by Greg Lilly
I felt a need to defend my brother. “Mark, you are a senior vice-president at thirty; could you have achieved that in a company not run by your father?”
Offended, he shot back, “Derek, you don’t know all I do here-”
“Mark, you don’t know the real world. I’ve ridden out the ups and downs of Silicon Valley -”
“That’s not real world.”
“What the hell is it, then?” I jumped up from the sofa.
“Hold on,” he grabbed my hand, “I admit I’ve moved up fast, but I don’t think I would have if I didn’t prove I could do the job. Dad isn’t going to let the company flounder just to have his sons in high positions.” He let go of my hand, and leaned back on the couch again. “Anyway, is Tim complaining about us?”
“No, I just wonder, if Vernon wins his Senate race, will there be room for other family members to help run the company?”
“Hell, no.” Vernon burst through the door.
Jumping to his feet, face flushing from almost being caught too close to a known fag, Mark said, “Dad, Derek was just asking about Tim.”
Vernon paced to the window, then turned to me. “I thought you were leaving town.”
“Guess you thought wrong,” I said, walking toward him, but stopping within five feet. “I wanted to wish you well on your campaign.”
“The best wish for my campaign is to have you back in California.” He walked to a chair in front of Mark’s desk and sat down, leaving his back to me.
I glanced at Mark, who rolled his eyes, then sat down behind his desk, ready for business. “One thing before I leave,” I said. ” Vernon, do you remember Mr. Sams?” I wished I had asked the question when I could see his face, but Mark’s horrified expression reflected his father’s well enough.
After a moment of thick silence, Vernon spoke without facing me. “Never heard of him.”
Mark looked down at some papers.
Dropping into the chair next to Vernon, I propped my feet on the desk. “Well, that’s odd, since Grandma remembers him, and Ruby and Walterene remember him.”
A slow smile spread across Vernon ‘s assumed political mask. “Oh, you mean old Mr. Sams. Yes, he worked for Papa Ernest.”
Papa, exactly, I thought. “He was lynched, do you recall that?”
The smile faded and his face took a hard turn. “That old man was killed by the Klan.”
“Yeah, that’s what the newspaper said. Odd, though there hadn’t been any Klan activity around Charlotte in years. Why did they choose Mr. Sams?”
Vernon ‘s patience evaporated. “What are you implying? If you think you can associate any member of this family with the Klan, you are stepping into slander.”
“Derek,” Mark spoke up, “there is no way anyone from our family could have been involved in that murder. You know that.”
“Do I? From what I’ve found out, Mr. Sams was lynched the night Papa Ernest fired him. How did the Klan find out so soon? Who pointed him out? Who tied the rope? Who tightened it around his throat? Was it you, Vernon?”
“Shut up!” he yelled.
“Was it Papa Ernest showing you how to do business?”
“Enough.” Vernon stood, knocking over his chair.
Mark tried to grab his father’s balled fists from across the desk.
I braced myself for the first hit, ready to knock the old bastard, on his ass as soon as he gave me reason.
Mark righted the chair and directed Vernon back to his seat. Vernon calmed himself. “Don’t imply that Papa Ernest or I were ever part of that group.” His voice quivered. “Mr. Sams was one of the few men I respected growing up. He worked hard and never complained. I disagreed when Papa Ernest fired him, but I didn’t have much say in it. We had no association with the Klan.”
I believed that, but had they killed him and let the Klan take the blame? “Do you know who killed him?”
Turning to me again with anger clouding his eyes, Vernon said, “No. The police said it was a Klan lynching. If I knew who they were, I’d drag each one of their old carcasses out and throw them to the wolves. You don’t know this family, so don’t ever accuse us of something so horrible.” He straightened his necktie. “Your queer friends are just trying to dig up dirt to stop me from being elected, but let me tell you one thing, mister: I won’t dick around with my good name, or that of this family. Anyone bringing up some lie about us will find their ass in court.”
Mark leaned on the edge of his desk. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Dad. Let’s talk about Allen Harding’s lies. I think we need to confront him, not settle out of court.”
With that as my chance to get out, I signaled to Mark to call me and slipped out the door, still not sure if Vernon had been involved with the lynching.
