McKain's Dilemma

by Williamson, Chet

  "I don't want your money, Leona. Being with you is enough. You're wonderful company, you're bright, I feel I can talk to you about things I can't talk to anyone else about . . ." He paused, and touched her hand. "I just feel very close to you."

  "I feel the same about you," she said, turning to look at him. "Although I often don't believe a word you say."

  He was at a loss. He had thought, after their first meeting, that he had succeeded in driving the doubts, the truth about himself, from her mind. And now he learned he had never fooled her at all. He gave a little laugh. "What do you mean?"

  "Your stories. About your fiancée and all that. About the girls you loved and lost. Did you make it all up?"

  She looked at him with such self-assurance that he could not lie. "Yes. Yes I did."

  She smiled and nodded. "You're homosexual, aren't you, Carlton?"

  He couldn't speak. What in God's name was she, a witch?

  "If you are, I don't mind, really. To tell you the truth, I don't think about sex anymore. It was never very good when I had it, and what little desire I may have once had for good sex is long gone. So," she said, lifting her drink to her lips, "are you?"

  He nodded slowly, expecting her to fling the drink into his reddening face. "Yes," he said softly. "Not exclusively, but . . ."

  "By preference?" She smiled, and sipped.

  "By preference."

  She nodded. "Funny, isn't it," she said, "that homosexuals—I'm sorry, gays—are so much more gentlemanly than most men. Kinder, too. Almost as if their being discriminated against has made them more sensitive to other people's feelings."

  Leona paused for a moment, then went on. "I love you, Carlton. Isn't that ridiculous? If I had known you when I was younger, I would have done anything to try and make you love women—me in particular. And then I would have tried to get you to marry me. And we probably would have been miserable together, so it's a good thing it didn't happen." Leona took a cigarette from her case and lit it, blowing smoke out into the cool evening air.

  "But I wonder . . ." she said. "I wonder what would happen now . . ."

  "Now?" Runnells repeated in a tight, pinched voice.

  "Yes. You do feel something for me, don't you, Carlton? I mean, that much is real, isn't it?"

  He nodded.

  "I thought so. Now I don't much care if you feel drawn to me as a mother or a sister or a lover or whatever, just as long as there is true emotion there somewhere, and there is, yes?"

  "Yes, Leona."

  "I like being with you, Carlton. And I'd like to keep on being with you. I like having you hold my hand and hugging me, and being there. Just being there. Could you do that for me? Could you just be there?"

  "I'd like that. Honestly, I would."

  "Do you love me, Carlton?"

  He did. Beyond sex, and men and women, or men and men, he loved this older woman who looked into his soul so easily and yet so intently. "Yes. I do love you."

  "Will you live here with me? Quit your job, and stay with me?"

  "Yes. If you want me to."

  "And will you marry me?"

  He froze. Though it had been his aim, now that it was stated so boldly, and without being part of the fabric of lies he had so carefully woven, a fabric that Leona saw through like chiffon, it seemed altogether alien to him, uncanny, anachronistic. "I . . . I . . ."

  "I do. That's all you have to say. No strings attached. No sex. I can't have a gigolo, Carlton. And I wouldn't if I could. But I can have a husband. That's allowed."

  Runnells was silent.

  "I can't help but notice," Leona smiled, "that you're not jumping at the suggestion. I never thought I'd be able to say anything that would leave you speechless."

  "I . . . believe me, Leona, it's not that I'm . . . put off by the idea, it's just that it's . . . well, a bit much to take when you haven't been thinking about it."

  "Oh, yes, there are a lot of things to think about, and a lot of things we'd have to have spelled out before we did it. But we're both reasonable people. You'd still have a great deal of freedom to go where you want and see who you want to see, just as long as it doesn't intrude upon me. And of course it's a near certainty that you'll outlive me, so we'd have to prepare for that . . . divvy up the estate between you and my son."

  "Leona! . . ."

  "Don't pretend to be shocked, Carlton. And don't tell me you haven't thought about this before." Her gaze pinned him like a butterfly to a board. "Well?"

