The Paper Mirror (22 page)

It wasn’t until he mounted the stage that we could fully appreciate the effect. He was a vision in pink—wearing a dress I’m sure he found in a store catering to the kind of high school prom dresses featured in 1960s musicals. But on him, it worked.

He said a few words about the importance of the benefit, and how glad he was to be back “home” among so many of his old friends, then launched into his set of classics—“You Gotta See Mama Every Night,” “Bill Bailey Won’t You Please Come Home,” “Proud Mary,” and the one number I always associated with T/T because he used to seem deliberately to direct it to me and my ex-lover Chris whenever we were in the audience, the really down-and-dirty “The Butcher’s Son” (“
I’m not the butcher, I’m the butcher’s son, but I’ll give you meat until the butcher comes…”
). And he did it again, staring direct and hard at both Jonathan and me two or three times in the course of the song.

It brought the house down as always, and the crowd wouldn’t let him leave the stage until he did “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.”

When the show was over, the M.C. made another brief appearance to encourage donations and continuing support for the Hospice Project, then turned the evening over to the live band.

While the rest of our little troupe returned to the dance floor, Bob and I waited near the rear stage entrance from which we knew T/T would be emerging. He’d said he’d join us for a drink, and about twenty minutes later, T/T in his Teddy persona came out from backstage.

“Honey,” he said, after working his way slowly through a cluster of fans to us, “would it be too much trouble if we went someplace else for that drink?” he asked. “I’d truly like to set myself down and relax.”

Bob and I managed to flag down the rest of the crew, who all came over to exchange greetings, handshakes, and hugs with T/T, and after a minute or two of discussion, we agreed to take a run out to Griff’s, a really nice piano bar not too far from The Central. None of us had been there in a while, and it would give T/T a chance to revisit one of his—and my—favorite places.

T/T excused himself to go backstage to make arrangements to pick up his things in the morning before Jonathan and I took him to the airport. That accomplished, we formed something of a flying wedge in front of T/T in order to plow through the crowd toward the door. It still took nearly ten minutes, interrupted nearly every step by Teddy stopping to exchange hugs and best wishes with fans. At last we reached the relative calm of the bar area in front of the main room entrance doors and, finally, left.

*

As we’d hoped, Guy Prentiss—who knew every song from every Broadway and Off-Broadway musical since 1929—was playing, and of course he called a never-reluctant T/T to join him for a number of songs. We sat around listening attentively during his sets and talking and laughing during his breaks. During one of them, Guy came over to join us. He and T/T were old friends and Jonathan was as mesmerized by listening to them swap stories as he was by their performing.

But as all good things must come to an end, so did the evening. We wound up closing the bar at 2 a.m.…something I’d not done since I’d met Jonathan. By the time we’d taken T/T back to his hotel and gotten back to our apartment, it was close to 3 a.m. I knew we’d probably pay for it in the morning, but it was well worth the price. And maybe the nicest thing of all was that I hadn’t given one minute’s thought to Taylor Cates, Morgan Butler, or the Burrows Library.

*

True enough, Sunday was a bit hectic. Craig tried to keep Joshua under as much control as possible to allow us to sleep a bit longer, but it wasn’t long before Joshua was banging on our bedroom door with the announcement that, “It’s time for Sunday School!”

We pried ourselves out of bed in time for Jonathan, Craig, and Joshua to make it to church on time, and rather than reading the paper as was part of my Sunday morning ritual, I went back to bed for an extra hour’s sleep.

T/T’s flight back to Atlanta was scheduled to leave at 3:20, which gave us enough time to do our breakfast-out routine. I was dressed and waiting when the Three Musketeers returned. Craig was beaming from ear to ear, and obviously excited about something.

“Is it okay if we go to the Cove again for breakfast?” Jonathan asked.

The Cove was where we’d eaten the last time Craig babysat, and where Craig had been smitten by one of a group of gay kids his own age.

“Sure,” I said. “Any particular reason?”

