The Butcher's Son (7 page)

He nodded. “Of course.”

“The hard, cold fact is that the potential governor of a state cannot shut himself off from the people whom he plans to represent and whose support he needs to win. Your father, to be
very
blunt, has a reputation, however unfair it may be, of being aloof and patrician.

“If the only votes that counted were those of his backers, who are almost without exception the wealthy of this community, there would be no contest. But since the poor and middle class will also be voting, and still outnumber the wealthy by a considerable margin, he has to win them over, uncomfortable as it might be for him.”

Kevin smiled. “I appreciate your candor, Dick. That’s why I suggested to my father that you and I should work together…closely. I was watching you during your visit to my parents’ home. I could see you weren’t intimidated by the situation or the surroundings.

“I’ll also be blunt. While Mr. Carlson is undoubtedly a very capable PR man, I find him just a little too eager to please. I know my father needs all the help he can get—he is, after all, my father—and we need someone who will not be afraid to tell him what he needs to…what he must…hear.”

A thin, consumptive-looking man wearing a cook’s apron and hat appeared and knocked on the door frame. Kevin turned partly around to face him.

“Yes, John?”

“Sorry to interrupt, Reverend, but the oven’s acting up again.”

Kevin sighed. “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

John nodded, turned back toward the stairs, and disappeared.

“I’m sorry, Dick, this happens on a regular basis, I’m afraid, and I’m becoming something of an expert in oven repair out of necessity. Could we continue our talk another time?”

“Sure,” I said as we both rose. “Just call me at the office whenever you need me.”

We shook hands, and once again it seemed the grasp went on a bit longer than necessary.

“Would it be an imposition for me to ask for your home number, Dick?” he asked, still maintaining the handclasp. “With so much to be done and so little time, I might need your advice at unusual times. I promise I’ll do my best not to make a pest of myself, or interfere with your personal life.”

If one can think in question marks, then
???
.

“No problem,” I said, breaking the handshake.

I took out my business card and the pen I try to always carry with me, wrote my home number on the back, and handed it to him. He looked at it carefully, as if memorizing it, then put it in his shirt pocket.

“Thanks,” he said.

I followed him down the stairs and left him at the archway to the dining room. He extended his hand yet again, and we shook again—quickly, this time.

“Good luck with the oven.”

He smiled then headed into the dining room toward the kitchen.

I walked out into the street, trying to turn off the
Ping! Ping! Ping!
sounding in the back of my head.

Chapter 5

Chris accepted the New York job at about the
same
time I was meeting with Kevin, so Friday night was kind of strange. We both felt awkward and nervous, and neither of us knew exactly what to do or say. The whole thing reminded me oddly of a first blind date.

Chris, I could tell, felt really guilty about having been the one to make the first—or should I say, the final—move that would lead to the definite end of our relationship as partners. As we sat at the table after dinner, drinking probably too much wine, we kept up the halfhearted pretense there might be a chance of my moving to New York after he got settled, and after Rourke’s campaign, but neither of us was fooling the other, or ourselves.

We decided not to make a big issue of it with our friends, or to go out of our way notify them. I did suggest we have a party the Saturday before he left, and he thought that would be a good idea.

I knew it would be harder on Chris than on me, in that I would still be able to see our friends on a regular basis whereas he, at least at first, would be on his own. But I also realized that, traditionally, couples tend to hang out with couples; so, I would become something of a fifth wheel in our circle of married friends, and some of us would most likely drift apart after awhile. There were definite changes on the very near horizon for both of us.

Once the wine was gone, we
cleared the table, just leaving the dishes in the sink, and went into the living room. I poured us both a small glass of Cointreau, and sat beside Chris on the sofa. We didn’t say much, just staring out the huge picture window at the giant oak tree directly in front of it, watching its leaves move back and forth in the light wind.

Chris reached out and took my hand. We intertwined our fingers without having to look at each other, and Chris, still staring out the window, squeezed my hand and said: “I still love you, you know.”

