Shame (13 page)

“Put it on my tab, Michael,” Lola said.

“Oh, God,” the bartender said, dramatically fluttering his eyelashes. “True love.”

In a soft voice, Lola asked Caleb, “Sure you don’t want decaf?”

“I’m sure.” But a second later he asked, “Why?”

“Because you’re as twitchy as a treed cat.”

Hearing that made Caleb even more nervous. He found himself smoothing his hair first with one hand, then the other. But instead of changing his order, he sat on his hands. Lola seemed to notice that, too.

The bartender filled a coffee mug, expertly tossed a napkin on the counter, and placed it in front of Caleb.

With not a little reluctance, Caleb turned to his benefactor and offered a nod. “Thank you.”

Caleb directed his attention to the coffee, becoming absorbed in it, but that didn’t deter Lola from scrutinizing him. The staring made him uncomfortable. Caleb picked up a napkin and wiped perspiration from his face.

“Are you hot,
Paul
?”

He didn’t respond to the mocking tone, just nodded.

Lola moved a little closer to him. “Fact is,
Paul
, when you realized what a den of iniquity this is, I’m surprised you didn’t run out of here like a bat out of hell.”

“Maybe I was tired.”

Lola’s glowing lips edged near to his ears. “And maybe I know more than you imagine I do, Mr. Parker.”

Caleb tried to hide his reaction but didn’t succeed. Lola moved away from him, forcing him to be the one to draw closer.

“How’d you know my name?”

“You couldn’t be anything but your daddy’s son. I used to study his picture for hours at a time. He intrigued me. I wondered how a man so pretty could be so evil. That’s always been a fascination of mine, how people so pretty outside can be so ugly inside.

“My auntie used to say, ‘Pride and grace dwell never in one place.’ Was your father a prideful man?”

“I really didn’t know my father.”

“Pride makes us do all sorts of hateful things. When Auntie used to catch me looking in a mirror she’d say, ‘Pride goes before, and shame follows after.’ I wonder if your father knew that saying.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The movement of curtains at the entrance made Caleb start, but it wasn’t the police, just another patron.

“What’s troubling you?” Lola asked.

“Some people are convinced I’m suffering from a hereditary disease.”

He kept glancing back nervously.

“There’s a side exit,” Lola said. “Maybe we’d better leave.”

They walked two blocks without saying anything before Lola got tired of that. “If we’re supposed to be looking like a couple,” she said, “or even like friends, we’re not doing a very good job of it. I’d suggest you walk next to me, not two steps behind.”

Caleb closed the gap between them.

“You need a ride somewhere?” Lola asked.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I’d like to think that I’m rescuing you,” Lola said, offering the smallest flounce of her skirt.

“I’m wanted by the police.”

“Are you guilty?”

“No. But if I was, that’s not something I’d be likely to confess.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of helping you?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re helping me. You don’t strike me as a professional do-gooder.”

“Maybe you’d think differently if you saw me in my nun’s habit. It’s very modern, very chic, the kind of threads a nun on the fast track to being a Mother Superior might wear.”

“You’re a funny guy....”

“Gal. Or lady. Or even bitch. Just make me something female. That’s the etiquette.”

“Miss Manners.”

“Better.”

“I was trying to tell you that you don’t even know me.”

“I know you.”

“Just because I look—”

“That’s how I noticed you, not how I know you. I took one look at you, sugar, and I saw more than the spitting image of your father. What I saw was someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now if you have a problem accepting help from the likes of me, then you better get over it,
Jack
, or
Paul
, or whatever you’re calling yourself, ’cause my car is right over here.”

There was no night attendant in the outdoor lot on Second Avenue, just signs posted everywhere. Half the signs said that management wasn’t responsible for any valuables lost, while the other half warned that those who hadn’t paid, or weren’t displaying a current parking sticker, would have their cars towed away. Management seemed to have all bets covered.

Lola walked by herself over to a canary-yellow Mustang convertible. She didn’t look back, just opened her door, sat down, closed the door behind her, and then started the car. Caleb stood undecided for a long moment, then finally moved. He ran over to the Mustang’s passenger door and tapped on the glass. The window lowered, but only slightly.

“My name’s not Paul,” he said. “It’s Caleb.”

Lola reached out with one of her long fingernails and opened the lock.

“Buckle up, Caleb,” she said.

As they waited for the light to change on Broadway, a siren sounded. Caleb visibly tensed, turning to the sound. Flashing red lights raced at them. Caleb only started breathing again when a fire truck roared by.

“You want to talk about it?” Lola asked.

Caleb didn’t. But he had to. He let out a long sigh, and it was as if he let the air out of himself. His explanation came out flat, monotone: “There’s a murderer out there who’s copying my father. He’s strangling women and writing the word
shame
on their bodies. He’s managed to kill in such a way as to place me at every murder scene.”

Lola didn’t say anything. The silence built between them.

“If you want to let me out, I understand.”

“Why haven’t I heard about the murders?”

“You have, just not the details.”

“And the police think you’re the killer?”

“Like father, like son.”

“What’s their evidence?”

“My lack of any alibis, and my heritage.”

“That’s it?”

A lifetime of being beaten down was voiced: “That’s enough.”

“With your hangdog attitude, it just might be. Right now you’re wearing a Kick Me sign on your backside.”

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be left alone.”

“That your ambition in life?”

“Close enough.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a life.”

“Compare it to the one I’m leading now.”

She could hear his teeth grind down on his own bitterness.