“Craig’s got a boyfriend!” Joshua announced happily, then ran off, shrieking with laughter, as Craig growled and made a fake lunge at him.

“That was fast,” I said when things quieted down.

Craig looked mildly embarrassed, but his excitement overcame it.

“Remember those kids Craig’s age we saw at the Cove?” Jonathan asked. “Well, one of them was at church and he apparently recognized Craig and came over to tell him the same group was getting together again at the Cove after church. Apparently one of his friends—the one Craig was checking out—took a liking to Craig and…well, you get the picture.”

I got it.
Oh, God! To be sixteen again!
I thought.

*

Breakfast went well—especially for Craig, I’m sure. The same four teenagers were there when we arrived, sitting, not coincidentally, I surmised, at a table rather than in a booth. Though there were two or three empty tables, we took the one beside them. We all exchanged casual greetings as we sat down, Jonathan taking special care to seat Joshua between himself and me, with Craig taking the seat closest to the other teens. While Jonathan and I looked at the menu, Jonathan making a valiant effort to keep Joshua distracted by pointing at each item and reading it aloud to him, Craig and the other teens made tentative forays into conversation, exchanging information on their schools. Three of the others went to Iversen, one went to East, and Craig to Columbus. Jonathan and I were largely invisible, which didn’t bother either of us. It was too much fun watching—surreptitiously, I hoped—the bonding and courting rituals of teenage males.

The other table had finished eating long before we did, but sort of hung around until the waiter came and cleared away the dishes, leaving them with little excuse to stay. I felt a little like I was watching either a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
or a part of my own past. Three of the guys were more than ready to go, but the fourth—Craig’s new friend, whose name I gathered was Bill—was obviously reluctant. But finally they got up to leave, Bill looking back frequently as they stood at the cash register.

“Oh, go give him your number,” Jonathan urged, and Craig looked hesitant.

“You think I should?” he asked, his eyes still locked on Bill.

“Do you want to?” Jonathan asked.

“Well, sure,” Craig admitted, still hesitant.

“Then…?”

Needing no further prodding, Craig got up immediately and hurried after the group, who were just walking out the door.

“Jonathan Quinlan, boy Yenta,” I said with a smile.

“What’s a Yenta?” Joshua asked.

*

We took Craig home, then stopped at a pay phone to call T/T and let him know we were on our way.

He was waiting in front of the hotel as we pulled up, his suitcases by his side, but no garment bags or hatboxes. I got out of the car to open the trunk, while Jonathan changed to the back seat with Joshua—stopping in transit to exchange a greeting and quick bear hug with T/T, who got in front. He immediately turned around in his seat to greet Joshua.

“I do declare, Jonathan, this must be the handsomest boy-chile God ever put breath into! What’s your name, chile?” he asked, though of course he already knew and just wanted to engage Joshua directly.

“Joshua,” the boy said, wide-eyed. He had been staring intently at T/T since we drove up. I realized he may well never have seen a black man up so close—Jonathan had said once that his hometown in northern Wisconsin had no black families, and there were no black children at Joshua’s day care.

T/T twisted around to extend one large hand into the back seat. “Well, Joshua, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Joshua, of course, was delighted by the attention, and at only a little urging from Jonathan leaned forward to take and shake T/T’s hand.

T/T opened his eyes wide. “Why, chile, with a grip like that I’ll just bet you’re goin’ t’ be a football player when you grow up!”

“I’m going to be a fireman and a cowboy when I grow up,” Joshua announced with the total surety of a four-year-old.

“Well, if my ranch ever catches on fire, you’ll be the first one I’ll call,” T/T. said, grinning.

I’d managed to follow the conversation as I put T/T’s bag in the trunk, and when I climbed back into the driver’s seat, T/T turned his attention to me.

“Could you be a real lamb and swing by Steamroller so’s I can pick up my other bags?” he asked. “I meant to go over this mornin’, but I slept in. When you get to be my age, you need all the beauty rest you can get.”

