by Greg Lilly
“He led a protest of a play with a gay character, and has had books removed from the school libraries.” Daniel rubbed his hairy forearms and sank back into the booth. “And to think he has a gay nephew.”
Hearing this made my stomach churn. I took a gulp of beer hoping it would settle the acid climbing up my throat. “You know, in a way, it doesn’t surprise me. The family is fucked up.”
“How so?” Daniel ordered us another pitcher of beer.
“To begin with, Harris is my great-grandfather’s name. Grandma Eleanor married a cousin named Harris, distant cousin they claim, but looking at Vernon, I’m not so sure. Vernon and Mother are double Harris blood. In fact, the Harris name is so important to them, we all have it. Tim is Timothy Ernest Harris Mason; I’m Derek Montgomery Harris Mason; Valerie is Valerie Amanda Harris Mason. It’s a mess filling out my name on a form.
“Anyway,” I continued, “when I realized I was gay, they shipped me off to college, I guess to protect the Harris name, so it wouldn’t be stained with scandal.”
“Being gay isn’t scandalous, at least not these days. It took me years to come out. I was always scared someone would see me going into a bar, or worse yet, meeting someone in a bar I knew.” Daniel chuckled.
“Yeah, that does seem odd to me. Especially after living in San Francisco all these years; if you aren’t gay there, that’s the scandal.”
“Hey,” his eyes sparked, “would you be willing to talk to the media about how this campaign affects you? The gay nephew of the conservative candidate, you know, refuting his points on gays and lesbians, that’s the majority of his platform. Without it, he doesn’t have any real platform.”
I liked the idea, embarrass Vernon and Gladys and make them squirm. Gladys always tried to hide me, but what about embarrassment for Valerie and Ruby? “Maybe… But I don’t live here, this isn’t my election.”
“You’re still a story. Vernon Harris has a gay nephew that he disowned. We could show the voters how wrong that is.”
“No, can’t do it. I don’t plan on staying here much longer.”
Daniel cast his gaze down to the table and twisted the edges of his beer soaked napkin. “I really enjoyed talking to you; it’s not everyday I meet someone like you: handsome, interesting, fun. I was hoping to see you again.”
I sift through all of San Francisco for a guy like this, and then find him in a town I can’t wait to get out of. My damn luck. “If you give me your number, I’ll call you later. Maybe we can go out to dinner tomorrow.”
He wrote his name and number on a matchbook; I slipped it in my pocket. Maybe I’ll stay a few more days. Charlotte might not be as boring as I thought.
RUBY STACKED BOXES to one side, clearing a path through the attic. “I feel bad moving Walterene’s things up here so soon.”
“It’s best to do it while you have help,” I followed her across the dark dusty space, ”and besides, it will help to stay busy. I can organize things up here; why don’t you go downstairs and decide what can be stored away?”
She turned and went back to the stairs. “I just hate rummaging through her stuff. Not in the ground three days, and we’re burying her life in boxes.”
“We’re preserving her memories,” I corrected. Then I thought about how generous Walterene had been. “Oh, and Ruby, why don’t you make a pile of clothes to donate?”
Ruby climbed down the rickety pull-down stairs, muttering to herself. I knew she wasn’t crazy about packing up Walterene’s clothes, but my experience with death in San Francisco was that there were enough reminders without seeing the deceased’s clothes every time a closet or a drawer was opened. I started going through boxes and writing the contents on the side, and arranged some scattered books on shelves built between the studs of the gable. Then I saw a box stuffed with notebooks and girls’ diaries, the type with little locks securing the contents from nosy brothers. This could be interesting, I thought. “My Diary” was imprinted on the front of a pink one and under that, in carefully blocked print, the name: Walterene Ethel Simmons-1946. I felt a little guilty opening it, but this was Walterene as a little girl; I felt she wouldn’t have minded.
January 26 Dearest Diary,
Uncle Earl wrote from New York. He says I should come visit to see a play called Carousel. Blackie died. He was a good dog. Pa said he will go to heaven and keep a dead soldier company. Edith’s father died in the war, maybe Blackie will be with him. Ruby said she saw Sam naked taking his bath. She said it was funny. I wish I had a brother.