I turned to look at him.

“Yeah. I know. And I love you. And I want more than anything for you to be happy …” I’d started to say “…and find someone,” but didn’t. Chris stood up, still holding my hand, and pulled me to my feet.

“How about one for the road?” he asked, and I followed him into the bedroom.

We watched each other undress, like we were doing it for the first time. Chris took off his shirt and I was able to really appreciate, for the first time in a long time, what a nice body he had. His chest was covered in fine, black hair that spread from just above his nipples all the way across his pecs, and then formed a “V” pointing to his crotch. He sat on the bed to remove his shoes, socks, and pants, while I finished stripping, standing up.

He lay back on the bed, and I joined him, wra
pping my arms around him and pulling him close. After a couple of minutes, he scooted up on the bed, and I followed; I heard him open the nightstand drawer to get out the Albolene. I straddled him on my knees. When we were ready, Chris pulled my head down and kissed me.

“Remember,” he whispered.

*

Saturday morning we fixed our usual breakfast, and did some casual talking about the move and the party. There were far too many details to try to go over all at once, so we stuck to generalities.

Chris planned to find a furnished place for a month or two until he knew what was going on and had a chance to look around for something he really wanted. He might even consider the possibility of a roommate in the interim, if such an opportunity presented itself, but he wouldn’t specifically set out to look for one.

We could discuss the furniture issue later—he had been offered a generous moving allowance, which he planned to put aside until he knew for sure what he might need.

Almost all of the furnishings in our apartment had either been bought jointly or was handmade. When we first got together, we’d spent lots of time in thrift shops and secondhand stores, picking up things in which we saw promise and refinishing them ourselves. The sofa we’d built from a slab of plywood we’d lacquered ebony and topped with an upholstered foam pad and bolsters. Sounds ugly as sin, but it really turned out kind of nice, and was actually quite comfortable.

Of course, we liked it mostly because it was ours, and we’d built it together.

Chris had some favorite pieces I knew he’d probably want, and there was a lot of little stuff, and all the birthday gifts, and anniversary gifts, and Christmas gifts…

He would leave the car—he wouldn’t need it in New York, whereas I had to have some way of getting around. I used it more than he did, anyway, since he preferred taking the bus to work. Although neither of us mentioned it, it was understood I’d offer to buy it at some point.

It’s amazing how much can be communicated without actually saying anything.

The day passed in five-year routine—grocery shopping, dry cleaners, emptying ashtrays, watering the plants, doing dishes, changing the bed, picking up the living room. Stuff you never, ever think about doing until you realize each action is now being performed within a box of limited time. And then you are aware, and there’s a sad little pang of loss and longing as you do each one.

We talked to several friends during the course of normal Saturday informal phone calls and mentioned casually to each one that Chris had been offered a fantastic job in New York and that I would be staying here, and inviting them to the party in two weeks. Most of them, although clearly concerned and curious to know more, simply followed our casual lead. A few asked discreet questions, which we discreetly deflected or answered as briefly and simply as possible, assuring them this wasn’t a breakup, merely a loving separation.

As evening approached, and we sat down with our usual cocktails, Chris said, “Should I ask if you want to go out tonight?”

“Haven’t we gone out almost every Saturday night for the past five years? Why shouldn’t we go tonight? If you want to, that is.”

“Yeah, I’d like to.”

“Then done and done.”

*

We decided to do something special for dinner and
went clear across town to Villa Milano, a straight place but with the best pizza this side of…well, Milan. We loved the place but seldom went there simply because of the distance. This night, distance wasn’t a factor.

“So, where to now?” Chris asked as we signaled the waiter for the check and a box to carry home the few remaining slices of pizza.

“I know this might kind of surprise you,” I said, “but I feel like going back to see Judy at Bacchus’s Lair.”

He grinned. “Ah, another convert!”

“That okay with you?” I asked.

“Sure! And you can steal me one of those bunches of plastic grapes as a souvenir.”

