by Dorien Grey
“As you know, my father is a man of enormous ambition; it is, perhaps, the greatest single force in his life. He is driven by his perceived mission to restore the fundamental moral values—which is to say Christian values—upon which this country was founded. He chose law enforcement as his route to this goal, and he worked his way up through the ranks.”
He apparently chose to overlook the fact his maternal grandfather had been the city’s chief of police for many years, and that Chief Rourke’s climb up the ladder could not have been hurt by this association. But again, I said nothing, and turned my attention back to Kevin.
“But,” he said, “my father’s rise within the department was increasingly being jeopardized by Patrick’s total disregard for everything he knew our father was trying to achieve. And by the time my father knew he was in direct line for chief, Patrick’s behavior was totally out of control; there were two arrests, minor violations though they were, that friends of my father were able to keep from being made public. But it was clear that something had to be done.
“As you know, the police department is an extremely conservative organization…”
Gee, let me write that down, I thought. Luckily, Kevin was too deep into his story to notice the quick raising of my eyebrows.
“I know it sounds incredibly callous, but Patrick stood in the way of my father’s appointment. His homosexuality was becoming known outside the family and his circle of…friends.
“So, my father, being an eminently practical man, made an agreement with Patrick, who had no love, respect, or sense of duty to his family. My mother had inherited a sizable fortune, and if Patrick did not love his family, he certainly loved money. So, my father simply paid Patrick to disappear.
“An account was set up in a New York bank from which Patrick would be able to withdraw a set amount each month on condition that he never have contact with the family again. It was made perfectly clear to him that, should he be tempted to cause trouble or to ask for more money, the annuity would cease immediately.
“Patrick was only too happy to agree. The hunting-trip scenario was devised—”
I couldn’t keep myself from interrupting.
“Why? Why not just send him away, or disown him, or both? Killing him off just seems too…well, melodramatic.”
Kevin looked at me with mild annoyance, as though I were totally missing the point.
“You’re right, of course, in retrospect. But at the time…
“As long as Patrick was alive, attention could—and you can be sure would—be focused on him by my father’s enemies. They would have had a continual source of ammunition to be used against him, and I’m sure Patrick would have been only too happy to supply it.
“But with Patrick dead, the issue was also dead—for anyone to try to use him as a political weapon would mark them as insensitive and vindictive.”
He looked at me as if for some sign that I understood. I didn’t.
“I’m sorry, Kevin, but I just can’t help thinking that to drive a member of the family away simply because his being gay was blocking your father’s career…and then to be so—again, excuse my bluntness—so hypocritical as to pretend to grieve over him…”
Kevin looked at me with a mild expression of shock.
“Oh, no, Dick…no! My entire family—the younger children did not and do not to this day know any of this—truly, truly did grieve for Patrick. I grieved. I still grieve.”
“And where is Patrick now?”
“I have no idea,” Kevin said, but somehow I doubted that. “He has, uncharacteristically, kept his part of the agreement and has never contacted the family since that day. Money is still being withdrawn from the account each month, so we know he is alive, and I pray that he is well, and that perhaps he has found himself, if not God.”
We sat for a moment in silence, and I was aware Kevin’s eyes never left my face.
“It seems,” I said, “as though your father has dug himself a very deep hole.”
Kevin nodded.
“And now we are faced with a compounded problem. Even if we were to try to set the record straight at this point, it would be impossible. No one outside my family could possibly understand or, I’ll readily admit, be expected to understand. And my father’s career would be destroyed.”
We sat and stared at one another for what seemed like an eternity. There was no Ping! Ping! Ping! It was a stare of searching for some sort of answer to a question that probably didn’t have one.
While I loathed the chief and everything he stood for and knew I could easily use this information to destroy him, I felt oddly sorry for Kevin and didn’t relish the idea of betraying his trust. I realized, too, that the chief was pretty much his own worst enemy when it came to his actual chances for election and assumed the voters would be smart enough to realize it.
And, I decided, if worse came to worst, I could use Patrick’s story as a last-ditch move to keep the chief from winning.
Finally, I sat up straight to stretch my back, and since Kevin obviously wanted some sort of advice, I owed it to him to be honest. I got the impression he didn’t get much honesty in his dealings with his family.
“Okay. You’re right. Now that the subject of Patrick has been raised in the media, it will almost surely come up again. I assume the questions were only about Patrick’s being gay, and the rumors that your father had something to do with his death. No indication that anyone knows he’s still alive?”
Kevin shook his head.
“The very first and most obvious thing you have to do, and I’m sure your father’s advisors will back me on this, is to make damn sure you never get suckered into another situation like the one in Allen. Let your father’s handlers take care of who you talk to and when. I hope they’re smart enough not to go overboard and start asking interviewers for a list of questions in advance—that would practically shout that you have something to hide.
“I don’t think you have any choice but to, whenever Patrick is mentioned, say basically what you said in Allen. Don’t try to deny that Patrick was…is…gay, but don’t volunteer anything, either.
