked on the apartment door. As he walked over to let him in, he thought Beau had probably grown up with his peanut butter and jelly as segregated as his hometown.

  “Happy New Year!” Beau wore a navy sport coat, khaki pants, and a stiffly starched white shirt. He carried a bottle of champagne in one hand and two champagne flutes in the other, and he swept past Philip into the kitchen. “Need to get this bubbly on ice so it will be nice and cold by midnight.”

  Philip followed Beau and watched as he placed the bottle and glasses in the freezer. “Champagne? How lovely.”

  “Don’t let me forget or we’ll have a big mess to clean up.” Beau closed the freezer door. “Wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve without a bottle of champagne and Guy Lombardo, now would it?”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Philip replied. The idea of Guy Lombardo providing the music at any of the parties he’d attended with James made him smile. The mix of beatniks, hipsters, and hippies James liked to party with walked on the wild side and did a lot of drugs. For Philip, an occasional cocktail was plenty. Yes, he’d smoked marijuana with James a few times, but whether alcohol or drugs, Philip preferred keeping his wits about him. He’d been involved in enough raids to know one never knew when the police might show up.

  No danger of a police raid tonight. Accompanied by Guy Lombardo’s orchestra, Philip and Beau played cribbage, canasta, and gin rummy as they munched on the dip, chips, and crudités. A few minutes before midnight, Beau retrieved the champagne flutes from the freezer and the Korbel he’d earlier moved to the refrigerator. He slipped the agrafe from the neck of the bottle and the cork shot out, knocking one of the flutes off the counter to shatter on the floor as champagne spewed from the bottle.

  Philip grabbed a kitchen towel to mop up the mess, being careful to avoid the shards of glass.

  Beau’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “We’ll clean that up in a minute. It’s almost midnight.” He handed Philip the remaining flute, now filled with the bubbly golden beverage, and picked up the bottle.

  From the television, Philip heard the countdown. “Seven, six—”

  “I’d like to propose a toast. To us.”

  To us? Philip hoped his surprise didn’t show. Thin
gs were moving way too fast. James hadn’t even been gone a week.

  “Three, two—”

  Philip saw Beau leaning in to kiss him. “Yes,” he said, raising his glass like a shield. “To us, and the beginning of a wonderful friendship.” He touched his glass to the bottle Beau held and downed his champagne in three quick gulps.

  Beau set the bottle on the counter and took the glass from Philip’s hand. Cerulean blue eyes gazed at him, serious and intense. The handsome face moved closer, and Philip knew he was going to try again.

  Before he realized he’d done so, Philip backed away. Beau closed the distance between them, his intent clear. Philip had no interest in kissing perhaps the most handsome man he’d ever met and wasn’t sure how to respond. At the last second, he turned away, and loose, wet lips touched his cheek. He stepped back again, placing a hand on Beau’s chest to keep him from following.

  “What’s the matter?” Beau sounded like he might cry. “I thought you liked me. I was hoping we’d spend the night together, to start the year off right.” The hurt reflected on his face made Philip feel even worse.

  In the background, Guy Lombardo’s orchestra played “Auld Lang Syne.” He remembered James saying, “Whatever you’re doing New Year’s Eve, you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.” His heart sank. “I do like you, Beau. It’s just—”

  “You’re not attracted to me?” His tone registered his surprise—like the idea that someone might not be attracted to him had never crossed his mind.

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m attracted to you—that’s not the problem.” As he said the words, Philip realized he was lying. He wasn’t the least bit attracted to this gorgeous man who was all but begging to take him to bed.

  “Then what is the problem?”

  Though it would be honest, “you bore me to tears” hardly seemed the best response. “James has only been gone a week. I need more time.”

  Beau’s face fell. His shoulders sagged. Disappointment radiated from him like heat from a blast furnace. “I guess this means we’re not having lunch together tomorrow.”

  A little voice in Philip’s head wanted to agree with him. But the sad, dejected expression tore at his heart. Besides, he never would have made it through the last week without Beau’s help. Lunch was the least he could do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  BEAU KNOCKED on Philip’s door at eight o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day, loaded down with brown paper sacks of groceries. Having to make two trips back to his apartment for utensils he couldn’t find in Philip’s kitchen had at least given Philip a few minutes’ peace.

  Hours earlier, he’d come to regret his decision to have lunch with Beau, but he was in too far to back out. He focused on staying positive and making the most of the situation, which, on more than one occasion, had been a challenge.

  Philip looked over his coffee cup across the table to Beau. “Thanks for making dessert. That sweet potato pie was heavenly.”

  Beau pushed his chair back and stood, collecting dessert dishes from the table. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it. I’ve been making that recipe for so long, I could whip one up in my sleep.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly mastered the dish—and I’m glad you made two. So sweet of you to leave one for me.” Despite a desire to linger over his coffee for a few minutes, Philip got up and followed Beau into the kitchen. Keep it positive. “Lunch was excellent. The cornbread was the best I’ve ever eaten, the black-eyed peas were… interesting, and I really liked the colored greens.” He did, even though the smell of them cooking had caused him to crack open the apartment windows.

  Beau chuckled as he squirted soap into the sink and twisted the tap for hot water. “They’re collard greens, and I’d say black-eyed peas are an acquired taste. Eating them together on New Year’s Day brings good luck and prosperity for the rest of the year.”