Chapter Twenty-four
“I CAN’T BELIEVE you accused Dad of being part of Mr. Sams’ death.” Mark sipped his wine. The city lights sparkled through the window of his penthouse; soft, smooth jazz played low in the background. His tone implied he wasn’t offended but knew his father couldn’t have been part of the appalling act. Vernon had cemented his innocence in Mark’s mind, at least that’s the way I read Mark’s reaction.
“I’m still not sure who really killed him.” I pushed my body away from leaning against him on the couch, so I could see his eyes as we talked. “Walterene’s diary said she believed Papa Ernest and Vernon were involved; the newspaper report said the Klan did it; Vernon says they were never part of the Klan and never had any association with them, but what if they did it, and let the Klan take the blame?”
Mark sighed hard. “Derek, I believe,” he paused, “I know Dad would never do that. Do you honestly think any member of this family would be involved in murder?”
“Someone tried to kill me in the Observer building; someone hurt Ruby; someone made threatening phone calls to me at Ruby’s house. Who else, besides family, knows I’m staying there?”
Mark thought for a second. “Your boyfriend Daniel.”
“Why? Why would he? What does he have to gain?” I had tossed those questions around before and never come up with a logical answer.
“Maybe,” Mark drew out the word as he thought. “Maybe he would do it to make it look like someone in the family so you would blame us, maybe cause problems for Dad’s campaign.”
“Damn it,” I said, “I’m sick of hearing about that stupid campaign. The world doesn’t revolve around Vernon ‘s Senate race.”
“Hey, you asked.” Mark massaged the back of my neck. “Let’s go back to the bedroom.”
“Is that it? No foreplay?” I kidded him. “I bet Kathleen gets at least some cuddling, some romanticwords.”
“She needs to be warmed up,” he admitted. “But, you,” his hand rubbed the crotch ofmy jeans, “you are always ready.”
MARK LEFT ME sleeping the next morning. I woke and called Ruby.
“You boys stay up all night drinking, then sleep half the day away,” Ruby scolded.
“Mark’s at work, and I’ve been up for hours.” I fluffed the pillow and scratched my bad case of bed-head. “Did Valerie stay with you last night?”
“No, I sent her home.”
“What?” I sat up. “I wouldn’t have stayed here if I thought you were going to be alone.”
“I have to learn to be alone sometime,” she said. “Besides, I feel safe. I keep the doors locked and my Peter Beater within reach.”
“That may be, but you shouldn’t have sent Valerie home.”
“Hogwash. I’m a grown woman; I can take care of myself.”
I didn’t believe her for a minute. “I’ll be home in a little while-and don’t use that Peter Beater on me when I come through the door.”
I hung up the phone and headed for the shower. The water steamed as my mind drifted toward what Mark had said the night before. Was it possible that Papa Ernest and Vernon hadn’t had anything to do with Mr. Sams’ lynching? Could a young Walterene have made up the connection because she didn’t like Ernest
and Vernon?
I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair and soaped up my tired body. I hated to admit it, but Mark’s sexual appetite wore me out. After a few more minutes of the hot water running over me, I turned off the shower and dried with a large soft towel. Clean and wide-awake, I draped the towel on the rack and walked into the bedroom. Where did I leave my clothes?
I glanced around the room, then a movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. Kathleen stood in the doorway, my boxers hanging from the tip of her index finger. “You looking for these?”
Panic struck me immobile. The secret revealed-Mark’s worst fear, now mine. Naked before her, I didn’t know what to say or do. She tossed the boxers to me, and I snatched them in mid-flight, quickly pulling them on.
“I was just leaving,” I stammered.
“How long?” she asked.
How long? What a question to ask a man you’ve just seen naked. “What? What do you mean?”
It seemed ice cloaked her stance; her pale emerald eyes bore into me. “How long have you and Mark been sleeping together?”
By reflex, I glanced at the rumpled bed. Screw her; I had him first. “Since I was fourteen.”
She recoiled from the fact. “Fourteen? That son of a bitch.” She turned and stormed out of the room, returned with the rest of my clothes and slung them at me. “Get out.” Tears flooded her frantic eyes as she left me there at the scene of the crime.