“Come on, Teddy, you’re not a day over twenty-five,” I said.

He reached over to pat me on the leg, then turned to look at Jonathan. “Honey, you ever get tired of this man, you call me right away, hear?”

Jonathan grinned. “Fat chance,” he said, “but I’ll keep it in mind.”

*

We picked up T/T’s garment bags and hatboxes at Steamroller Junction, and headed for the airport. The trip was uneventful, much of it taken up with Joshua, with T/T’s encouragement, regaling T/T with his adventures, real and imagined.

We arrived in plenty of time, and found a parking place not too far from the terminal. T/T and I took the garment bags and suitcases, while Jonathan carried one of the hatboxes and held Joshua’s hand until we got into the terminal. Joshua had insisted on “helping” and with T/T’s approval, was given the lightest of the hatboxes, neither one of which was very heavy.

“You know, Dick,” T/T said as we walked behind Jonathan and Joshua toward the terminal, “I’ve been thinking of that nice white lady’s name, and it just won’t come to me.” He sighed. “Well, they say the mind’s the first thing to go…”

“That’s okay, Teddy,” I said. “If it comes to you, just let me know the minute it does.”

“Well, then, honey, expect a call some mornin’ around three a.m. That’s when I usually wake up rememberin’ somethin’.”

T/T’s plane was late, so he insisted on taking us—well, primarily Joshua—to the snack bar for ice cream, thus moving himself up several places on the list of Joshua’s favorite people. When we’d finished, T/T suggested we head for home rather than sit around and wait, but we had nothing better to do, and Joshua was, as always, enthralled with the planes.

We stood at the windows, talking—Joshua taking great care to call our attention, with undiminished enthusiasm, to every landing and takeoff in his line of vision.

After half an hour, T/T’s plane pulled up to the gate, and we watched as the plane emptied, and then waited until they announced boarding. T/T gave us all a big hug, including Joshua. Then, with promises to keep in touch, he walked down the passageway and was gone.

Joshua insisted we wait until the plane was backed from the gate and began taxiing to the runway. “Bye, Teddy!” he said, waving in the certainty that T/T was watching him and waving back.

When the plane disappeared around the corner of the terminal, we convinced Joshua it was time to go, and we headed home.

*

While the weekend had given me a most welcome respite, the minute I woke up Monday morning, my mind shifted back into gear. As I sat at my desk doing the crossword puzzle, I was thinking of Evan Knight and what I was going to do—or be able to do, for that matter—about him. While the threat of being exposed for stealing another man’s work might possibly be a motive for murder, I found it a bit of a stretch. From everything I knew of Morgan, writing was an intensely private thing. Not even Scot McVickers, apparently, had ever read his writing.

What struck me as really weird was this oddly strong…connection…I felt with Morgan Butler. Where it came from or why, I had no idea. Our lives couldn’t have been more different, and maybe that was a part of it. The more I learned about him, the more empathy I felt for the guy. Having been gay all my life, I couldn’t comprehend what it must be like to live trapped in a closet, when all you had to do was turn the knob. But I wasn’t Morgan Butler.

On the one hand, it was clear that although Morgan was so securely imprisoned in his closet he probably never could have found his way out, much as he wanted to, I could easily see that his writing—particularly his books—would provide a form of escape. I realized I was doing an awful lot of speculation with little to really go on, but there was something about Morgan Butler I instinctively identified with. Don’t ask me what, but I felt I really knew this guy.

To me, anyone who kept carbon copies of handwritten letters felt a strong need to leave written evidence that he had lived. So, again, to me it was logical for him to keep a copy of his letters—even handwritten ones; once a letter without a copy leaves the writer’s hand it is, unless the recipient decides to keep it for some reason, for all intents and purposes, lost. But by making a copy, Morgan could be assured his words would also stay where he could preserve them—which was obviously his intent in leaving them to the Burrows. I clearly saw it as a somehow sad but understandable bid for immortality. He had his son, of course, but I don’t think that was the kind of posterity Morgan really wanted.