“How about me just putting up a little memorial plaque saying ‘These are Chris’s?’”

“Chicken!” he said as the waiter returned with our doggie box.

*

We called ahead from the restaurant to
reserve
a t
a
ble and were informed we would be first on the waiting list. We decided to risk it anyway and arrived at Bacchus’s Lair about twenty minutes before the second show.

I only then remembered hearing somewhere that the Dog Collar, located about a block down on Arnwood, was having a weekend-long anniversary party. As a result, parking was impossible; we had to drive around the block looking for an available space and finally found one about two doors down from the Salvation’s Door shelter.

I was a little hesitant about leaving the car there, but the street was lined with other vehicles, so I thought we’d be fairly safe. I pointed the shelter out to Chris as we walked past.

“Love what they’ve done with the place,” he commented, indicating the blocked-over windows.

When we’d climbed the stairs to Bacchus’s Lair, we were amazed to find the place only half-full. So much for being first on the waiting list. We were even able to specify a table near the exit. I’d checked as we walked up to the place and noticed there was a narrow passageway between the bar and the building next door, just wide enough for a fire escape.

Well, it was better than nothing.

We sat down and ordered drinks.

“How come so quiet tonight?” I asked the cute-and-knew-it waiter.

He shrugged.

“Last two nights,” he explained, “everybody’s been over at the Dog Collar—they’re having a male stripper marathon. Which would you rather see? Hot, sweaty naked guys or overweight drag queens?” Without waiting for an answer, he left.

“He has a point,” I said.

“Maybe we can drop by there after the show.”

“Sure.” I reached into my pocket. “Shit! I left my cigarettes at the restaurant! Where’s the machine?”

“Down the back hall near the john. Need some change?”

I checked my pockets.

“Yeah, you got two quarters?”

Chris dug into his pocket and came up with a fistful of coins.

“Here,” he said then hoisted up his hip to reach his wallet as he saw the waiter approaching with our drinks.

“Be right back.”

I went through the maze of mostly empty tables to the hallway leading to the john. As long as I was there, I decided I should stop in so I wouldn’t be tempted later.

The cigarette machine was in a small alcove next to the bathroom door, over which was a dim light. Under the dim light was a bunch of those godawful plastic grapes. They had apparently fallen off at one time and been reattached to the light with a piece of string.

I reached up and yanked them off the fixture, stepping quickly back into the bathroom. They were made of several small “bunches” twisted together at the end. I untwisted them and separated them into two separate clumps, which I barely managed to fit into my pants pockets. One bunch wouldn’t have looked bad—sort of like the pair of socks a lot of guys are known to shove down their pants to make it look like they’re really, really hung. Two such bulges were a tad obvious.

Nonetheless, I didn’t have much choice, so acting as nonchalant as possible, I made my way back to our table. Chris had watched my approach with raised eyebrow.

“What the
hell
…?” he asked as I sat down at an angle on the chair.

I fished out one of the bunches of “grapes.”

“Here,” I said. “Put this in your pocket. I’ve got another one.”

When he saw what I was giving him, he pressed his lips together so tightly I thought he was going to cry again.

“What’s wrong now? I thought you wanted them.”

He made a quick swipe of his eyes with his free hand.

“I did, damn it! It’s just that it’s so fucking sweet! You aren’t making this any easier, you know.” And he stuffed them into his pocket.

He was right, and we exchanged weak little smiles.

Fortunately, at that moment, the canned music came on, and the show started. There were a couple of new performers—one did a rather nice lip-synch to Bea Lillie’s classic “There are Faeries at the Bottom of My Garden,” and a really cute redhead whose looks far outmatched his talent synched “Proud Mary.” T/T came on and did “The Butcher’s Son” as only he could.

Spotting us, he gave us a Pearl Bailey wave and, of course, then played the whole number right to us, drawing the stares of the other patrons. Too bad they couldn’t have seen
our
baskets just then, I thought. They’d
really
have been impressed.