HAS SHE CALLED Mark yet? I waited for the traffic light to change, wondering if I should go to his office to warn him, or just get back to Ruby’s. The gleaming buildings of downtown Charlotte seemed to mock me and the mess I had made for Mark; neat and tidy, the sidewalks hosted bankers, lawyers, professionals moving in their uncomplicated, clean, respectable lives. I steered the car toward South Tryon, driving past Harris Tower, bank headquarters, and finally the Observer building. Within a few minutes, I pulled onto Sedgefield Road, then Ruby and Walterene’s driveway.
“Ruby, I’m home,” I yelled as I walked in the door.
She came into the den wiping her eyes; she had been crying, so I hugged her hard. The emotions of the morning plagued me: hurting Kathleen, the one innocent in the whole tangle I had brought Mark into; outing Mark, by accident, but still as I considered it, maybe I had wanted to expose our relationship. I was the one who said I wouldn’t hide, but he was the one hurt. My arms wrapped around Ruby’s soft, plump body, and my mind came back to her feelings. “What’s wrong?”
“Just thinking about Walterene. I get so wrapped up in thoughts, I don’t know what to do without her.” She sniffed back more tears.
Rubbing her arms, I looked into her eyes. “It’s okay to think about her. Remember how she loved working in the garden?”
“Yeah,” she sniffed, “the tulips she planted last fall are gone; other flowers have taken their place. She loved planning what to add to the yard.”
“She kept a beautiful garden,” I agreed.
“Once,” Ruby managed a small smile, “we planted daisies next to the birdbath; she said I put them too close together, and I said they were just right. We got into an argument right there in the backyard. She starting pulling them up, and I tried to stop her.” Ruby chuckled between sobs. “I pushed her while she kneeled pulling up my daisies. I didn’t expect her to fall over, so I lost my balance and fell on top of her.” She looked at me and smiled. “Imagine what the neighbors thought. Two old women wrestling in the backyard, crushing daisies as we fought.”
“Who won?” I asked.
“I did. I grabbed a daisy and hit her on the head with the root end of it. Dirt flew everywhere. She had just had her hair set. She stormed back into the house, yelling that I’d just cost her ten dollars.”
I had never thought of them fighting, but all couples do. I said, “Lucky for her, it wasn’t a rock garden.”
“That’s right,” she smiled. “Let me fix you something to eat.” She pulled away from me and headed for the refrigerator.
“No thanks, I have no appetite.”
“Good Lord, are you feeling okay?”
The encounter with Kathleen left my stomach in knots; I wondered how Mark was reacting. “I’m okay,” I lied. “I need to call Mark.” Leaving Ruby in the kitchen, I went to her bedroom to use the phone in private.
Becky, Mark’s assistant, said that Mark had left the office, but she would be glad to put me through to his voice mail.
“Mark, it’s Derek. I guess you’ve heard from Kathleen.” The scene replayed in my head of Kathleen standing in the doorway of her and Mark’s bedroom; I couldn’t express the terror I still held from that moment. “Mark, if you need anything, or if I can help, I know I can’t do much at this point, but please call and let me know how you’re doing.” I hung up the phone and rubbed my aching forehead.
Confusion, guilt, and grief banged my thoughts like Ruby thumping Walterene with pulled-up daisies. I needed to get out. I needed to leave town, leave the mess behind. I wanted to go back to San Francisco, to never think of Mark, Daniel, Vernon, Mr. Sams, Gladys, or any of them again. I wanted my old life back. Grabbing my running shorts from the dirty clothes pile, I yelled to Ruby, “I’m going for a run.”
Without another word to her, I left the house and started running as hard and fast as I could, keeping my mind on each step. Sweat formed and dripped down my face as the heavy blanket of humidity kept the sweat from evaporating and cooling me. A car came up behind me, and as I glanced back, it signaled to turn on the street I was about to cross; I jogged in place at the corner waiting for the driver to turn, but he didn’t drive by. I looked back and the car was gone. “Bitch,” I muttered and crossed the road.
