Philip’s stomach lurched. His hands trembled and he breathed shallow breaths. He didn’t know what upset him more: the man’s words or the crowd’s reaction to them. He wanted to say so, but Beau was nowhere to be found.
“We must rid the capital of our great nation of this pestilence, no matter the cost.” He jabbed his fist into the air and paused, peering out over the crowd. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, no matter the cost. Even when the homosexual is your own child, God demands that you cast him out or suffer eternal damnation.”
Philip thought of James and Daniel, how they’d been kicked out of their homes, their tragic deaths, and their lives cut short. Anger coursed through his veins. He couldn’t contain himself. He yelled, “Throw children out onto the streets?”
When the crowd turned toward Philip, the fedora-wearing woman and her friends fell in around him, as if to protect him should the crowd grow hostile.
The handsome speaker’s gaze settled on Philip. “Yes, if he is homosexual. God commands it.”
Philip fumed. “And what happens to children who are abandoned by their parents?”
“They burn in hell for all eternity. The parents will enter God’s kingdom,” he proclaimed, “for ridding the land of homosexuals is pleasing to the Lord our God.”
The man’s words upset Philip so much he couldn’t speak.
“How do you tell the homosexuals from everybody else?” The question came from the suited woman.
“Good question.” The speaker scanned the crowd. “Most of the time a homosexual gives himself away. Maybe it’th the way he talkth,” he said, drawing laughter. “Or the way he walks.” He pranced a few steps. “It could be the clothes he wears, or his interest in girly things like hairstyles, makeup, and dresses.”
“How about an unusual interest in homosexuals?” The question came from a bespectacled man, maybe ten years older than Philip, next to the woman in the suit. His friends snickered.
The speaker paused and seemed to think about his answer. After a moment, he spoke again. “Why, yes, an unusual interest in homosexuals would most certainly be a warning sign.”
Laughter from the little well-dressed group around him caught the man off guard. The speaker reddened as he stared at them. Philip said, “Would rambling about homosexuality from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial suggest an unusual interest?”
The crowd guffawed. Philip pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe nervous sweat from his forehead.
The furious speaker forced a smile and waited for the crowd to grow quiet. “Like Asa in the Book of Kings, the Lord has called me to rid the land of homosexuals.” He glared at the crowd. “The sodomites know God’s penalty for these things and do them anyway. His wrath for these abominations knows no limits!” He wiped the spittle from his chin and pointed to Philip. “Who are you to mock the word of God?”
Philip glanced to either side and then gestured to himself, eyebrows raised in question.
The speaker glowered at him.
Emboldened by outrage, Philip stepped forward. “I wouldn’t dare mock the word of God. God’s word is love. The hate-filled garbage you spout is insane.”
Attracted by their interaction, the crowd had doubled since Philip arrived and now gaped at the preacher, waiting for his response.
The preacher nodded at the two young men beside him. The boys and the blonde woman dispersed into the crowd, distributing flyers to anyone who’d take one. The man raised his fist into the air and his eyes to the heavens as he boomed, “Corinthians tells us that adulterers, male prostitutes, and homosexuals will have no share in the Kingdom of God.” He then adopted a submissive pose, hands at his sides, palms out. He lowered his voice and spoke in a more conversational tone. “God wants us to run from sexual sin and to honor him with our bodies.” He shook his fist at Philip and yelled, “The penalty for homosexuality is death! Their blood will be on their own hands. And you, my friend, should cleanse your sinful heart before it’s too late.”
Philip’s face grew hot. He wiped his forehead, shoved his handkerchief into his pocket, then pointed a trembling finger at the preacher. “How dare you judge me or anyone else!”
A sardonic grin appeared on the speaker’s face. He nodded at the crowd in front of him. “You see, ladies and gentlemen?” He pointed at Philip. “That’s one of them homosexuals, here at the Lincoln Memorial this very day, trying to recruit me for his immoral crusade.”