  "The . . . possibility crossed my mind, sure. I mean, we've been getting closer and closer and all."

  "Do you want some time? If you do, take it. It's a standing offer." She put her hand on his and squeezed gently. "You might not get a better one today."

  Runnells chuckled, still ill at ease. "That's true. But what do you get out of it, Leona?"

  She took her hand away and sat back, sipped her Tom Collins, and looked out at the woods. "I get good conversation whenever I want it, I get someone who will hold me when I need to be held, and I get someone who cares for me, something my husband stopped doing many, many years ago. I also get someone I can be proud to be seen with. I get a very charming companion, Carlton. In case you're not aware of it—and the chances of that are about a thousand to one—you're very handsome and very intelligent, and very nice to be with." She pushed herself quickly to her feet.

  "But don't decide now. Think about it. Would you like to go shooting tomorrow?"

  He would, and they did, and by that time he had thought about it, and gave her the answer they both knew he would give.

  The marital agreement that they devised ran four pages, short as such documents go. It settled upon Runnells, in the event of Leona's death, the house and grounds of Ravenwood, and Barnes-Fordham Tourist Attractions. The son in L.A. would receive an amount of cash equal to what Runnells received in properties.

  They were married in December of 1976 by a justice of the peace, and honeymooned in Bermuda. Mr. Doherty was sorry to lose Runnells as an employee, and told him there would always be a position for him if the need arose. Runnells thanked him, but told him that was highly unlikely.

  When Leona and Runnells arrived back at Ravenwood after their honeymoon, the nights of which had been spent in adjoining rooms, Runnells was relieved to see that they not only had separate bedrooms, but separate suites. Leona never came to him in the night, and he never went to her. The relationship was, as she had promised, a sexless one, and went along nicely until March of 1979, when Leona had her stroke.

  It hit her when they were shooting. She dropped her shotgun, clutched her left shoulder, and fell like a stone, unconscious. He picked her up in his arms, and trotted back to the house, where he called an ambulance, which came and took her to the Hershey Medical Center, a facility closer than Lancaster General. She survived, but was fearfully disabled. Her left side was partially paralyzed, and although she walked again within a few months, she did so only with difficulty.

  It was her speech, however, that most affected Runnells. The left side of her mouth was twisted upward, so that she wore a perpetual smile, an idiot's grin that destroyed the serene and peaceful beauty that the years and money had given her, and made a mockery of those perfect white teeth.

  Leona, furious at fate for depriving her of the dignity of a healthy body, grew to hate herself; and Runnells, from loving her in his filial and ambiguous way, now grew to hate her as well, though he tried not to show it. She was unable and unwilling to do any of the things they had done together before the stroke, so Runnells, independent enough before, found himself with even more time on his hands, and little to do with it except care for Leona, a chore he shared with Paulette. It was not a chore he enjoyed.

  He felt a need to hurt Leona, for she had betrayed his aesthetic sense, turning what had been a pleasant situation into a nightmare, a bargain in which he had sold himself, not to a cultured and attractive older woman, but to a misshapen hag, who was now actually growing jealous of him, possessive beyond
reason. It was not fair. It was breach of contract, when you looked at it in a certain way. Marital agreement or not, she had not kept her unspoken part of the bargain. She was to have stayed Leona Coyle Barnes Runnells, sparkling and generous and charming. She should not have become this creature who wheeled herself from room to room and remained in the shadows, like some latter-day Glamis Castle bogey. She, or her damned arteries, had broken faith with Carlton Runnells, and now he felt himself entitled to break faith as well.

  For the next three years they lived what Runnells thought of as a Harold Pinter play. He cared for her, playing male nurse, helping her to her feet when she went through her frequent weak spells, and eating with her. He lost ten pounds due to a diminished appetite brought on by having to watch her eat, and she seemed to relish his discomfort, opening her twisted mouth wider than necessary to insert her fork or spoon. Their conversation decreased to necessities only, and the lack of practice made Leona's speech practically unintelligible after a few silent months. Paulette, who was taciturn to begin with, was no help.