“And while I know it will be a strong temptation to fall back on some of the standard quotes from the Bible, I would strongly suggest that you don’t. Don’t moralize! Patrick was gay; Patrick was loved; Patrick is gone—I wouldn’t even use the word dead, if I were you. Stick to that.”
He nodded.
“And you’d better go over this whole thing with your father so you don’t start telling two different stories.”
He nodded again.
“Now,” I said, just to be certain I hadn’t missed anything, “no one else knows Patrick is alive?”
Kevin shook his head.
“You’re sure?” I prompted.
“I’m sure.”
“Well, let’s hope for your…” I had started to say your father’s but couldn’t bring myself to. “…sake they don’t.”
*
I was summoned to C.C.’s office immediately upon my return from the shelter and was surprised to once again be offered a seat. Not good.
“Your friend Kevin blew it,” C.C. began; little niceties like “Good morning, Hardesty” would be incomprehensible to him. I found his emphasis on the word friend mildly disturbing.
“I heard,” I said. “That was the gist of our meeting this morning.”
“I’ll just bet it was. If I were the chief, I’d ream that kid of his a new asshole. But it’s too late for that now. Now it’s up to me to handle the damage control.”
Yeah, C.C., I thought, it’s up to you.
“That Patrick Rourke was a faggot wasn’t exactly a state secret, but everybody thought it was over and done with when he had the good sense to get killed. I knew it was going to come back and bite the chief on the ass, and it has.” He glared at me as though he strongly suspected I was responsible. “Now, I want you to tell me everything you two talked about, and especially what you told him.”
I w
ent into Scheherazade mode and proceeded to weave a detailed tale of what was, in fact, the gist of our conversation without actually mentioning many of the details. I sure as hell didn’t mention that Patrick was alive. I told him I had advised Kevin the best thing to do was not make an issue of it, that to try to cover it up would be more damaging than treating it as casually as possible, and to respond to future questions with the “Patrick was gay, Patrick was loved, Patrick is dead” response.
C.C. just sat there, listening, a look of total disdain never leaving his face. When I had finished, he made a great slow-motion production of reaching into his thermidor, extracting a tobacco zucchini, unwrapping it, snipping off the end, lighting it, and then making exaggerated inhaling pup-pup-pup sounds as he took the first long draft.
After a long moment, he laid the cigar carefully on the edge of the ashtray and looked at me.
“Here’s exactly what you’re going to do, Hardesty. You’re going to downplay any references to Patrick being a faggot. You’re not going to send out press releases denying it. You’re not going to deny it, but you’re not going to make an issue of it, either. Use the sympathy ploy; make whoever asks feel like they’re stomping on the Rourke family’s private grief. Keep it brief. Do you understand?”
Uh, yeah, C.C. I think I understand. Thanks for coming up with that brilliant strategy all by yourself. I guess that’s why you get the big bucks.
I nodded.
C.C. took another long puff on his cigar.
“The State Association of Police Chiefs annual meeting is this coming weekend. You’re coming along to keep tabs on Kevin. The kid’s an idiot, but the chief really needs him.”
Although I’d heard from Kevin some time ago that I’d be along on the trip, this was the first mention C.C. had made of it to me. Not “Could you come?” or “Would you come?” but “You’re coming.” Class all the way.
He blew a long stream of smoke in my direction.
“You’ll be bunking in Kevin’s hotel room—we can’t afford to throw money around on extra rooms.”
I was once again impressed by C.C.’s charm, by his tact and diplomacy, by his concern for his employees’ feelings on whether or not they were willing to give up their weekends on a minute’s notice, or if they wanted to share a hotel room. Why ask when you can tell?
*
Wednesday was to be Chris’ last day at work, so his coworkers threw a party for him Tuesday night. I had a frozen pizza, called Bob to see how he was doing—which had become something of a ritual—and watched TV until Chris got home around eleven fairly well smashed.
The guest bedroom was filling up with boxes of his stuff, and by mutual unspoken agreement, we kept the door to that room closed. The apartment was starting to look a little bare—pictures missing from the walls, books missing from the bookcases, empty spots where knickknacks used to be. Things that had been so common I hardly paid attention to before but now knew I was going to miss.
But we both did our best not to notice, and I think each of us was grateful for the way the other was handling the whole situation.
Then it was Thursday, and our dinner with Bob. We contributed a really nice bottle of wine, not that he didn’t have a huge rack full already; and having mentioned it to Bob earlier, Chris had stopped at the local bakery for a sinfully rich chocolate cake topped with whipped cream and fresh banana slices.
Although we had not been really close friends before the fire, the tragedy had created a strange but strong bond among the three of us left. There was a vague awareness that we were dealing with loss—Bob’s, of course, was the worst, but in a different sense, Chris and I were losing each other as well.
Bob was doing as well as could be expected, and he actually laughed a couple times during the evening. When he spoke of Ramón, it was in a lovingly casual way, and none of us seemed to be made uncomfortable by it. Both Chris and I knew he was still hurting terribly, but he was strong enough to make it, and now we had no doubt he would.