The crowd murmured. Philip hadn’t been so angry since… well… since Roland Walker’s visit. He yelled back at the man. “I’ll stand before God with my sins, whatever they may be, and take comfort in the knowledge that you will too.”
The preacher’s face darkened. “You are an abomination! You will know God’s wrath and spend all of eternity in the burning flames of hell!”
Philip couldn’t stop himself. His hands were trembling and his heart raced. “No doubt, I shall see you there.”
The crowd laughed, breaking up into couples and small groups that fanned out across the National Mall to resume whatever they’d been doing before the sermon got their attention.
The woman wearing the fedora turned to Philip. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” he said with a nod.
She winked and gave him a toothy grin. “We’d like to talk with you about joining our immoral crusade.”
Chapter Nineteen
GOING OUT with Poppa for one of his speeches made Harold feel like an organ grinder’s monkey. He was waiting for the cue from him to distribute pamphlets, all dressed up in what his mother described as an “adorable” suit. Off the rack. From Montgomery Ward. Bad enough he had to wear the suit. To be forced to don the ugly flour sack in front of a crowd bordered on abuse.
He wouldn’t mind standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial half as much in an outfit like his mother was wearing. She favored Jackie O, with her pink suit, pillbox hat, and matching capelet. Harold had tried on the outfit right after she bought it, but pastels didn’t really work with his coloring. His mother hated going out for the speeches as much as he did. With the Third spending more and more time watching the Fourth dry off after a shower, Pete squirmed throughout the speeches, and Harold couldn’t believe Poppa had the nerve to shout out accusations that the two of them had long ago determined applied to him.
From his vantage point on the stairs, Harold noticed the well-dressed men at the back of the crowd and couldn’t keep from staring at the fedora-wearing woman. Only the skirt gave any indication that her tailored suit had been designed for a feminine frame. That she dared to dress in such a masculine fashion intrigued him. He suspected nobody in her circle wore anything available from Montgomery Ward.
His fascination with the group grew when a handsome, goateed gentleman challenged the Third’s position on casting homosexual children from the home. Poppa never mentioned what to do about a homosexual parent, but Harold often thought about how much happier they’d be without him around. He and Pete had talked about guaranteeing a place in God’s kingdom by ridding their family home of homosexuals, but they didn’t know how they were supposed to cast him out. Harold watched Poppa’s face turn red from the goateed man’s taunting. His button had been pushed. Let the countdown begin.
He laughed along with the crowd at Poppa’s ignorant instructions on how to identify homosexuals. Harold liked girly things, but as he’d explained to Pete, he wasn’t homosexual. Over time, he’d come to see himself as a no-no sexual because, in truth, he really wasn’t interested in sexual relations with either gender. He tended to be more attracted to women than men, but that had more to do with the clothes they wore than anything else. He was a true closet case, with a decided preference for women’s closets.
But Poppa threw him in the same basket with homosexuals, child molesters, a host of varied and assorted perverts, and men who had sex in anything but the missionary position for purposes other than procreation. His tireless campaign to root out every homosexual in America had long ago
grown tiresome to the rest of his family.
To say Poppa had an unusual interest in homosexuals was an understatement. He was obsessed. Poppa didn’t need a preacher to exorcise his demon. What he needed was a few years on the couch with a competent mental health professional. That’s what his mother said, anyway.
Pete nudged him, and Harold knew the time had come to perform. He marched down the steps and, as soon as he hit the crowd, handed Poppa’s pamphlet to anyone who would take one. He was working his way toward the woman and her friends when the exchange between Poppa and the goateed man grew heated.
The dramatic clash between his apoplectic father and the exasperated goateed adversary had attracted a crowd. At previous speeches, by the time Poppa got to Corinthians, only a few stragglers remained for his lunatic rant. He watched as the goateed man lambasted Poppa for daring to judge others and saw the handkerchief he’d used to wipe his brow miss his pocket and fall to the ground. Harold wanted to hug the man for standing up to his father, and he thought retrieving the fallen handkerchief would give him the chance.
