Sweet Poison (10 page)

As a gay man, Luke was already at odds with a great deal of Christian belief. So was Christopher. And yet, Christopher believed with his entire being in a Christian God, a loving father who spoke to him and helped him daily. How could Luke argue with a belief that was so essentially gentle, peaceful, with a man whose entire mission in life was to help others, not force dogma down their throats.

Luke and Christopher used to argue about religion in the early days of their relationship, but it became apparent pretty quickly that neither one was going to change the other’s mind. Luke had never felt entirely comfortable going to church on Sunday, although he liked to listen to Christopher’s sermons. His words never failed to touch something deep inside him.

Christopher loved being a pastor. Luke’s first impression of Christopher was that his emotional default setting was enthusiasm. He adored working with outreach ministries, visiting the sick and the elderly, and he got along well with everyone.

Back then, Luke had been employed by the tech giant I.A.M., making piles of money, traveling all over the country and enjoying the single life. He liked sex and he liked variety. He had a nice apartment in downtown St. Paul. Lots of friends. And he had no particular desire to settle down, to “nest,” as some guys called it. But Christopher changed all that. Luke had never met anyone quite like him before. He was blond, tall, built, athletic—everything Luke wasn’t—and he was also Turner Classic Movies handsome. Looks were important, sure, but Christopher had something else, something special that flowed from his eyes. It was a warmth, an energy, a goodness. Luke knew by their second date that he’d be an idiot if he let Christopher Cornish get away.

At the time, Christopher was deep in the closet at Merriam Park United Methodist. The official church policy stated that self-avowed, practicing homosexuals were banned from the ministry. The trick was, you could be gay, you just couldn’t have a sex life. It was a policy
that pretty much forced duplicity on otherwise honest men and women.

That spring, while Christopher kept his small apartment in St. Paul for the sake of appearances, he and Luke moved into an apartment together in the Uptown area of south Minneapolis. Christopher didn’t have a landline at his apartment, just a cell phone, so people who called never knew where he was. Luke didn’t like all the closeted sneaking around, but he understood that it was a delicate situation for Christopher and was willing to live with it for a while. Luke was Christopher’s first real love. Before Luke came along, Christopher had been almost entirely celibate.

The situation festered for the next few years. In April of 2007, while Luke was on the road, he got an e-mail from Christopher, saying he’d reached his limit. He’d come to the conclusion that this was the moment. He wanted to provide a different voice for the congregation, especially for those he knew who were also in the closet, hiding from the most fundamental truth of their lives. On a gray spring Sunday, he’d come out to the congregation in his sermon. As Christopher had expected, the congregation was bitterly divided.

One week later, at about ten
P.M
., as he was leaving through the back door of the church, he was attacked. He was beaten viciously with a baseball bat and left for dead. The assailant got away. Christopher was found many hours later and taken to a hospital. Unfortunately, he’d lapsed into a coma before he could tell the police who his attacker was. But the story didn’t end there.

“Oh, Lord, you scared me,” said Christopher, nearly jumping out of his chair.

Ever since the assault, he’d startled easily.

“I’m sorry,” said Luke. “You seemed so into the music that I didn’t want to interrupt.” His eyes were motionless.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” said Luke. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all I need.”

J
ane stood outside the front doors of the Allen Grimby Repertory Theater in St. Paul talking to her dad on her cell phone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, honey. Steve Worlander said you had some questions about the plane. You know, Janey, as it turned out, it was my fault. Pilot error. I was in such a hurry to get to St. Cloud that I didn’t have the plane refueled. I thought we had enough, but I cut it too close.”

Now she knew she was being lied to. Worlander had said he’d seen the plane being refueled. It was the one thing he’d told her that she actually believed. And beyond that, her dad would never take off without knowing exactly how much fuel he had and how far it would get him.

“Look, Dad—”

“I know, I know. I’ll never be that careless again, I promise you. Somebody hauled some fuel out to the plane and it was flown back to Flying Cloud that same afternoon. I’ve already had it checked out. I put a few scratches on it when we landed, but that’s about the extent of the damage.” He laughed.

She didn’t think it was funny. But this wasn’t the time to get into it
with him. He was just about to be interviewed on
Morning Edition
on Minnesota Public Radio.

“I’d like to see you one of these days,” said Jane, “just to help me remember what you look like.”

Another laugh. “My schedule has been insane. But it will be over soon.”

“If you know when you’re going to have even fifteen minutes free, call me. I’ll drive to where you are, and we can have a cup of coffee.”

“It’s a deal, Janey. Hey, I gotta run.”

“I know. Hope the interview goes well.”

“It’ll be nothing but a nonstop grilling about that op-ed in the
Strib
on Monday. That’s all anybody wants to talk about at the moment. The issues are off the table, and my past as a litigator is center stage. Just what I never wanted. Bye, honey. Talk to you soon.”

Jane pocketed her phone, then pushed through the glass front doors into the theater. She found Cordelia inside the main stage. “You meditating?” she called, walking down the center aisle toward her.

“I’m hiding,” said Cordelia, looking up at the floodlight batten high above her head. “It’s been one of those mornings.” She paused, her hand sliding along the ornate iron railing as she moved a few paces to her right. “I’ve been thinking—” She tapped her lips with a finger. “Remember I told you that I’m mounting the production of that Nilo Cruz play next January. I know this is totally retro, but I might use footlights. You know? They were used in old variety shows. They ran around the floor on the front of the stage.”