“I’m the son of Shame,” he said. “Before last night, that wasn’t something I had admitted in more than twenty years.”

“You never told anyone about your father?”

“No one. Not even my wife.”

“Your big secret.”

He nodded.

“I’ve been there, sugar. I know what it’s like to try to hide something from the world. The difference between you and me is I came out of the closet, and you were outed. You sure were outed. But the big question is why?”

“M
AKE YOURSELF AT
home,” Lola said.

Caleb reluctantly stepped inside. He wasn’t there for a night’s shelter so much as for what came with it: a promised disguise. Lola was willing to change his hair color.

Her Hillcrest bungalow wasn’t what Caleb expected. He had thought it would be as glitzy and showy as her dress, but instead he found it refined and homey. The decorations were eclectic, with needlework, paintings, Art Deco, and American Indian artifacts all somehow combining for a pleasant ambience. The Native American items, in particular, were displayed very respectfully, almost in the manner of a shrine. There was a wooden arrow with a pouch tied to it, mounted feathers of raptors, what looked to be a bear claw necklace, and a painting of a white buffalo.

“Are you an Indian?” Caleb asked.

“I’m Heinz Fifty-Seven. But part Indian.”

“What tribe?”

“Lakota, better known as Sioux.”

Caleb kept walking around the living room and looking at things. He was reluctant to sit down. Lola watched him pace. She was tempted to tell him that he was the one wanted for murder, and that she was the one who should be feeling ill at ease, but
decided to hold her tongue. He was nervous enough already but was trying to cover up by touring the room as if he were in a museum.

Caleb paused to study one of the paintings. It showed an Indian pausing in flight just long enough to taunt his pursuers. There were arrows in the ground around him that had fallen just short of their intended target.

“I have a friend who’s an artist,” Lola said. “He painted that for me. The French called that Indian Berdache, a Salteaux who was the best runner in his tribe. I call the painting
The Decoy.
That’s what Berdache did. He set himself up as a decoy to a Lakota war party. He shot arrows at them and taunted them to chase him so that his people could escape.”

Caleb took a closer look at the painting and frowned. Lola smiled at his reaction.

“Yes, Berdache was a drag queen.”

“For real?”

“For real. Among many Native American cultures there was a tradition that anthropologists refer to as
berdache
. It’s a French word that means ‘slave boy,’ which is not at all an accurate picture of what berdaches were to their tribes. I, and many others, prefer the term
Two-Spirited People
, or
Two-Spirits
, souls that embody both Mother Earth and Father Sky.”

Caleb shook his head, still finding it hard to accept. “These Indians wore women’s clothing?”

“In most cases. But I think you miss the point.”

“What point is that?”

“What the berdaches wore didn’t matter so much as what they were. The Lakota believe all objects have a spirit. They refer to their own berdaches as
winkte
. They believe that the spirit of both man and woman combine as one in a winkte. Winkte aren’t deviant; they’re special. Winkte can see with the vision of both genders, not just one. Their position gave them the freedom to move freely between men and women.”

“Was that their role? Emissary?”

“In some tribes they acted as go-betweens for the sexes. In others they performed sacred duties. And in still others they took on many of the feminine roles.”

Caleb moved away from the painting, but Lola wasn’t ready to change the subject.

“There is a Cree word for berdache:
ayekkew
. The translation is ‘neither man nor woman,’ or ‘man and woman.’ I always thought that appropriate. Neither and both. That speaks to me.”

“I’m glad you found some historical justification for what you are.”

Lola ignored his condescending tone. “We’re very alike, you know.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“Like you, I was always the outcast, always different. I thought of myself as a freak. There were no role models for me. As a teenager, my father thought he could beat my anima out of me, and my classmates took up where he left off. I was kicked out of my own house and had to live on the streets until my aunt, my mother’s sister, took me in.”

Caleb didn’t say anything, but she had his attention; he was even looking at her.

“But the beatings still didn’t stop. I just administered them myself. And what was worse, I knew how to hurt myself more than anyone else could. I was a mess. I’m still not sure how I survived, but I remember the moment my life started to turn around. My aunt gave me this book on Native Americans and pointed out the section on the berdache tradition.”

Lola’s eyes teared up. “It was an epiphany.” Her words came out hushed, choked. “It was like God tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘It’s all right.’”

His entire life, Caleb thought, he had been waiting for that tap. He felt a twinge of jealousy.

“The more I studied, the more I learned there were berdache-like traditions in other cultures: the Mahu of Polynesia, the Hijra of India, the Xanith of Oman, the Chukchi in Siberia. And I came to realize that I have a place in this world. So do you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The heyoka were thought of as backward people. You might wonder why a culture would have a prized place for people who did everything differently. A heyoka might go naked in winter and dress warmly in the summer. A heyoka might walk everywhere backward, and dry himself before bathing, and laugh at the tragic, and cry at the hilarious. By acting in such a way, the heyoka brought a sense of the absurd to the tribe. The heyoka made the Lakota think and see things differently. In our lives, we have also been the bringers of reality change.”

Caleb stifled the urge to say
bullshit.
“You make it sound as if we’re on some kind of a holy mission,” he said. “You wear women’s clothing, and I’m the son of a serial murderer. There’s nothing holy about either one of those things.”

“Are you sure? Your presence reminds anyone who knows your history that life is short and fragile and something that shouldn’t be taken for granted.”

“My presence reminds people that there are sick and twisted individuals in this world. My presence reminds people to lock their windows and doors. I never wanted to be someone else’s reality check. And I don’t want to walk backward.”

“Then why do you?”