One Dead Drag Queen

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Scott brushed my hair back from my forehead. He caressed my face with his fingertips. “I love you.”

  I rested my face against the palm of his hand. I croaked, “Love you.”

  “You want some water?”

  I nodded. He raised the bed more upright and held the glass for me. I took it from his hand. I found my muscles worked well enough to hold the glass and drink. The water was smooth and pleasant going down, better than chocolate syrup on a hot-fudge sundae, but not by much.

  I cleared my throat several times. “I’ve been unconscious for two days?” My voice sounded weak and gravelly.

  “Yeah, it’s Monday, early evening.”

  “Have you called school?”

  “They don’t expect you back this week. Your boss and a few friends have been here.”

  “Not quite the way I’d like to get a week off in the middle of the year.”

  “Why don’t you relax while I fill you in on what happened?”

  I nodded. I leaned my head deeper into the pillow. With my fingertips, I caressed the hair on the back of his hand.

  “There was an explosion outside the clinic. That whole block was blown to smithereens. There was a huge fire. You were pulled out of the rubble just in time. A lot of people died.”

  I whispered, “The last thing I remember was talking to Alvana and playing catch with her son. Are they all right?”

  “We found a kid near you in the rubble. He was wearing a yellow and red outfit.”

  “That was Alan.”

  “He was alive when they rescued him. I’ll try to find out how he is.”

  “Alvana?”

  “There was a woman near the child. She was dead. I’m afraid it might have been her.”

  “Jesus. Alvana dead.”

  Alvana was the one who had asked me to come into the clinic the first time. We had known each other since college. Back then Alvana lived in an apartment half a block from mine. She used to bake the most exquisite chocolate cakes for my birthday, and the frosting she made was unbelievably light and sweet. No one else I know has ever been able to replicate it.

  It took me several minutes to digest this news. I managed to ask, “Do you know who else died?”

  “I don’t have a list. I didn’t know that many people at the clinic, so I probably wouldn’t have recognized anybody mentioned in the articles in the paper.”

  Scott began filling me in on the details of the scene and the rescue. When he told me about the horror while helping the victims, he began to cry. He spoke and wiped away tears at the same time. “I wasn’t really scared until I got home and I could think about it. Combined with fear about you, I never expect to live through anything worse.”

  I pulled him close and held him. I’ve been in combat and know firsthand the kind of horror he was trying to get used to. I wished I could take away all those memories, his suffering, and that of the people whom he’d helped. I patted his hair, listened to his breathing, felt his muscles begin to relax. “It’s going to be okay,” I said.

  When he finally sat back up, he said, “I think I’m supposed to be the one comforting you.”

  “I love you” was all I could think of to say.

  After a few more minutes, he resumed his story about that night. When he got to the part about my truck, I was appalled. “You were almost killed?”

  “I can hardly bear to think about it.”

  We’d come close to tragedy twice that night.

  He quickly related the rest of the events of the past few days. When he got to the part about the possibility of a terrorist cell across the alley, I asked, “Somebody really believes that?”

  “It’s the rumor. You know how that Internet crap spreads. Like butter left out to melt on a summer’s day in Georgia.”

  I said, “Where’s Pierre Salinger when we really need him?”

  “We at least have Brandon Kearn.”

  “I’m not sure I trust him either.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. If this were a thriller novel, he’d have been dead before he got a chance to tell you what he knew.”

  A few minutes after Scott finished, a nurse and a doctor came in. They examined, probed, asked questions, unhooked me from a variety of machines, and declared me in acceptable and not-all-that-far-from-perfect health. They wanted to keep me overnight for further observation, but I could probably go home in the morning. The more water I sipped, the better my voice sounded.

  My dad, brothers, and sister were summoned. Everybody gushed, hugged, joked, and finally left. I could have done with a few less nephews and nieces, although because it was late not a lot of the youngest ones showed up.

  Finally, Scott sat at the side of the bed holding my hand. The rest had left. The hospital was quiet.

  “I gotta piss,” I said. “Let’s see how steadily I can get to the washroom.” Nobody had said I couldn’t get up. Lifting my head off the pillow still caused me a little dizziness, but nothing unmanageable occurred. I swung my legs off the bed and tried to arrange my garments more modestly and comfortably. “These hospital gowns are totally useless.”

  “You want me to buy you some pajamas?” Scott asked.

  “Just help me get to the John.” I leaned on him heavily for the first few steps. My legs were a little wobbly, but I could eventually shuffle forward with a minimum of assistance.

  “Why do you keep looking at the back of the hospital gown?” I asked. “I can feel a breeze.”

  “I like the view.”

  “I’m not sure this is a good time for me to be either dignified or slutty. I could use a shower and a shave.” I caught my reflection in the mirror. “I must have looked worse,” I muttered, “but at the moment I can’t imagine when.”

  “You look great to me. Awake and moving.”

  “You could get that in a pet and not have to be in a hospital. Just think, you could listen to all the country-and-western music you want to on the stereo.”

