Butcher's Road (20 page)

Hollis slid his chair back. He crossed to a narrow closet door and pulled it open. Carefully he slid a box away from the back of the space and reached behind it, awkwardly balancing on the balls of his feet to get the greatest reach. His fingers grazed a cardboard edge, and he leaned a shoulder against the jamb for support. Once he had a firm grasp on the card, he lifted it free. He carried the mounted poster to his desk, opened the long top drawer and propped the poster inside, where it sat like a piece of art on an easel.

Holding his coffee, Hollis leaned back in his chair and stared at the image of himself, a dozen years younger, clad in snug black shorts and matching boots. Where had that kid gone?

Having Butch in the house had rekindled an intense nostalgia in Hollis, a longing for his days on the mats. The training. The packed arenas and theaters. Cheering admirers. The company of athletes. The crowds had loved his flamboyant boasts and strutting gait, and they’d paid good money to sit in his shadow as he stalked the mats, teasing an opponent before dropping the lug on his tail. His coach had always told him to focus on the science of the sport, and maybe the old man had been right, but even if he’d perfected his holds and his breaks, his career would have ended just as quickly.

Some scandals passed like dust at your heels; others buried you deep.

Hollis’s dishonor had come as fast and low as a leg reap, and he’d hit the mat and fallen through, dropping good and fast into the sewer flowing beneath his career, and it was all because he’d misinterpreted a situation, had made a stupid mistake.

He’d just won a bout against a bulky Norwegian kid and had finished his shower in the dressing room. He stepped out to find the place nearly empty. Most nights his coach corralled the members of the press and let them babble and jot notes while Hollis dressed, but upon emerging from the shower, Hollis encountered a single man, sitting on the leather sofa and holding a highball of whiskey. The man had a look about him, a look Hollis liked. When it came to men, nothing did him in quite so quickly as a rugged face. Unfettered masculinity. And the man on his sofa, despite a neatly tailored suit and hard-starched shirt, fit that bill nicely, looking like a dockworker or an aging boxer who’d lost more than his share of fights. Hollis introduced himself and learned that the man’s name was Croger.

“I cleared the place out,” Croger said.

Looking back, Hollis imagined post-bout exhilaration and more than a little arrogance had put his mind in a place it shouldn’t have been. He’d had his share of willing fans—men and women—who’d found their way to dressing rooms and hotel rooms with his body on their minds. Though he should have known better, he’d assumed the strong-jawed stranger was another of that familiar species.

Hollis had kept things superficial and friendly. Usually, he knew better than to move too quickly in these situations, so he waited until he’d gathered what he considered sufficient evidence: the way Croger’s eyes moved over him when they spoke; certain phrases Croger used that were so common and meaningless, Hollis had had no business reading so much into them. Then Croger had suggested they get together for a drink at the hotel later, and Hollis had suggested they just take a bottle to bed with them.

In less than a second, a hot sheet of outrage replaced momentary confusion on Croger’s face. The insulted man threw a punch and Hollis dodged it easily. The scuffle was ridiculous and Hollis won it.

But Croger was the brother-in-law of the local promoter, and all the while Hollis believed he was being seduced, it turned out to be nothing more than Croger greasing the wheels for a business proposition he’d intended to pitch him over drinks. It could have been funny. It wasn’t. Thanks to the promoter Hollis became an overnight pariah, and he sank fast after that. Newspapers throughout Florida carried accounts of the misunderstanding, using brutal code words like “unnatural” and “sinner.” He didn’t even attempt to maintain a career.

His coach summed things up with icy precision: “This ain’t a sport for punks. You’re good and done now.” With no purpose and no prospects, he slid headlong into a truly ugly place. Night and day, he drank until he was a soft and useless knot, curled on a rickety bed in an Atlanta hotel.

Then Rory Sullivan found him. The Irishman had heard all about the ruckus and wanted to know why Hollis was taking the flack lying down, as if he’d done nothing more than got himself into hot water over some man’s wife. Rory stayed with him for three weeks, getting him off the booze and helping Hollis see a different kind of life for himself. Taking in Butch was supposed to pay back that debt, but to Hollis’s mind no favor would be great enough to balance the account.

