Who Dat Whodunnit (5 page)

“I still can’t believe Papa didn’t warn us Jared was bringing her.” Dad shook his head, a sad look on his face.

I felt bad for Dad. It wasn’t the first time. I’ve never understood the Bradley side of the family. For that matter, it was impossible to believe Papa and MiMi could have supplied the DNA for Dad. Rain once theorized that either MiMi had an affair or he had to have been adopted.

If Dad didn’t have a strong resemblance to Papa Bradley, I’d find that easy to believe.

“Because he knew damned well if we knew Jared was bringing that monster, we wouldn’t have shown up.” Mom took another slug of her wine. “And he wanted us all there, regardless of how we might feel, to worship at the shrine of St. Jared. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell the Holy Child not to bring her.”

“How did they even meet?” I wondered out loud.

Mom ignored me. “I am
never
setting foot in that house again, and I’m never speaking to him again unless he apologizes, and he certainly won’t do that. And admit he was wrong? That he behaved in a way that was offensive? Maybe when monkeys fly out of my ass.” She shook her head. “We should have cut him out of our lives years ago. He’s always treated us like trash, anyway. The worthless drunk Skipper can do no wrong—and if he can’t appreciate what a fine man you are, honey—” She kissed Dad on the cheek. “Well, then he doesn’t deserve our love or respect. I know he’s your father, darling—”

Dad gave her a sad smile. “It’s okay, dear.” He shrugged his shoulders. “He certainly went too far this time. I don’t understand why he favors Jared so much.”

“Because he’s a football player,” I replied.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Frank wiped ketchup off his chin and looked at me.

I smiled at him. Frank was born and raised up north and had lived in DC most of the time he was with the Feds. “It’s a Southern thing,” I said, for simplicity’s sake. “Football is like a religion down here. Like how the whole city’s gone nuts this season? How many other cities have gay bars televising the local team’s games?”

Frank nodded. “So, because Jared’s a Saint, Papa Bradley treats him different than everyone else?”

I rolled my eyes. “When I didn’t play football in high school…I might as well have been a cheerleader in his eyes.” Storm
had
played football—Papa Bradley hadn’t missed even one of his away games all four years. When Jared got a scholarship to play football at Southern Mississippi—a school he would have pitched a fit over if any other Bradley had wanted to go there—it was like Papa Bradley had died and gone to heaven.

Making the Saints roster in try-outs (no team drafted him) was just the icing on the cake.

“He always favored Skipper,” Dad said, taking a sip of his wine. “Whether Jared played football or not, he’s always favored Skipper.”

“Oh, Skipper’s just perfect,” Mom replied, her face hardening. “He doesn’t need to have a job or anything—or even stay sober for more than twelve hours, or stay married to the same woman for more than three years, or be a good father, or do anything besides just exist, for that matter. He can do no wrong as far as Papa Bradley’s concerned. And
we
can’t do anything right.” She laughed, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it, Frank?”

“No,” Frank said with a ghost of a smile. “Can’t say that it does.”

“And that Jared! What a miserable little bastard he is!” Mom started winding herself up again. Affronts to her family were not something she took lightly. “I mean, I suppose we can’t really blame him for being such an insensitive troglodyte—it’s not like Skipper was any kind of father to him, and that revolving door of stepmothers he had to put up with—I don’t even know how many times Skipper’s been married.”

“Four,” I said, taking a bite out of my mushroom cheeseburger and trying not to moan from pleasure. I was starving, and Quartermaster’s burgers are ambrosia.

Mom frowned. “Are you sure it’s only four? I’m pretty sure it’s five.” She put her fork down, and started ticking them off on her fingers. “His first wife was Darla—how long were they married? Not even a year? Then there was Bethany, and after she left him, that’s when he married that Lebanese girl—what was her name?”

“Bethany,” I said to Frank in a low voice, “is Jared’s mother.”

“Wasn’t her name Noor?” Dad replied, wrinkling his forehead. “Or am I thinking of the Queen of Jordan?”