I kept running faster and faster. As I approached Park Road, the light changed, so I ran across the four lanes and toward Freedom Park. The sun’s rays filtered through the thick leaves of the overhead oak and elm limbs leaving me running in cool shadows. Freedom Park was the place we’d gone for summer concerts by the duck pond, to festivals and on field trips when we were kids in school. It was a popular, beloved gathering place, away from the concrete and cars of downtown; Freedom Park was the outdoor heart of Charlotte, nestled in the old neighborhoods, protected from mindless development, and open to everyone like a plump, happy mother opening her arms and offering a cookie and hug to a hurt child. I needed that hug. Rounding a corner to a new baseball field built on the edge of the park, I spied a water fountain, and headed straight for it. Energy drained by my sweat, I drank and drank, then splashed the water on my sweltering head, face, and chest. For a Friday lunchtime, the place was almost deserted. A sidewalk wound through the park, so I walked it to cool down and catch my breath, focusing on what I would say to Mark. He would be upset, of course, about Kathleen knowing, but would he convince her nothing happened? Would he try to deny it? How could he? Kathleen acted like she suspected; it hadn’t been like “Oh my God,” it was more “How long has it been going on?” I added another name to the list of people wanting me out of Charlotte.
The sun beamed hot on my back. Cranking back up to a jog on the concrete walkway bordering the pond, I discovered slick piles of goose shit posed slippery hazards to my run. I veered to the right on a dirt trail that headed into the woods. The cooler, shaded trail let me concentrate on Mark, not on goose droppings or the scorching sun. What is he thinking right at this moment? He had left the office, probably after Kathleen had called. Maybe he was trying to call me. Two young women jogged past me, they said “Hello” as they ran, but all I could do was nod an out-of-breath “Hey.”
A thought broke through: Mark might be calling right now. I decided to turn back. As I followed the trail to what I believed would take me back to the pond, a dark-haired man stepped out from behind a tree and grabbed my arm. Luckily, sweat made me slippery, and he lost his grip.
I sprinted away, but heard his footsteps fast behind me. Not having the breath to keep running at a getaway speed, I knew I would have to fight. No branch or rock was within reach; his
hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me back.
I fell, rolling across the damp dirt and soggy leaves.
Struggling to get out from under his weight, I saw his face. He wasn’t familiar; he could have been the man who followed me the day before in town, but I wasn’t sure. His identity didn’t mean much to me at the moment; I just wanted to get away.
A hit to the stomach knocked what little breath I had out of my body. I couldn’t breathe in. I gasped for air, but continued to struggle with the stranger. He didn’t seem to have a weapon, no knife, no gun, no blunt object. I hadn’t felt anything but the strike of his fists to my stomach, jaw, and side of my head. I got a good hit to his nose, and he rolled off for a second. Pulling in a lungful of air, I felt I was breathing again for the first time in hours. By my second breath, he was back, pounding on my body.
Is this it? Death? In the woods?
Blood smeared my hand. I wasn’t sure if it was his or mine. A hard left hook to the chin caught himby surprise, and I saw the bewildered look in his eyes and his bloody nose.
“Didn’t think a fag could fight, did you?” I pushed him off me. I was on my feet first, and when he started to get up, I kicked his knee out from under him. He fell with a thud. “Remember the Observer building?” I yelled.
He pulled himself up to his good knee. “Fuck you, faggot.” His scratchy voice froze me for a moment, a moment I didn’t have. With my next kick, intended for his balls, he grabbed my foot and tripped me to the ground. “You bastard,” he hissed. His hands tried to pin me to the damp decaying leaves. The dank smell of his body, or maybe it came from the forest floor, sickened me. I struggled to keep my hands free and fighting.
With a swift tug on my arm, he flipped me over, and twisted my hands behind my back. The fiend jerked down my running shorts. “Now,” he growled, “you get what all faggots want.”
Tremors shook my body. Rape. The word couldn’t convey the brutality, hate, and viciousness of the act. He forced my face into the raw dirt with his shoulder as he held my wrists tight. I felt him struggling to unzip his pants with his free hand. This was my last chance to get away. With all the strength I could gather, I bucked my hips up to knock him off my back. He fell to the side and lost his grip on my wrists. Kicks to his head forced him back further.