Jane sat down in one of the aisle seats. “Sounds intriguing.”

“It could be, if it’s done right.” She leaned her hips against the railing, thinking for another few seconds, then said, “So, to what do I owe this unexpected visitation?”

“You make me sound like an evil spirit.”

“I’ve been reading a stage adaptation of Poe’s ‘The Masque of the Red Death’ for the last couple of days. We’re thinking about mounting it during the 2009 season.”

“Will you direct?”

She lowered her voice to its most suggestive register. “How could I resist? You know how much I
love
the macabre.”

“Then you’ll love my news.”

“Macabre news?” She rubbed her hands together. “Tell me everything.”

“That faint perfume smell in my house the other night? I wasn’t wrong. Someone had been inside.”

“Someone I know?” She pretended to think but was much too impatient to give it any serious thought. “I give. Who! Tell me!”

“Julia.”

“As in … Julia Martinsen? Your old—”

“The very same.”

Cordelia looked startled, then horrified, then entranced.

Jane presented her with a brief summary of what had happened. “And,” she added, as Cordelia slipped into the seat next to her, “she’d taken an old framed photograph of the two of us but thought better of it and brought it back.”

“The woman has no boundaries! She’s a crazy person, Janey. I always said that about her. You just wouldn’t listen.”

“When we were first dating and I was worried that she had an awful lot of secrets, you told me to go for it. That I’d regret it forever if I didn’t give it a shot.”

“You know better than to listen to me.”

“Pardon me? You think you’re the reincarnation of Dear Abby.”

“Well, as it happens, I am. But Abby and I can have an off day, can’t we?”

Jane’s eyes rose to the top of the theater curtain.

“You got the key back, right?”

“Doesn’t matter. I had the locks changed.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the new ones, handing it across to Cordelia. “Besides, she’s not dangerous. She’s just—”

“Obsessed.”

“No, I don’t think so. Just damaged.”

“If you believe a word that woman says, something’s wrong with
you.”

“Should I take that as another ex cathedra utterance from the mouth of the great Advice to the Lovelorn Diva?”

“Are you telling me you believe any of her self-serving twaddle? Like, she’s been off being Mother Teresa in Africa. She’s consumptive so she needs to be treated with great care. God, it’s right out of a Victorian novel. The least she could do was update it. Maybe give us something from … like,
Valley of the Dolls
. That’s at least part of the last century.”

“No, I believe her. She had no reason to lie about any of that. Tuberculosis is making a comeback, in case you haven’t heard.”

“She gets you spinning around just like she always does. And you buy into it. You stay away from her, you hear me?”

“I doubt I’ll ever see her again. I was pretty clear with her last night. She knows about Kenzie. Maybe—”

“Maybe what?” demanded Cordelia.

“Well, maybe I was a little too hard on her.”

“Oh, please! The woman lies like she breathes. You know what attracted you to her the first time?”

“What?”

“She was a mystery. You wanted to
solve
her!”

“I didn’t come here to be yelled at.”

“I’m not yelling!”

“You love yelling. Nor did I come to be analyzed.” Jane’s cell phone vibrated again. She pulled it out and checked the caller ID.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, my cell phone is.” She said hello.

“Is this Jane Lawless?”

“Yes?”

“This is Neil Kershaw. Hey, we finally connected. Whoever I talked to at the Xanadu Club gave me this number. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, but … what’s this about?”

“I’d rather save that for when we meet. It’s important. Otherwise,
I wouldn’t bother you. I’m wondering if we could get together later tonight. Say around ten at the Lyme House pub? Is that too late?”

Her curiosity had certainly been piqued. “No, that’s fine. I’ll grab us a table in the back room.”

“Great. Thanks so much. See you then.”

As she stuffed the phone back into her pocket, Cordelia tapped her fingers against her chin and said, “Who was that?”

Jane shrugged. “Some guy’s been chasing me around. Wants to talk to me tonight.”

Cordelia lowered her eyes and gave Jane a sideways look. “Anything I need to know about?”

Jane leaned in close and whispered, “If there is, I’ll call your cell phone, let it ring twice, then hang up. And then I’ll text-message you. I’ll use the code name ‘NOSY’ so you’ll know it’s me.”

“Cute.”

“I thought so. I’ll be in touch.”

W
here were you this afternoon when I called?” asked Luke. He was sitting in his hole of an office, talking to Christopher on his cell.

“I didn’t hear the phone,” said Christopher. “I must have been asleep.”

Luke was hoping he’d say that he’d gone for a walk, or that he was out getting his hair cut. Anything was better than sitting around the condo brooding.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got lots to do. I’m actually working on a sermon. I’ll give it one day. If not at Merriam Park, then somewhere else.”

Not what Luke wanted to hear. He’d been hoping that Christopher would give up the ministry, move on in some other direction. “Have you thought any more about the upcoming trial?”

“The bishop has the power to strip me of my orders and toss me out of the church, but everyone on that jury is going to have to look me in the eye to do it. I intend to rub their faces in my scars, my broken bones and body, their egregious moral teachings. Nobody’s going to leave that council chamber feeling good about themselves, you can count on that.”