“It doesn’t matter—she only lasted a few months anyway.” Mom dismissed the third wife with a wave of her hand. “And then he married Marybeth, and now Leslie. Five. He’s been married five times.” She rolled her eyes. “But like I said, Skipper can do no wrong in Papa Bradley’s eyes. He could burn the house down and Papa would just say, ‘That’s fine, son, I was tired of the place anyway.’” She smiled at Dad. “And here we are, still happily married after all these years, and all three of our children have turned out so well.” She gave me a big smile. “That must really stick in the old bastard’s craw.” She looked at Frank. “Papa Bradley has always disapproved of me, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Frank replied, giving me a sly wink she didn’t see.

Mom chose to ignore the sarcasm and took it literally. “I’m a bad influence on John. And of course, it’s my fault Scotty’s gay—the liberal, pinko communist way I raised him, you know.” She scowled. “He’s stuck in the McCarthy era. He thinks women should be deferential housewives and mothers, that blacks belong in the back of the bus, Mexicans should all be sent home, and all gays should go back in the closet. Can you believe an educated man, in this day and age, thinks being gay is something you
choose
?”

“I chose to be gay,” I grinned at Frank, “when I was about five years old. When I saw Greg Louganis diving in the Los Angeles Olympics in that stars-and-stripes Speedo, I was lost to heterosexuality forever.” I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together. “That body! That butt! That bulge!” I batted my eyelashes at him. “There was no hope for me after that.”

“They do always say it’s the mother’s fault,” Frank replied, and ducked for cover as Mom threw her napkin at him.

“Horse shit. I’m so fucking sick of that idiocy.” Mom exploded, her face a thundercloud. “Why would anyone would choose to be gay—”

“The great sex,” I whispered, and Frank elbowed me in the side.

“To be discriminated against and treated like a second-class citizen? Would anyone choose to be bullied and called names in school? Would—”

Dad interrupted her gently.“He was teasing you, dear.”

“Oh.” She gave Frank a black look before grinning and wagging her finger at him. “You’re just lucky I love you, Frank.”

“I know.” Frank patted my leg. “Every day when I wake up I thank the universe for my incredible good fortune.”

“I do the same thing,” Dad replied, rolling his eyes as Mom slugged him in the arm.

We all laughed, and I was crumpling up my burger wrapper when the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Father Dan!” Mom jumped to her feet, heading for the back door. She called back over her shoulder, “He called when we were on our way home and I invited him over.”

“I’ll open some more wine.” Dad got up and went into the kitchen.

“I really hate your aunt Enid,” Frank said once Dad was out of earshot.

I opened my mouth and closed it without saying anything.

“She’s a homophobe,” Frank whispered as Dad came back into the living room, struggling with a wine bottle and the corkscrew. Frank jumped up and took them from Dad with a grin and winked at me as he freed the cork in two twists.

I just stared at him, my mouth open. Where the hell did that come from?

Aunt Enid was odd, sure, no argument there, but a homophobe?

Seriously?

“Thanks, Frank,” Dad plopped back down in his chair with a sigh of relief. “It’s like I have a mental block with corkscrews—I can never get them to work.”

Frank sat back down next to me as Dad refilled our glasses. I gave him a look that clearly said
what did she say to you
and he just shook his head slightly, mouthing “later” to me as I heard the back door shut.

“Scotty! Frank!” Father Dan rubbed his hands together as he walked into the living room, Mom on his heels. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a black and gold Saints muffler around his neck, and a tight pair of black jeans. He leaned down and kissed us both on the cheek and shook hands with Dad before taking his jacket off.