When the goateed man told Poppa he’d see him in hell, Harold had to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing with everyone else. If he caught his mother’s eye or Pete’s, he’d crack up. Harold kept his eyes focused on the now red-faced goateed man and watched as he walked away with the fedora-topped woman and her well-dressed friends.
As the crowd broke up, Harold’s job changed from handing out pamphlets to retrieving discarded copies for reuse. He beelined for the fallen handkerchief, gathering up papers as he went. By the time he grabbed the silk cloth, the man and his friends were too far away for Harold to go after them.
“What’s that, Harold?”
His father’s question caught him off guard. He realized too late he should have stashed the handkerchief in his pocket the second he picked it up. But he hadn’t, and now Poppa held out his hand, waiting for Harold to give it to him. “A handkerchief. That man with the goatee dropped it.”
Poppa snatched the silk cloth from him, grasping a corner in each hand to straighten it. Harold saw fine embroidery along one edge. His father saw it too and smoothed the handkerchief out in his hand to read the name stitched in black thread. “Philip Potter.” He stuffed the wadded-up handkerchief into his pocket. “I’ll have to see about finding Mr. Potter. So I can return his handkerchief.”
Harold thought about asking to go with him but knew better. He wasn’t sure what Poppa had in mind, but whatever it was, Harold didn’t think he’d be welcome to go along.
Chapter Twenty
AS THE clocks chimed noon, Philip locked his office door behind him—which he wouldn’t do if he was coming back. But this afternoon he was meeting George Walker after lunch to hear what the private investigator had found out. He’d brought along the bestselling biography that Randolph Churchill had written about his father to read over a long lunch in a booth at the Woolworth’s on Connecticut Avenue, a mere two blocks from the attorney’s office where they’d meet at two.
As the sun was shining and he had plenty of time, Philip opted to walk rather than take a taxi. By the time he reached his destination, half his lunch hour was gone. He was glad he’d taken the whole afternoon off.
The size of the lunchtime crowd surprised him. He joined the queue waiting for a booth or a spot at the counter to open up, pulled out his book, and then noticed George sitting alone in a booth, reading a paperback.
George’s face lit up when he saw Philip, and he waved him over. “Please, won’t you join me? No point in waiting. I haven’t ordered yet, and with so many in line, taking up a table all by myself is downright criminal.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I wouldn’t want to intrude.” As excited as Philip was to read an insider’s view of Winston Churchill’s life, the idea of spending time with George appealed to him more. He’d often thought since the meeting in George’s office that his initial assessment had been unfair. Finding out that George had played no active role in fomenting Roland’s plans and that he’d been as disgusted as Philip by the man’s crazy scheme had changed Philip’s opinion. The brothers were as different as night and day, and Philip found himself drawn to George to the same degree his obnoxious brother repulsed him.
“Nothing would please me more.” George stood as Philip neared the booth and offered his hand. “Good to see you again.”
Philip grasped his hand. “Running into you is a pleasant surprise.” He removed his coat and beret and slid into the booth across from George. “Sorry to interrupt your reading time.”
George closed Games People Play. “Interesting stuff that mostly makes sense. If you act like a parent in a relationship, don’t be surprised when the kids rebel and that sort of thing.”
His remark hit home, and Philip wondered if George had intended for the comment to sum up so well his relationship with James. Yes, he loved James. But he’d never been in love with him. He’d been more of a parent or caretaker, not a lover, and nothing like an equal partner.
The waitress slapped a glass of water down in front of him with a paper napkin and a fork. “Are you ready to order or should I give you a few more minutes?”
Philip picked up the menu and nodded at George. “Go ahead. I’ll make up my mind while you order.”
“I’d like the club sandwich, on whole wheat—toasted, hold the tomato, extra mayo—and a Coke.”