Further, he’d wanted to meet Butch, “The Butcher”: the ring’s golden boy. The man had entered wrestling fully formed, his skills and physique already perfected for the sport. Rory had told Hollis the story—different from Rossington’s but with similar results. The grappler from Vermont should have been a legend, but he’d crossed the wrong men. Made the wrong moves. Hollis understood completely. Where the hell did you go once your dream ran you down?

Apparently you go to New Orleans,
he thought.

He stood and lifted the poster from the desk drawer, returned to the closet and leaned the card against the back wall. After sliding the box into place, he closed the door and felt a tug as if the poster were attached to him, a piece of him that had been partially, but not wholly, severed.

Hollis wanted to hear stories about the sport he loved and get caught up on what had happened to the grapplers he had once faced in the ring. He missed those conversations as much as he missed the sport itself. If Butch had gotten wind of Hollis’s dark days, it hadn’t showed in their first meeting, not that Butch had been in his right mind. In fact at the café he’d seemed about as close to death as anyone Hollis had ever met.

An hour passed before he set to the frustrating task of totaling and notating the receipts. When this was accomplished and the wholly inadequate figures laughed at him from the page, he turned his attention to the bills, many of which were past due. He let the phonograph go silent as he wrote checks and addressed envelopes. The sound of his pen on the dry paper was the soft-shoe slide of a drunk. Halting and uncertain. He set the bill for the building mortgage aside; there wasn’t enough money in the bank to pay it yet. Maybe by the end of the week.

He’d gotten used to overdue account notices, had rarely even blinked at the warnings and threats his postman delivered, but Lady Victoria’s had been treading water for a long time. Things weren’t getting better and showed no signs of turning around.

After filing away his ledger and locking the receipts in the safe, Hollis lifted the stack of envelopes from the edge of his desk and left the office.

• • •

At home, Hollis checked on Lionel and found him sleeping soundly in their bed. Not quite ready to sleep himself, Hollis returned to the first floor and poured himself a brandy, which he enjoyed on the sofa. Through the wall at his back, Butch slept. Hollis pictured the serene features beneath the unkempt beard, imagined the round, full muscle of Butch’s shoulders and chest.

Warmed by the drink, but not calmed by it, he stood and crossed to Butch’s room. He stood at the threshold, peering through the gloom. The rustle of blankets surprised him.

“Good morning,” Butch said.

Hollis turned the light switch. The fixture lit, and Butch slid up in the bed to rest his back against the headboard. A ridge of sheet and duvet ran low over his belly. Hollis was pleased to see his energy, if not his appearance, had vastly improved. The whisper of longing he’d felt for Butch became a chant. He didn’t want to feel this way, not about this man. It complicated things, but the song persisted even when he shouted for silence.

“Hollis?” Butch asked. His face had wrung into an expression of concern.

The uncomfortable memory of Croger flickered and died, and Hollis began to realize how foolish he must seem. Still unable to bring himself into the room, he turned his attention to the curtains where morning light filtered soft and pink between the crimson drapes until Butch said his name a second time.

“I’m sorry,” Hollis said. “It’s been a long night. And besides, it wouldn’t be polite to enter unless you invite me in.”

“Sure is a fancy carnival you’re running here,” Butch said. Maybe he’d meant the comment to ring light, but his rough voice only made it sound aggressive. Hollis felt a mask of disapproval tighten over his face, and Butch must have noticed, because he quickly said, “Sorry, Hollis. Please, come in. We need to talk about something.”

Hollis walked into the room, hesitantly, but he wouldn’t let himself approach the bed. Instead he turned to the drapes and pulled them back to allow warm light to flood his face. He stood before the panes, head cocked back, eyes closed as if beneath a shower’s spray.

“Not nearly enough sunlight in my line of work,” he said. Butch said nothing, but Hollis hadn’t really expected a response. “You had something you wanted to say?”

“Yeah, it’s about that kid you’ve got living here,” Butch said.