I’ve known Father Dan Marshall almost my entire life—or at least as long as I can remember. I’m not sure how old he actually is, but he’s most likely in his late forties or early fifties. It just seemed like he’d always been around, sitting in the living room getting stoned with Mom and Dad and arguing politics with them. He’s tall, maybe an inch or so over six feet, and has always worked out regularly. He’s striking more than handsome, with a long narrow face, even white teeth, and blue eyes. He’s got a great body—when I was a teenager I’d had a huge crush on him. At the time, the incongruity of having sexual fantasies about a Roman Catholic priest never crossed my mind. He was always tanned, and his body was amazing—broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a big round hard ass that always seemed to be straining the seams of his jeans. But the most striking thing about him was his hair. He had the thickest, most beautiful blond hair I’ve ever seen. He usually wore it long and parted in the center, but as he removed the muffler from around his neck, I noticed he’d gotten it cut short for him. It was parted on the side and stopped just above the ears, but there was still a lot of it. He was wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt with the top two buttons undone, given me a glimpse of the smoothly muscled valley between his strong pecs.

He took the glass of wine Dad was offering with a grateful smile and sat down in a wingback chair facing all of us. He took a sip and opened his eyes wide. “Oh, that’s good,” he grinned, taking another sip. “I’ve been needing some wine for hours.”

“A Chilean Merlot,” Dad replied, refilling his own glass while Mom loaded a pipe with some of their best marijuana.

“It’s perfect.” Father Dan set the glass down before taking the pipe from Mom. He lit the bowl and took a long hit, holding it for a moment with his eyes closed before blowing a cloud out toward the ceiling. He coughed a few times, and took another drink of his wine. He passed the pipe over to me.

It’s always a little unnerving to smoke pot with a Roman Catholic priest. No matter how many times I’d done it, I still hadn’t gotten used to it.

I took a hit and passed it to Frank, who also took a big hit before handing it over to Mom, who dumped the ash and reloaded it for herself. I suppressed a giggle. I was smoking pot with a priest and a retired FBI agent, I thought, and had to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Damn, it was good pot.

“So, how did the meeting go? I’m sorry we had to miss it,” Mom said, blowing out a massive cloud of smoke. She checked the pipe and sheepishly reloaded it.

“It went really well—much better than I could have hoped.” Father Dan replied, sipping his wine. “According to our Facebook page, we should have about two or three hundred people at the counter-rally.” He shrugged. “But you never know how many people that’s really going to translate to, you know? I’m hoping we get more of a crowd than they do—that’s pretty much been the case everywhere this ridiculous tour of hate has been. But this
is
Louisiana, so who knows?”

“This is the counter-rally at the Dove Ministry of Truth, I assume?” I asked, trying not to cough as I passed Frank the pipe. The Dove Ministry of Truth was a megachurch on Airline Drive in Kenner.

“That’s another one I’d like to punch right in the face—that bitch Peggy MacGillicudy. What’s it to her if gays and lesbians can get married? Who cares? If my marriage isn’t strong enough to survive Frank and Scotty getting married, well, there’s something else seriously wrong with my marriage.” Mom spread her hands. “How are gays and lesbians responsible for the divorce rate in this country?”

“It’s just bigotry cloaked in religion,” Father Dan replied. “I for one am tired of having my faith perverted by people who don’t understand the teachings of Christ.” He rubbed his hands together.

“But you’re a
priest
.”
Frank put the pipe down on the coffee table. “Doesn’t the Catholic Church—”

“As long as I keep a low profile, the Archdiocese lets me minister to the LGBT community,” Father Dan grinned. “Of course, I’m sure Archbishop Pugh thinks I’m trying to get them to renounce their sin. And what the Archbishop doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“But isn’t the counter-protest going to be pretty high-profile?” I asked.

“That’s why I’m listed as the organizer,” Mom informed me. “Father Dan’s name isn’t anywhere, and he won’t be there.”

I looked at his smiling face. Many times over the years I wondered why he simply didn’t renounce his Catholicism—it would certainly have made his life easier. As a gay priest, the conflict within himself had to rip him apart sometimes.

“And if they want to have a ‘protect marriage’ rally in Kenner, well, I’m not going to let them go unanswered,” Father Dan went on. “The Community Center, P-FLAG, Forum for Equality—everyone’s getting involved.”

“Why would they have one in Louisiana in the first place?” Frank asked. “There’s already a constitutional amendment here banning same-sex marriage—no one’s trying to repeal it, right?”