I flipped through the pages looking for something more interesting. She was probably ten or eleven then. I thumbed through some of the other diaries-ones from her teenage years. I came across handwriting that seemed urgent and feverish; the first words on the page confirmed it:
They killed him, no questions, no trial, nothing. Mr. Sams had always been so nice to us all. Gladys lied. I know she did. She was mad because Ruby and I teased her. But to claim that! How could she?
I went to the tree where they hanged him, made Ruby come with me. About a mile off Park Road in the woods, an oak tree with high limbs still had the rope swinging in the breeze. I prayed for Mr. Sams.
I heard them go after him, of course I didn’t realize what was going on last night, but I remember hearing the cars drive off and the hoots and yells from the men. I know he was with them, probably leading the way. I hate him. I hate Gladys. I hate them all. If it wasn’t for Ruby, I’d go crazy. Mr. Sams-the only good and decent thing in my life, and they kill him.
Bet they took Vernon with them. Time to teach him to hate and kill people. Tomorrow, watch them hide their cloaks and hoods and join the rest of us in church. MR. SAMS WAS A GOOD MAN!!!
Murder. I couldn’t believe it. I climbed down the stairs, and found Ruby sitting on the bed folding clothes.
“What happened to Mr. Sams?” I asked, holding the book out to her.
“That’s Walterene’s. Give me that.” She snatched it out of my hand. “You shouldn’t have read that. It’s private.”
“But someone hanged Mr. Sams, isn’t that true?”
“Yes, but that was a long time ago.” She held the diary close to her.
“It was the Klan, wasn’t it? Was Vernon part of it?” I had to know. If he was, I had to stop himfrom being elected.
“What? No, no Harris ever did anything like that,” she defended.
I knew she didn’t want to talk about it, so I let it go. “I just saw that one page about Mr. Sams being killed and Walterene mentioned that they might have taken Vernon with them that night.”
Ruby started to cry.
Easing down on the bed next to her, I tried to comfort her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Mr. Sams did yard work for Grandpa at the house on Dilworth Road. He had worked there as long as I could remember. When us grandkids came around he would tell us stories of old plantations and ghosts.” She sniffed back the tears. “As we got older, he still treated us like children, patting us on the bottoms as he said good-bye. Gladys took it the wrong way and told Grandpa Ernest. He fired him on the spot. After more than thirty years, he was fired. The next day, someone found him hanging from a tree. He took his own life. In fact…” She stood and led me through the house and out the side door. She pointed to a towering oak next to the driveway. “That tree, Mr. Sams died on that tree.”
“You make it sound like suicide. Do you think he killed himself for losing his job?”
“Thirty years is a long time to work for one family, and then to be fired. I always thought he took his own life. Walterene swore it was a lynching.” She still stared into the soaring oak.
“But,” I had to ask, “why this tree?”
“Oh, the house wasn’t here then. A few houses had been built around, but Sedgefield Road had just been paved and houses were being built. That next spring, the foundation was laid for this house. Walterene and I were so afraid the tree would be cut down during the building, but it survived. She swore that she would live in
this house one day, and years later she and I bought it because it had Mr. Sams’ tree.”
“That’s a little morbid, Ruby. Wanting to live in a house where a lynch-”
She gave me a sharp look.
“Or a suicide,” I added quickly, “happened. Why?”
Using the handrails, she guided herself down to sit on the brick step. “It was to honor his memory, the last place he was alive; no matter what those last moments were, they were still his.”
I sat down next to her and held her hand. The branches of the oak reached across the driveway just a few feet above the tops of our cars. A few hanging baskets swayed in the breeze from the lower limbs, macramé hemp cradling lacy ferns. I imagined Mr. Sams, instead of the fern, swinging back and forth from a knotted rope.
“You know,” she inhaled a deep breath, “this was the place where Walterene had her last moments. It will be where I have mine, too.”
I couldn’t relate to being so tied to a place. In all the world, one small plot of land and house that held her past and future so tight that she believed it would be the spot where she would draw her last breath. We sat there in silence.
