The Butcher's Son (13 page)

He nodded.

“And you’d better go over this whole thing with your father so you don’t start telling two different stories.”

He nodded again.

“Now,” I said, just to be certain I hadn’t missed anything, “
no one
else knows Patrick is alive?”

Kevin shook his head.

“You’re sure?” I prompted.

“I’m sure.”

“Well, let’s hope for your…” I had started to say your
father’s
but couldn’t bring myself to. “…sake they don’t.”

*

I was summoned to C.C.’s office immediately upon
my return from the shelter and was surprised to once again be offered a seat. Not good.

“Your friend Kevin blew it,” C.C. began; little niceties like “Good morning, Hardesty” would be incomprehensible to him. I found his emphasis on the word friend mildly disturbing.

“I heard,” I said. “That was the gist of our meeting this morning.”

“I’ll just bet it was. If I were the chief, I’d ream that kid of his a new asshole. But it’s too late for that now. Now it’s up to
me
to handle the damage control.”

Yeah, C.C.
, I thought,
it’s up to
you.

“That Patrick Rourke was a faggot wasn’t exactly a state secret, but everybody thought it was over and done with when he had the good sense to get killed. I knew it was going to come back and bite the chief on the ass, and it has.” He glared at me as though he strongly suspected I was responsible. “Now, I want you to tell me everything you two talked about, and especially what
you
told
him
.”

I went into Scheherazade mode and proceeded to weave a detailed tale of what was, in fact, the gist of our conversation without actually mentioning many of the details. I sure as hell didn’t mention that Patrick was alive. I told him I had advised Kevin the best thing to do was not make an issue of it, that to try to cover it up would be more damaging than treating it as casually as possible, and to respond to future questions with the “Patrick was gay, Patrick was loved, Patrick is dead” response.

C.C. just sat there, listening, a look of total disdain never leaving his face. When I had finished, he made a great slow-motion production of reaching into his thermidor, extracting a tobacco zucchini, unwrapping it, snipping off the end, lighting it, and then making exaggerated inhaling
pup-pup-pup
sounds as he took the first long draft.

After a long moment, he laid the cigar carefully on the edge of the ashtray and looked at me.

“Here’s exactly what you’re going to do, Hardesty. You’re going to downplay any references to Patrick being a faggot. You’re not going to send out press releases denying it. You’re not going to deny it, but you’re not going to make an issue of it, either. Use the sympathy ploy; make whoever asks feel like they’re stomping on the Rourke family’s private grief. Keep it brief. Do you understand?”

Uh, yeah, C.C. I think I understand. Thanks for coming up with that brilliant strategy all by yourself. I guess that’s why you get the big bucks.

I nodded.

C.C. took another long puff on his cigar.

“The State Association of Police Chiefs annual meeting is this coming weekend. You’re coming along to keep tabs on Kevin. The kid’s an idiot, but the chief really needs him.”

Although I’d heard from Kevin some time ago that I’d be along on the trip, this was the first mention C.C. had made of it to me. Not “Could you come?” or “Would you come?” but “You’re coming.” Class all the way.

He blew a long stream of smoke in my direction.

“You’ll be bunking in Kevin’s hotel room—we can’t afford to throw money around on extra rooms.”

I was once again impressed by C.C.’s charm, by his tact and diplomacy, by his concern for his employees’ feelings on whether or not they were willing to give up their weekends on a minute’s notice, or if they wanted to share a hotel room. Why ask when you can tell?

*

Wednesday was to be Chris’ last day at work, so his coworkers threw a party for him Tuesday night. I had a frozen pizza, called Bob to see how he was doing—which had become something of a ritual—and watched TV until Chris got home around eleven fairly well smashed.

The guest bedroom was filling up with boxes of his stuff, and by mutual unspoken agreement, we kept the door to that room closed. The apartment was starting to look a little bare—pictures missing from the walls, books missing from the bookcases, empty spots where knickknacks used to be. Things that had been so common I hardly paid attention to before but now knew I was going to miss.