*
The issue of Patrick Rourke’s homosexuality did, as expected, create a momentary fervor in the media; and Kevin found it necessary, in his pre-scheduled TV interviews before the police chiefs’ gathering, to ward off further incursions into the subject. He handled himself quite well, and the overall result was that most people did feel the family’s privacy should be respected, that the past should remain in the past.
I really wasn’t quite sure why I was being dragged along to the meeting, other than to handle the details of assuring maximum media coverage for the chief’s speech before the group and another short press conference afterwards. The prospect of being in the chief’s immediate presence, for however briefly we might have to be in the same building, was not a happy one.
To be honest, though, the idea of sharing a hotel room with Kevin for two nights was oddly intriguing. Something was going on with him, but I had absolutely no idea what that something was, and I was determined to find out.
*
And then it was Friday, Chris’s and my last day together. It’s kind of hard to put into words exactly how it went. Work, of course, simply went, hectic from the moment I walked in the door to the moment I walked back out again. The strangeness started with my going home. It was rather as if someone had opened a valve inside me, and something was draining out, leaving me with an odd, empty feeling.
Chris had our drinks waiting when I walked in the door. I noticed immediately that the dining room table was set for two, complete with candles and a bowl of flowers. It wasn’t our good china or silverware, of course—they were Chris’s and were already packed and put away in the guest bedroom—but it looked really nice anyway and in an odd way, it hurt. We each did our best to be cheerful and casual, and for the most part it worked.
Chris was getting mildly nervous about his flight, as he always did, and I sat in the kitchen with him as he made my favorite meal—pork chops nearly burnt, the crisper the better; mashed potatoes and pan gravy; and Brussels sprouts, which I knew Chris really didn’t care for. He’d even set out a little hors d’oeuvres tray with cheese and crackers and a dish of my favorite creamed herring.
Now I knew exactly how he’d felt when I’d handed him those damned plastic grapes.
There were quite a few phone calls—friends with last-minute goodbyes getting Chris’s promise to send his address and phone number as soon as he had them and heartfelt promises to keep in touch.
What did we talk about? I really can’t remember. The same things all people who’ve spent five years together talk about, I guess. We kept pretending it was just another evening at home, but we knew it wasn’t, and the hollow feeling was still inside me.
We headed for bed around ten, since Chris had to be at the airport by ten-thirty the next day, and I had to start my drive north. We undressed in silence, watching one another, yet the usual urge for sex wasn’t there for either of us.
When we climbed into bed and turned out the lights, I moved closer to Chris.
“Do you suppose we should take advantage of our last night?” I asked.
He wrapped his arms around me and snuggled closer, as he had done so many times before over the past five years.
“Let’s let it be something to look forward to,” he said.
So, we held each other warmly and in silence until we both, at last, fell asleep.
Chapter 10
Since I had had no desire whatsoever to fly anywhere on the same airplane with either C.C. or the chief, I had volunteered to drive my—well, Chris’s—car and bring up the boxes of press kits, signs, posters, policy papers, and assorted PR paraphernalia that would be needed for the two-day meeting. By leaving directly from the airport, I’d be at the hotel in plenty of time to get things set up for the five p.m. cocktail party that would kick off the conference.
It would also give me a couple hours to myself, which I felt I was going to need.
All the last-minute rushing around and getting ready in the morning kept both Ch
ris and me more than busy. The trip to the airport was spent mostly reminding one another of the various things each of us should be doing, last-minute instructions from Chris about not forgetting to water the plants (a chore he had taken on out of necessity because I never remembered to do it), to be sure to open all his credit card bills so I could let him know how much he owed, making sure I had the address and phone number for the hotel the company was putting him up in—right across the river from Manhattan in New Jersey, a quick bus ride through the Lincoln tunnel—until he found a place.
There was an accident on the freeway that slowed us down to a crawl for nearly a mile, and we didn’t arrive at the airport until ten-twenty. We decided I’d better just drop Chris off at the boarding passenger zone rather than try to find a parking place and go in with him. A limo just at the curb pulled out, and I swung in to take the space.
I got out of the car to help Chris extricate his two suitcases and duffel bag from the pile of meeting junk in the back seat. We set them on the curb and then just stood there awkwardly, looking at one another. At last, I stepped forward and grabbed him, and we exchanged a long, hard bear hug. Then we backed away, hands still on each other’s shoulders.
“Call,” I said.
“I will.” He picked up his bags and walked into the airport without looking back. I was glad he didn’t.
*
I don’t remember too much of the drive north. Traffic was relatively light, and the time passed quickly. I don’t remember much of what I was thinking about on the way, but I was very much aware of an almost overwhelming sense of loss.
I stopped for lunch at one of those chain restaurants that, each time I go there, I swear I will never go to again. And I always do. The food would have been eminently forgettable even if I’d been in a mood to remember it. But, I reassured myself, the bad food was more than offset by the lousy service.
Arriving at the hotel, I noted the “Welcome A.S.P.C.” announcement on the huge roadside marquee, and the banner over the main entrance read Welcome, Chiefs! Valet parking was available, but someone was just pulling out of a spot in the general parking area, and I took it.