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to the soothing smell of brewing coffee. From the bathroom, I heard the doorbell ring. Who the hell comes by at seven o’clock in the morning? I thought. Maybe Valerie on her way to work. I shook it twice, tucked it back in my boxers, and flushed. Coming into the kitchen, I overheard Ruby trying to calm Mark’s angry voice.
He spotted me and shoved the newspaper in my face. “What the fuck is this?” he demanded.
“Mark!” Ruby scolded.
I dropped to the couch. A bold headline read:
Vernon Harris Scorns Gay Nephew
Chapter Six
“I DIDN’T DO it.” I knew Mark was too upset to believe me. “No one, I haven’t talked to…Oh, shit.” Daniel, it had to be, but I didn’t agree to talk to a newspaper. Did he go to them?
“What? Who did you talk to?” Mark paced across the den.
Ruby settled into her chair and read the paper. “Says here that Vernon denies knowing Derek is gay, and that he ‘loves the sinner, but hates the sin.’” She looked up with a sneer. “What a bunch of bull; whose Bible is he reading from? I could tell Vernon a thing or two.” The phone rang, and she answered it with a short, irritated, “Hello?”
Mark sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands. I took up his pacing.
“Oh, sorry Valerie.” Ruby leaned back in the chair. “Yes, we saw the article. I don’t know. Yes, I’ll tell him. Okay, see you then.” She hung up the phone, and said Valerie would be by at lunch.
“May I see the paper?” I asked. Ruby handed it over. I checked the byline: Daniel Kaperonis. He was a reporter. How fucking stupid could I be? “I know the guy who wrote the story,” the words squeaked out.
“What?” Mark bounded off the couch. “You talked to a reporter without clearing it with Dad’s campaign manager?”
“Hold on.” I slung the paper to the floor. “I don’t have to clear anything with anybody.”
He got in my face again. “Listen, in this town, what you say can cause a lot of trouble for the family.”
“Fuck the family.” I spit the words back at him.
“Boys!” Ruby tried to separate us. “I can’t stand this fighting.”
“Ruby,” Mark led her by the arm, “Derek and I need to talk. Would you please sit down here? We’ll go in the living room.”
I stormed through the kitchen and dining room to the little-used living room and turned, ready to fight, waiting for him to follow me, but realizing I still wore only my boxers, I felt at a disadvantage against Mark in his business suit. I went to my bedroom and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. When I came back in the room, Mark sat in a chair, tapping the rolled up newspaper on his knee.
“Have you calmed down?” he asked.
“Me? You’re the one who tore in here waving that damned paper around, accusing me.”
“But you said you had talked to a reporter.”
“I didn’t know he was a reporter.” I told Mark how I had met Daniel and what we talked about. “So, you see, I wasn’t intending to talk.”
Mark scanned the story again. “He didn’t use any direct quotes from you in the article, but when he went to Dad, he did, just to get a reaction out of him. Dad all but admits he knows you’re gay. Says here:
Vernon Harris commented on rumors by acknowledging his nephew, Derek, left Charlotte to attend college, and now resides in San Francisco. Harris said, “He was always rebellious and young people go through a lot of experimentation.” When asked about his own youthful experimentation, Harris only said, “I never did anything worse than sneak a cigarette or bottle of beer from my grandfather.” Harris’ grandfather was Ernest Harris, the founder of Harris Construction, philanthropist, and former Mayor of Charlotte. Vernon Harris, a US senatorial candidate, bases his campaign on the traditional family, and relies on several conservative churches for support. “The good God-fearing people of this community know I wouldn’t endorse the homosexual lifestyle in this city, and especially not in any member of my beloved family.” Harris concluded his remarks with the following: “I love the sinner, but hate the sin.”
“What a dickhead,” I said it before I could think.
“My father isn’t a dickhead,” Mark corrected, “he may act like one sometimes, but he means well.”
“Means well? He’s spreading hate and misinformation. What right has he got to stand up in front of the public and talk about homosexuality? Is he a doctor? A psychologist? A professor? No! He runs a construction company. What the hell does he know about me?” I looked into Mark’s eyes. “And what the hell does he know about you?”