“Fries or chips?”
“Fries.” He smiled. “I like my fried potatoes hot.”
“That sounds good,” Philip said, handing the waitress his menu. “I’ll have the same thing, exactly.”
As the waitress walked away, George glanced at Philip’s book. “I see you’re reading Winston S. Churchill. Heavy stuff. History buff?”
“You could say so.” Philip nodded. “I work at the Smithsonian—something I’ve dreamed of doing for as long as I can remember. Before he died, my father often took me on tours of the museum. I’ve always been fascinated by the dioramas, skeletons, and expertly preserved specimens he showed me. Working there is a dream come true.”
George smiled, but Philip thought he saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. “You’re fortunate to be living your dream.” He twisted the gold band on his finger—a nervous habit Philip had noted when he’d visited his office.
Philip decided they’d talked enough about him. “So tell me, George. Why Games People Play?”
He picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “Well, there are a few courtroom applications, to be sure. But mostly my interest is personal.”
Again Philip saw that faraway look in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. Personal interactions intrigue me. I’ve studied how people relate to each other for years in a futile attempt to learn to predict or explain what people do and why.”
Philip wondered what events in George’s life had given rise to his desire for this understanding and thought maybe Roland had something to do with it. The two brothers were so different. They must have clashed over and over again as they were growing up. Although George was the younger of the two, Philip suspected his quiet, thoughtful manner had made him more than a match for his brasher sibling.
Then he saw it. There, on George’s right wrist, the tennis bracelet James had bought him that he’d lost so long ago. “What a lovely bracelet. A gift from your wife?”
“No.” George held his arm out so Philip could see. “My mother gave me this bracelet when I graduated from law school. I thought I’d lost it. Couldn’t find it for months, and it showed up in my office about two years ago, down inside the cushions of the sofa. I have no idea how it got there.”
The waitress plunked down plates of crinkle-cut fries piled high atop triple-decker sandwich triangles speared with colored toothpicks. She grabbed a red squeeze bottle from the empty table beside them. “Here’s some catsup. Need anything else?”
Philip shook his head, too numb from the revelation about th
e bracelet to speak.
“I don’t think so, thank you,” George replied. “Philip, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Philip knew George’s history with the bracelet was authentic. His own link to the jewelry, however, now seemed rather dubious. He decided not to tell George he’d taken good care of his graduation present during the time Philip had believed it to be a gift from James.
That James had lied stunned him. Philip had believed they’d always been truthful with each other. Stealing was even worse, and for James to have stolen the bracelet his grandmother gave his uncle for graduation to give to Philip for Christmas….
At least now he knew what had become of the bracelet. Unlike the handkerchiefs he could never keep up with—even with his name embroidered on them—he hadn’t lost it.
He noticed the expectant look on George’s handsome face. Stay in the moment! “Shall we?” Philip gestured at his plate. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Chapter Twenty-One
ANTHONY VINCENT was a lucky man. George Walker, his court-appointed attorney, had cut a deal with the DA in exchange for his testimony about a bank robbery gone wrong. He’d only had to do a nickel in the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philly, dodging murder charges that could have meant a life sentence or even the death penalty.
Rather than the end of the world, going to prison had been good for him. Before, he’d been an angry young man, always ready for a fight and the chance to prove he wasn’t someone to mess with. Prison had tempered his anger and given him time to think about the path he was on, where he wanted to go, and the changes he needed to make to get there. Now—thanks to Mr. Walker—his life had purpose and was moving in a much better direction than had been the case before they’d met.
Unlike every other man Anthony had ever known, Mr. Walker cared about him and where he was headed. He’d been happy to talk with Anthony about how and why he’d become a lawyer, provided him with books to read while he was in prison, and taken the time to answer any questions Anthony had about what he’d read. He’d always believed good guys finished last and breaking the law was the only way to get ahead. Mr. Walker had shown him another way.
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