  “Such a charming tradition. Thanks for sharing it with me.” Philip joined him at the sink. Beau seemed more comfortable in the kitchen than he was—and it was Philip’s apartment. He rinsed the clean dishes and set them in the rack to dry as he talked. “Are you ready to go back to school tomorrow?”

  Beau nodded, pulling the stopper to let the soapy water drain. “Since weather kept me from driving home for Christmas and I didn’t have anything else to do, I wrote all my lesson plans and got my classroom ready after school let out for the holiday. Mentally, I could use a few more weeks, but I miss the kids.”

  Philip leaned back against the counter as he dried a pot that wouldn’t fit on the rack. “You’ve been too busy helping me to have much of a vacation. I’m so sorry.”

  Beau turned to Philip. “You, sir, have no reason to apologize. I don’t know what I’d have done without you during my time off. Thanks to you, I didn’t spend the holidays alone and I have a new friend.” Beau walked into the living room, switched on the television, and sat on the sofa.

  Was he being sarcastic? Philip knew rejecting Beau’s advance the night before had hurt his feelings. They’d cleaned up the broken glass and spilled champagne in a silence so awkward Philip had wanted to change his mind about lunch.

  But he hadn’t. He was here, staying positive and making the most of it. He refused to let Beau or anyone else ruin his day—especially not the first day of the year.

  Besides, Philip thought as he wiped the crumbs from the table, his cup wasn’t running over with friends. Left to entertain himself, he’d read a book or explore the archives at the museum. James had been the social butterfly, dragging Philip along to exhibit openings, dance events, and parties hosted by his friends. Aside from Mary, Philip really didn’t have any friends with James gone. Oh sure, he knew lots of people. But he couldn’t think of a soul he could call just to keep him company or to join him for dinner.

  Philip walked into the living room. “Care to go for a walk? The sun is shining, there isn’t any wind to speak of, and it’s the warmest day we’ve had in weeks.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Beau asked.

  “Outside. I don’t care where. I need some fresh air. After two pieces of that delicious pie, the exercise wouldn’t hurt either.”

  Beau tossed the TV Guide he’d been browsing onto the brick red coffee table with two green and two blue legs. “May as well. Nothing on television all afternoon but football.”

  THEY STROLLED beneath dormant cherry trees along the Potomac River on sidewalks wet from the melting snow that still blanketed the area. Seagulls circled a small boat, squawking and diving as two men hauled a net over the side. In the background, the white marble of the Washington Monument gleamed against an azure sky.

  “Wonder what’s going on over there.” Beau pointed toward a crowd gathered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

  “I have no idea,” Philip said. “Probably a Vietnam War protest. Maybe they’ll burn some draft cards.”

  “Can you imagine fighting in the war?” Beau put a hand to his brow to keep the sun out of his eyes, scoping out the gathering crowd. “I don’t know what I’d have done if Daddy hadn’t gotten 2-C status for me.”

  “Two-C?” Philip raised an eyebrow and made for the Lincoln Memorial. “Haven’t heard of that one.”

  Beau fell in beside him. “Agriculture. I’m not sure how Daddy pulled it off. He must have known somebody. We had a few chickens, a cow, a little vegetable garden, and some pleasure horses on half a dozen acres. Did you serve?”

  “No,” Philip said. “Bad knees. Four-F.”

  A man in a gray suit stood halfway up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial and addressed a crowd of about forty people. Behind him, an attractive blonde woman wore a pink pillbox hat and a matching suit and capelet. Flanking her were two teenage boys in suits, each holding a stack of pamphlets. Philip heard the Southern drawl but couldn’t quite make out the words. They walked closer.

  “My friends, as we stand here on this beautiful Sunday afternoon, homosexuals across the country and in this very city are busy recruiting your child
ren to join them in their perverted, sinful ways.”

  Philip stopped at the back of the crowd behind a group of four stylishly dressed men and a woman in a finely tailored tweed suit. Her chestnut hair was cut short, the fedora on her head tilted at a jaunty angle.

  “Why are we stopping?” Beau whispered.

  Philip ignored him, intent on hearing the speaker’s words.

  “That’s right, brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ, Our Savior. Dirty perverts want your sons and daughters for an immoral crusade. Sent here from the Soviet Union by the godless communists, they’re part of Brezhnev’s evil plan to overthrow this great country.”

  Philip couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Except for the well-dressed group in front of him, heads in the crowd nodded approval.

  “Let’s go,” Beau hissed. “We do not need to be here right now.”

  Philip raised a finger to his lips and shushed him. The handsome, charismatic man on the steps drawled on with an accent as thick as Beau’s, gesturing wildly with his hands, now and then pointing his finger at the crowd or the sky as he talked. Philip thought he favored Beau—something about the eyes and mouth. They even had similar haircuts.

  “The Bible tells us a man who lies with a man as one lies with a woman has committed a detestable act and must be put to death. Wiping this blight from our city is our duty as God-fearing Christians. We owe it to our children.” He paused, taking in the faces of the curious spectators gathered around him. “What can you do?” He paused again, as if waiting for the crowd to answer. “First and foremost, warn your children to be wary of homosexual predators. They’re everywhere, especially where children gather.” He paused as parents pulled children closer to them. “Second.” He raised two fingers above his head. “If you suspect someone of being homosexual, notify the police. Pay particular attention to people who work for the government and those working with children, like schoolteachers.”