His face flushed, and in a low tone, he hissed, “He knows nothing about me, and it’s going to stay that way. If you so much as mention to anyone that we had sex, I’ll deny it and claim you’re just trying to make trouble.”
“Mark,” I tried to keep my voice calm, “all his slurs and insults are not just directed at strangers, they’re aimed at me. And you.”
“I am not gay.” The statement hung in the air like he had dropped the final curtain on that part of his life.
“Be completely honest with me. We spent a lot of time together years ago; I think I knew you pretty well.” I took a deep breath. “Do you have any erotic feelings for men? I don’t mean acting on them, just fantasies.”
“No!” He stood as if ready to fight.
“Okay, okay,” I tried to calm him. “I just mean, sometimes it’s not so black and white. Many studies say that sexuality is a spectrum, and it changes in degrees. Maybe what we had was-”
“We were just kids.” He sat back down, seeming more relaxed.
“Right. Lots of guys have some attraction to other men: hero worship of a sports star or a close, loving friendship.” I smiled at a thought, “Of course, there is a difference when I look at Jeff Gordon-I’m not thinking about what a great NASCAR driver he is, I want him, sexually. But Darrell Waltrip-no way!” I laughed a little at my joke, and he finally gave way to a smile.
“He is cute for a NASCAR redneck,” Mark grinned. “You know, we all have to make choices.”
I nodded in agreement.
“You made yours to live your life as a gay man. I decided to live my destiny.”
I couldn’t keep quiet. “It’s not a choice. I couldn’t live any other way-”
“Willpower is all you lack.”
“Bullshit, Mark, I will notdeny my nature just because you do.” I knew I was pushing himtoo far again. “I can’t live my life sneaking around, jerking off with fitness magazines, or having an occasional anonymous encounter in a public park.”
He didn’t say a word. Head bowed, he didn’t look at me.
Braced for his verbal or physical attack, I waited. The silence between us thickened.
Mark stood, and I readied myself with clenched fists. He walked to the window and stared for
a while, then turned back to me, voice breaking. “This isn’t San Francisco. People can’t and won’t accept what they feel is so wrong. Not everyone has the freedom to run off and do what their hormones tell them. Some of us take up the responsibility handed to us.”
“My mother sent me away when I told her I was gay. I didn’t run off. She didn’t want other people to know-”
“The scandal would be too much.”
“This is the scandal. Now, everyone in Charlotte knows I’m gay and that my uncle doesn’t like it. Look,” I beat my chest with my fist, “I’m still standing; the world has not stopped; it didn’t kill her, and it didn’t kill me.”
“But you don’t have a wife; you aren’t vice-president in the company; you don’t have business contacts all over the state.” He leaned against the window frame, staring into the front yard.
“That’s right, but I’m happy. I’m honest about who I am, and for the most part, people respect me for it.” I walked to him and put my hand on his shoulder.
He pulled away from me. “That’s easy for you to say.” He picked up the paper again and waved it. “This is not a minor issue. This is sex; this is what brings careers to an end, but it will not ruin Dad’s campaign. I’ll see to that.”
“Mark, Vernon has nothing to do with my life. Hell, I haven’t talked to him in eight years; he probably wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup.” I sat down on the old feather-stuffed sofa, sinking into it. I didn’t want to tear apart the family any more than it was already. I didn’t want to hurt Mark by pushing him to acknowledge his own desires. I didn’t want to be here. Life had become too complicated; I wanted to go home.
Mark sat down next to me. “Will you talk to Dad’s campaign manager? Maybe he can come up with a way to turn this around.”
I still loved him. For some odd reason, at that moment, I couldn’t deny it. I had broken into his emotions and rediscovered the person I knew all those years ago. He wouldn’t admit his desire; the price was too high. It kept him bound to the life he’d built, to the life planned for him. The young prince who felt obligated to grow into the king everyone expected-that was Mark. “Yes,” I said, “I’ll do what I can. Maybe this will help soften Vernon ‘s stance on some of the social issues.”