But we both did our best not to notice, and I think each of us was grateful for the way the other was handling the whole situation.

Then it was Thursday, and our dinner with Bob. We contributed a really nice bottle of wine, not that he didn’t have a huge rack full already; and having mentioned it to Bob earlier, Chris had stopped at the local bakery for a sinfully rich chocolate cake topped with whipped cream and fresh banana slices.

Although we had not been really close friends before the fire, the tragedy had created a strange but strong bond among the three of us left. There was a vague awareness that we were dealing with loss—Bob’s, of course, was the worst, but in a different sense, Chris and I were losing each other as well.

Bob was doing as well as could be expected, and he actually laughed a couple times during the evening. When he spoke of Ramón, it was in a lovingly casual way, and none of us seemed to be made uncomfortable by it. Both Chris and I knew he was still hurting terribly, but he was strong enough to make it, and now we had no doubt he would.

*

The issue of Patrick Rourke’s homosexuality did, as expected, create a momentary fervor in the media; and Kevin found it necessary, in his pre-scheduled TV interviews before the police chiefs’ gathering, to ward off further incursions into the subject. He handled himself quite well, and the overall result was that most people did feel the family’s privacy should be respected, that the past should remain in the past.

I really wasn’t quite sure why I was being dragged along to the meeting, other than to handle the details of assuring maximum media coverage for the chief’s speech before the group and another short press conference afterwards. The prospect of being in the chief’s immediate presence, for however briefly we might have to be in the same building, was not a happy one.

To be honest, though, the idea of sharing a hotel room with Kevin for two nights was oddly intriguing. Something was going on with him, but I had absolutely no idea what that something was, and I was determined to find out.

*

And then it was Friday, Chris’s and my last day to
gether.
It’s kind of hard to put into words exactly how it went. Work, of course, simply went, hectic from the moment I walked in the door to the moment I walked back out again. The strangeness started with my going home. It was rather as if someone had opened a valve inside me, and something was draining out, leaving me with an odd, empty feeling.

Chris had our drinks waiting when I walked in the door. I noticed immediately that the dining room table was set for two, complete with candles and a bowl of flowers. It wasn’t our good china or silverware, of course—they were Chris’s and were already packed and put away in the guest bedroom—but it looked really nice anyway and in an odd way, it hurt. We each did our best to be cheerful and casual, and for the most part it worked.

Chris was getting mildly nervous about his flight, as he always did, and I sat in the kitchen with him as he made my favorite meal—pork chops nearly burnt, the crisper the better; mashed potatoes and pan gravy; and Brussels sprouts, which I knew Chris really didn’t care for. He’d even set out a little hors d’oeuvres tray with cheese and crackers and a dish of my favorite creamed herring.

Now I knew exactly how he’d felt when I’d handed him those damned plastic grapes.

There were quite a few phone calls—friends with last-minute goodbyes getting Chris’s promise to send his address and phone number as soon as he had them and heartfelt promises to keep in touch.

What did we talk about? I really can’t remember. The same things all people who’ve spent five years together talk about, I guess. We kept pretending it was just another evening at home, but we knew it wasn’t, and the hollow feeling was still inside me.

We headed for bed around ten, since Chris had to be at the airport by ten-thirty the next day, and I had to start my drive north. We undressed in silence, watching one another, yet the usual urge for sex wasn’t there for either of us.

When we climbed into bed and turned out the lights, I moved closer to Chris.

“Do you suppose we should take advantage of our last night?” I asked.

He wrapped his arms around me and snuggled closer, as he had done so many times before over the past five years.

“Let’s let it be something to look forward to,” he said.

So, we held each other warmly and in silence until we both, at last, fell asleep.