  “Nobody looking at your butt would confuse you with a critter.”

  Scott still says things like “critter.” I love him anyway. He’s always liked the way my ass looks. Some people look at faces, some at crotches, some at legs, others at breasts. He’s a butt man. It’s okay by me.

  Scott made sure I was settled on the john and left me to my privacy. I propped my elbows on my knees and held my head in my hands as I felt my body resuming expected functions. When I finished, I managed to stagger to the bathroom door on my own, but was grateful for his assistance from door to bed. I felt better for having moved. He resumed his perch on the bed. I wasn’t sleepy.

  I said, “I want to try calling Alvana’s roommate, Patricia Rodgers. She worked in the clinic as well. She might know how other people are.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I need to try. I want to know how my friends are.”

  “Why not save that for the morning? I’m more worried about you.” Scott drew a deep breath. “I wish you didn’t take so many chances.”

  “You take your share of them.”

  “But then I’m taking the chances and not you.”

  “And that’s okay because . . . ?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t say it was rational, just that I love you, and I don’t want you hurt.”

  Something more was bothering him, but I didn’t know what. That he was upset by what had happened to me was clear. But I, who had known him for years, guessed he was holding something back. He does that at times, especially when it involves emotions. I’ve learned to be patient and wait for him to tell me. He’s learned that it’s important to recognize those things and eventually talk about them. I would wait.

  I pulled him back to me and kissed him. I felt his body relax against mine. He sat back up and took more deep breaths. His eyes misted over. He wiped his hand across his face. His nickname on the team is the Iceman because he is so cool and calm in tense situations. He’s always calm with even the most obnoxious reporters or interviewers.
I’ve seen the competitive volcano under that down-on-the-farm exterior he portrays to the media. I’m one of the few people he’s ever let see the intensely emotional man underneath the cool exterior. I still love the deep thrum of his voice, especially that residue of Southern drawl that sneaks in when he is deeply moved. He spoke softly, “I never want to be this scared again. I was afraid you were dead. I thought about missing you, a life without you. I don’t want that to happen. I want us to have years together.”

  “I do too. Always. The two of us on rockers in the old gay persons’ home.”

  He smiled. “I want them to write love songs about us, like Scarlett and Rhett.”

  “That wasn’t a song, it was a book and a movie. She was a neurotic, conniving bitch, and he was a war profiteer. Which one do you want to be?”

  “I don’t think you’re as dizzy or worn-out as you look. You sound pretty much like your old self.”

  “I’m sorry to joke. I love you. I’m sorry for the pain you’ve been through.”

  “In some ways, you’re the lucky one. You’ve been unconscious through all this. I’ve been the one awake and worrying.”

  “I’ve never considered the saving graces of being in a coma. It could become the new self-help rage. Think of the ad campaign. ‘We put you in a coma, not as bad as death, but better than reality.’ You and I could set up our own little cult and become rich and famous. Make predictions about the end of the world. I see a whole coma cottage industry.”

  “Keep alliterating that way and you could be drummed out of the English teachers’ union.”

  “I couldn’t help myself. Knock me unconscious for a day or two and there’s no telling what I’ll alliterate.”

  He leaned down and gave me another quick hug.

  A nurse bustled in. “Feeling better are we?”

  “Very much so,” I told her.

  She took my temperature and blood pressure. “He should get some rest.”

  “I’ll be going soon,” Scott said. The nurse left.

  I said, “I still want to try and call Alvana’s roommate.”

  He handed me the phone, and I dialed. Patricia answered. She sounded awful. She confirmed that Alvana was dead. She also told me the names of the others from the clinic who had died. I had worked with two of them for a short time.

  I said as many words of comfort as I could think of. That I was all right cheered her a bit. After I hung up, I said, “Patricia’s in bad shape.” I shook my head.

  “You’ve known Alvana a long time.”

  I reminisced for a few minutes about the good times she and I had shared. “I’m going to miss her.” My eyes misted over. A few moments later I said, “I’m going to find out who did this.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Scott said. “How? They’ve got hundreds of Chicago cops working on it. What earthly good could you do? Even if the attack was directed against us, how could we possibly find out anything significant? Besides, I told you, I hired private detectives for that.”

  “Who did you hire?”

  “Borini and Faslo.”

  “You didn’t! They’re notoriously homophobic.”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know that? Is there a list of required gay knowledge somewhere that you’ve been keeping from me? Brandon Kearn thought so too. That twit Myrtle Mae was here and said the same thing.”

  “Myrtle Mae showed up here?”

  “And he was as snide and snotty as ever. Why do you like that creep?”

  “He can be genuinely funny. I know his flair for the uselessly dramatic annoys you.”

  “He’s developed it into a high art.”

  “He works very hard for many of the same causes I do. He did a lot of good work for this community for years before any of the rest of us. He was out there on his own taking risks that no one else dared to take. He lost three jobs and got beaten up numerous times before he started doing drag twenty-five years ago. Actually he’s been safer in drag.”