He attempted a frown to show Butch he would be surprised by whatever news he was about to receive, but in truth, any mischief Lionel performed was unlikely to surprise Hollis.

“Lionel?” he asked. “What about him?”

“Did you know he was a fairy?”

“Oh, that,” Rossington said as if Butch were reminding him of an irrelevant errand. “Has he approached you in some way?”

“You’re taking this awfully cool.”

“Well, it’s not news, Butch, and as far as I’m concerned it’s not an issue.”

“How can it not be an issue? He brings men into your house and… Well, I’m not going to say it. What exactly is this kid to you?”

And here, Hollis found himself at a loss. He
was
surprised. He’d expected to hear many things from Butch: Lionel flirting; Lionel dropping hints about his relationship with Hollis; Lionel stirring up the pot to enjoy a bit of excitement. Hollis had not expected to learn that his companion was bringing men into the house—the house Hollis paid for—when he was at the club. More surprising was the sudden realization that he’d known this was not a first or second indiscretion. He’d suspected for weeks, but he’d denied the possibility. And why? He couldn’t say.

“I think you better—” Butch said.

Hollis interrupted the wrestler by lifting his hand, though he continued to look through the glass. “I don’t expect you to remember our first conversation. You were pretty gone with exhaustion, but at the time I told you we had an unorthodox household, and I stressed the fact that you’d have a difficult time adjusting.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And you’re talking again,” Hollis said, shaking his head. He turned from the window and finally allowed himself to approach the bed. Though Lionel’s betrayal stung, and he would certainly deal with the son of a bitch, he needed to make some things clear to Butch first. “I have something to say, and I’m as tired as a whore three days into leave, so let’s be clear and quick. Having you here presents a threat to the people under this roof. Now, I knew that when I brought you here. Rory made it very clear when he called, but I figure there are enough people getting ground up by the way things are, so if I could keep someone…you…from becoming more gear grease, I’d consider it worth the risk. But there are realities in this house that I don’t think you’ll ever be able to live with.”

“For fuck’s sake, Hollis,” Butch said, throwing back the blankets and sliding off the bed. Either oblivious to his nakedness or indifferent to it, Butch stood and faced off on Hollis, who backed up a step. “You got some sick punk running around your house.”

“And who does that hurt?”

“You’re kidding?” Butch looked about the room, as if searching for someone to support his position. Absently, he scratched his chest and shook his head.

Hollis was taken off guard by his unabashed guest, though he knew he shouldn’t have been. He’d shared showers and locker rooms with dozens of men. It had been a common practice for years, but Hollis had been removed from that world for a long time, ever since Croger. In recent years, the only unclothed men he encountered were on their way to or from his bed. He became self-conscious about his manner, feeling certain there was a way he should have been behaving that he wasn’t. His shoulders and neck felt like concrete as he made a conscious effort to keep his eyes on Butch’s angry face.

“What do you mean, who does it hurt? It isn’t normal.” Butch walked to the wardrobe and opened the door. He pulled a robe off of a hook and slid it on.

With the body covered, Hollis felt his poise return. “Butch, this is what I’m talking about. No one here, in this house, is particularly concerned with
normal
. And quite frankly, Lionel is one of my less complicated acquaintances.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Dead serious,” Hollis said.

Butch walked toward him, shaking his head. “It’s your house, pal. I’m just visiting, but I’ll damn well be sleeping with one eye open.”

Apparently, the fever hadn’t boiled any of the ignorance out of the man. Further, he was holding on to a heap of arrogance for a guy who’d pretty much hit bottom, but Hollis understood that. On a downhill slide, you reached for anything you could hold on to, anything that felt stable and secure. Butch’s ego had suffered one blow after another—his career and future toppling away like gravel no matter where he’d tried to find purchase. Every root and stone he’d clutched had torn out in his hands. On this one point, Butch felt certain he had a firm grasp because the illusion of its truth had been reinforced on playgrounds and locker rooms and churches throughout his life, but if things were going to work out, Hollis would have to kick Butch’s grip loose and let him slide a little farther.