  Leona refused to have a full-time nurse, for reasons known only to herself. Runnells suspected that it was to punish him in some way for some imagined infraction, perhaps the crime of being healthy while she was not, and he hated her all the more for it. The doctors had told him that Leona must be kept from any exertion, or she could suffer another stroke, and that a second one would most likely be fatal. Although he toyed with the idea of trying to bring on such exertion, either physical or mental, he chose not to attempt it. The situation was not unbearable, at least not yet. And he knew that what amounted to murder was something that he was incapable of at this point, and alone. But soon he met Michael Eshleman, and all that changed.

  Runnells, since he was no longer able to make his frequent trips to Philadelphia and New York, liked to occasionally engage in what he referred to as slumming. He would go alone into some of the rougher parts of the city and its environs, enter a bar, and watch what happened. Quickly he learned that the scenario of strangers getting beaten up was a fiction. Perhaps if he had been shorter, or more flamboyant, or puny, he might have been approached, but a normal-looking man with an average build could go into almost any bar in the city without fear of finding someone who wanted to punch out his lights. So Runnells found himself entering ever more reputedly fearsome bars, and finally going into the Seventh Ward to have a drink or two.

  The Seventh Ward was celebrated in song and story for being the crime center of the relatively crime-free city of Lancaster. Much of the ward's population consisted of blacks, Cubans, and Puerto Ricans, most of whom were decent citizens who had jobs, paid their taxes, and didn't beat their families. But there were some who made their living by buying and selling stolen goods, or drugs, or both. It was with no intention of looking for trouble that Carlton Runnells went into Lucky's Tavern one hot August night in 1981. It was simply out of curiosity and to satisfy a lust for excitement, which was precisely what he got.

  He knew he was in trouble when he entered. In the other tough bars in the city, there had been a racial mix—mostly white, but with an occasional pair of blacks, or a Chicano and his girl in a dark corner. But this place was exclusively Puerto Rican, and the kind of Puerto Rican that gave the lie to the image of them being little guys with big knives. They were, Runnells thought, big guys with, probably, big knives as well. He froze in the doorway, a white rabbit caught in the headlights of their cold and hostile gaze. To turn and walk out should have been easy, but he didn't do it. For some reason, it was easier to sit down at the empty stool at the end of the bar, and look down at the ring-stained surface. He would have one beer, and then leave.

  The bartender took his time coming over, but brought Runnells his beer. He sat there drinking, afraid to turn his head as he heard people walk by him, afraid to look at anyone for fear that the look would be taken as a challenge. He drank his beer quickly, as the door behind him opened and closed several times. There was no mirror behind the bar, so he could not see who walked in, could only hear the Spanish words and the footsteps over the blaring salsa music on the jukebox.

  At last the beer was gone. He took two dollars from his wallet, and had just laid them on the bar when a hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and a voice growled, "Hey, whitey."

  Oh shit, thought Runnells. Oh bleeding shit, I'm dead. He turned around slowly, a sheepish smile forming on his face, his mind working overtime to come up with words that would get him out of this, if these bastards even understood English.

  But instead of a snarling six-foot Puerto Rican, Runnells saw a six-foot-four white man with stringy blond hair, grinning at him with bad teeth. "I like to fight. Do you?"

  Runnells smiled his most innocent smile. "No. I don't."

  "Then why the fuck did you come in here?"

  Runnells shrugged. "For a drink."

  The man gave him an aw, sure you did look.

  "Really. I'm a lousy fighter." He gave a short laugh. "Hit me once, and it'd be all over. I wouldn't be much fun for you."

  "You? Shit, man, I don't wanta fight you. I come in here to fight spics."

  His voice was loud enough to be heard by nearby drinkers, and Runnells looked at him as if he were crazy.

  "I love to beat up spics and fuck their women, y'know? Y'ever fuck a spic cunt?"

  Runnells was at a loss for words. If he said yes, he thought the men at the bar would kill him for defiling their women, and if he said no, they might kill him anyway for thinking he was too good for their women. "I . . . I . . ."