  “Fine. We’ll elect him saint of the millennium. I hate him. Although he did call earlier this evening. He said a woman named Susan Clancey was planning to come to town. Myrtle Mae said you’d recognize the name.”

  “I know she’s a doctor who performs late-term abortions. I bet he’s thinking that Clancey’s visit could have been connected to the clinic bombing.”

  “I guess so,” Scott said. “Right now I don’t want to talk about him or any investigation. Let’s talk about what the hell we’re going to do with the rest of our lives. I think we’re in danger, and I think we need to take drastic action.”

  “Like what?”

  “We need to get out of here. We should go far away. If we’re really pushed to it, I can afford to buy us a small island in the South Pacific. We could be happy there.”

  “I’m a teacher. I have a life here. We can’t just disappear off the face of the planet.”

  “I know you want to be independent and not beholden to my money, but we’re in heaps of trouble. People are trying to kill us. You could find something to do on an island.”

  “I have no intention of spending my life hiding in a lead-lined bunker holding a bazooka in my hands waiting to blow to smithereens the first person to walk through the door.”

  “I’m talking lovely tropical island here.”

  “Palm trees and miles of ocean are just another kind of lead-lined bunker. Whether confined in a tight space or a hundred square miles, it means those who have threatened us have won.”

  “Haven’t they already?”

  “Running away isn’t my style. Nor do I think it is a very good solution. A terrorist organization capable of the destruction they caused here would be able to buy, borrow, or steal a boat or a plane, sneak onto an island, and bomb, maim, torture, and do whatever else they enjoy doing to victims. Do an army and a navy come with the island? Or maybe it could be a ‘discount island’ with a limited protection warranty.”

  “You’re the one that’s hurt, and you’re making jokes.”

  “I’m not ready to take up my machine gun and walk. At least not until tomorrow when the doctor releases me. Then I’ll be ready.”

  “You want us to just parade ourselves around the countryside?” Scott asked.

  “Which we’ve done a lot of. We both willingly went on all those talk shows. I don’t regret that decision. I’m going to be part of finding out what the hell is going on. Whether or not the threats against us are mixed up in the bombing, I’m going to work on it. This is going to stop.”

  “How?”

  “You already said my school doesn’t expect me back this week. I’m going to spend the time figuring things out.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “You want to help?”

  “I’m not feeling like I have a lot of choices here. If I let you go by yourself, I’ll feel guilt about not helping. I’d be worried every minute you’re gone.”

  “Here I am awake only a few hours and inflicting guilt on the one I love the best. I must be close to one hundred percent better.”

  “Joke if you like. I’m really worried.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry about my levity. Maybe it’s just nervous relief.” I shifted in the bed. My butt was sore. “We both know we probably can do little, if anything, to help solve the major crime here. By doing something proactive, I think we can at least give ourselves some peace of mind about the personal threats.”

  “Do you think you can stop them?”

  “The more we can find out the better.”

  We looked at each other brown eyes to blue. I’m a sucker for that puppy-dog look of his. Have been since the day I met him. It also turns me on. So, I’m afraid at that moment, memories of him naked mingled with less pornographic love and affection.

  At last he nodded slightly. “Okay, I’ll help. What do we do first?”

  “We could start with that typed note that was found here. We should be able to get a list of who’s working on th
is floor. Would a criminal be fortunate enough to have a job in the exact spot I happen to be brought to? Unlikely. It was probably somebody from outside, but we’ll keep the list handy for cross-reference. We can check if Borini and Faslo found anything out. Although if they’re homophobic, maybe they won’t do all that much.”

  “I offered them an awful lot of money, and they turned it down. That’s got to be a positive sign.”

  “I hope so. I also think we should work on the explosion.”

  “I thought you said it wouldn’t do any good to investigate that.”

  “No, I don’t think we’ll be able to solve it,” I said, “but I think we can nose around the edges and with any luck find out something that relates to our problem.”

  “That doesn’t sound plausible.”

  “It’s more plausible than running to an island or trying to hide in a lead-lined bunker.”

  “You’re the one who mentioned the lead-lined bunker,” Scott pointed out.

  “No bunker, no island. We find out what we can about the threats and the explosion. If the two meet in the middle, I’d be stunned, but I want to try both. I know we can’t interview every suspect, but we do have connections.”

  Scott nodded and touched my hand. “If you promise to be very careful, and keep guards around and not take any risks.”

  “What about your guards and Kearn’s news about McCutcheon?”

  “I still trust him,” Scott said.

  “I don’t think we can trust anybody at this point.”

  After a few moments, he said, “Look, we are not alone against the world. We have friends. We have people who care about us. We can’t do this by ourselves. We’ve got to trust someone at some point.”

  “For now I’m suggesting a healthy skepticism about everybody until we find out incontrovertibly that they can be trusted.”

  “I suppose we really don’t have much choice.”

  “I agree.” I sat up a little straighter in the bed. “The first thing we need to do is find out the name and background of every fatality and those who survived, what they did before, who they’re related to, everything.”