Chapter 10

Since I had had no desire whatsoever to fly anywhere on the same airplane with either C.C. or the chief, I had volunteered to drive my—well, Chris’s—car and bring up the boxes of press kits, signs, posters, policy papers, and assorted PR paraphernalia that would be needed for the two-day meeting. By leaving directly from the airport, I’d be at the hotel in plenty of time to get things set up for the five p.m. cocktail party that would kick off the conference.

It would also give me a couple hours to myself, which I felt I was going to need.

All the last-minute rushing around and getting ready in the morning kept both Chris and me more than busy. The trip to the airport was spent mostly reminding one another of the various things each of us should be doing, last-minute instructions from Chris about not forgetting to water the plants (a chore he had taken on out of necessity because I never remembered to do it), to be sure to open all his credit card bills so I could let him know how much he owed, making sure I had the address and phone number for the hotel the company was putting him up in—right across the river from Manhattan in New Jersey, a quick bus ride through the Lincoln tunnel—until he found a place.

There was an accident on the freeway that slowed us down to a crawl for nearly a mile, and we didn’t arrive at the airport until ten-twenty. We decided I’d better just drop Chris off at the boarding passenger zone rather than try to find a parking place and go in with him. A limo just at the curb pulled out, and I swung in to take the space.

I got out of the car to help Chris extricate his two suitcases and duffel bag from the pile of meeting junk in the back seat. We set them on the curb and then just stood there awkwardly, looking at one another. At last, I stepped forward and grabbed him, and we exchanged a long, hard bear hug. Then we backed away, hands still on each other’s shoulders.

“Call,” I said.

“I will.” He picked up his bags and walked into the airport without looking back. I was glad he didn’t.

*

I don’t remember too much of the drive north. Traf
fic
was relatively light, and the time passed quickly. I don’t remember much of what I was thinking about on the way, but I was very much aware of an almost overwhelming sense of loss.

I stopped for lunch at one of those chain restaurants that, each time I go there, I swear I will never go to again. And I always do. The food would have been eminently forgettable even if I’d been in a mood to remember it. But, I reassured myself, the bad food was more than offset by the lousy service.

Arriving at the hotel, I noted the “Welcome A.S.P.C.” announcement on the huge roadside marquee, and the banner over the main entrance read
Welcome, Chiefs!
Valet parking was available, but someone was just pulling out of a spot in the general parking area, and I took it.

Grabbing just my one suitcase out of the back seat, I locked the car and made my way under the banner and into the cavernous, all but empty lobby. Most of the convention participants had already arrived and were attending various seminars and meetings. There was a registration desk, and I stopped to pick up my official badge and materials kit, which did not, to my relief, include tickets to either the reception or the dinner.

I went to the registration desk and asked if the Reverend Rourke had signed in yet. I was informed he had, and I identified myself and asked for a key. The clerk gave me just the slightest raised eyebrow, searched his records and said, “I’m sorry, sir, your name does not seem to be in our register.”

Well, we’re off to a great start
, I thought.

I asked if they could call the room, in case Kevin might be in, and luckily, he was. The clerk spoke softly and rather secretively into the phone for what seemed like ten minutes, then nodded, said, “Of course, Reverend Rourke,” and hung up.

I was given a registration card, which I filled out feeling rather like a hooker who’s been called in for the night, and, upon returning it to the clerk, a key.

“Fourteen-ten,” he said. “Enjoy your stay,” and he gave me a smile that all but added
faggot
.

*

I knocked on 1410’s door; when there was no
answer
to
a second knock, I used my key. I could hear the shower running as I walked in. It was a very nice room with two queen-sized beds, on one of which Kevin’s change of clothes lay carefully arranged. The water shut off in the shower, and as I was opening my suitcase to get at a carton of cigarettes I’d carefully placed near the top, I turned to see Kevin enter the bedroom drying his hair vigorously, stark naked.

I have to admit, I was more than a little impressed.

Seeing me seemed to startle him, and he hastily wrapped the towel around his middle.

“Dick!” he said, as though completely surprised. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Not as though you didn’t have some idea I might be showing up
, I thought.