  He was prevented from a faux pas by a brawny Hispanic in the front booth. "Hey," the man said. "Why don't you two faggots get out of here?" His voice was heavily accented.

  The big white man's face got red. He turned around slowly and looked at the booth. "Who you talkin' to, greaseball?"

  Oh shit, Runnells thought again. What a fucking stupid way to die. He swung off his stool and tried to move toward the front door, but the big white man grabbed his shoulder.

  "Don't be afraid of these pussies, Jack. All funny talk and no action." He looked again at the man in the booth. "Now, Frito Bandito, you got somethin' to say?"

  The man in the booth looked at the other with burning eyes. "You know how many of us there are in here, man?"

  "There's nobody between me and you, asshole. One step and I can break your fuckin' right hand so that you'll never jack off to your mama's picture again."

  The Hispanic leaped right over the table at the white man, sending ashtrays, beer glasses, and sugar shakers flying, and making his table mates yell. The big blond man was ready for him, and launched an uppercut right into the shorter man's neck that sent him flying backward to land on the very booth table over which he had come, all the fight knocked out of him in one massive blow. He lay there, clutching his throat, trying to breathe.

  "Anybody else? C'mon now. Nobody got any blades in here?"

  The roomful of men glowered, and several hands went beneath tables, but no one moved.

  "Hey there, Chiquita," the white man said to the girl who'd been sitting with the choking man, "you want a little ride with me?"

  The girl spat on the floor.

  "Boy, talk about gratitude," the man said to Runnells. "Guy probably beats her silly and gives her the clap, but will she put out for the dude who comes to her rescue?" He clapped a hand on Runnells's shoulder. "Come on, buddy. Let's go where the cunt is more appreciative."

  Shaking his head, he walked Runnells through the door into the heat of the evening, and did not look back. Outside, he stretched and laughed. "Where now? Any ideas?"

  Runnells looked at him openmouthed. "Jesus, I don't know, but don't you think we ought to get out of here?"

  "What for?"

  "Well, uh, won't those people in there be coming after you?"

  "Nope."

  "Why . . . why not?"

  "Hey," he said, starting to walk down the street, "most of 'em got criminal records longer'n my dick. They don't wanta get
fucked up or maybe bust parole for some barroom brawl."

  "So why did that one guy jump you?"

  "You heard what I said to him. I told him he jerked off to his mama's picture. These guys love their mamas. Gets 'em every time. Now if I'd told the whole place that they all jerk off to their mama's pictures, I'd probably be a dead man now. You too. But I still don't know why that little bitch didn't come along. Lot of 'em do. They don't get that much of a chance for white pork, y'know? Just them little skinny spic dicks. Whoo. Imagine bein' one of them hot Spanish twats and tryin' to live on a diet of that stuff? Hey, where you wanta go now?"

  Runnells's first thought was as far away from you as possible, but there was something about the man that attracted him. He was, Runnells thought, just a little too macho, too obsessed with his own studhood. Runnells had seen how he had reddened and how his muscles had stiffened when the Hispanic had called him a faggot. A man who was really sure of his own heterosexuality wouldn't have been bothered by it, might even have laughed. But this guy hadn't laughed. Not a bit.

  "Let's go somewhere calm," Runnells suggested. "I think I've had enough excitement for a while."

  They went to The Library, a peaceful and respectable watering hole in the lobby of the Brunswick Hotel. It was evident that the young man had never been there, for he looked about disdainfully at the clientele, most of them yuppies. "Got no character," he mumbled as Runnells led him to a table, but he sat down.

  "What'll you have?"

  "You buyin'?"

  "The least I can do since you saved my life." After endangering it in the first place.

  "Gimme some scotch whiskey then," the young man said to the waitress. "Inver House."

  "You sure you wouldn't like a nice single malt instead?"

  "What, you mean like malt liquor?"

  Runnells smiled at the waitress. "Bring us two Glenlivets on the rocks." He turned to the man. "Trust me." The waitress left, and Runnells turned back to the young man. "Now, what's your name?"

  "Mike Eshleman."

  He nodded. "Michael."

  "Mike."