Lovesick (33 page)

“A foster home?”

“Foster homes is for those that can get taken in. Or shows potential for getting placed somewhere. Where I was is where they put boys who nobody wants or who has done stuff so they needs to be looked after.”

“A group home.”

“Yeah,” he sneered. “If that's what you want to call it. Birchwood Boys Home. About the only good thing it did for me was help get me ready for living on the inside.”

I didn't ask what he meant by this because I knew he meant prison.

“In those places, there are men like you there that do for other men. But sometimes there are men who do for each other, but it ain't nobody's bidness but their own what they do. When I was a boy, I had me a friend. He was about my age. Well, some of the boys talked about us. Said things. Called us queers. It didn't bother him any, but I fought the ones who said it. Told them if they ever said it again, I would cut off their peckers and make them suck their own dicks. But that didn't stop some of them. So I had to show them that I meant bidness.”

“What happened to your friend?” I asked.

“He had to go away,” he said.

I wanted to ask where, how long, but knew it wasn't allowed, that Lonnie would never tell me more than that. But who had been this friend?

He took a swig of his beer before continuing. “That friend of yours, Roger—he was like those boys at Birchwood. He needed to know what was what.”

No, I wanted to say. You're wrong, Lonnie. Roger was kind and caring and sweet and tender. He was sad and lonely. He only wanted friendship and affection. He didn't need to be killed. But I didn't say anything.

“Anyhow, it don't really matter now, does it? There's only one way to make sure somebody don't talk. Otherwise they has something on you and can use it. Now, the way I see it, M.R., is that you and me is in this thing together. It wasn't my fault that your friend invited himself over here. He was the one to blame. And you should have stopped him from intruding into where he didn't belong. But what's done is done, and now we need to put that behind us.”

“But surely there is a way,” I said. “We can be careful. We can go to Whiteville. I will get a room there for you to stay.”

“No,” he said. “That won't do. Besides, now I got to know that you have my side in this.” I tried to look deep into his eyes, to see what kind of hurt could be housed there, but he looked at me hard and cold, and I knew that if he did not trust me, I would soon discover what Roger had said was true. Lonnie did not plan ahead—or so I believed then. He only acted according to what was required in any given situation.

“You don't have to worry about me,” I said.

Lonnie thought for a moment. “Maybe if I was to come over and work for you a bit. Like that first time I came over here was to bring you the van. Didn't nobody give a whistle about that.”

“But the van only needed to be serviced,” I said. “And you can't work in the shop.”

“No, I reckon not,” he said. “But I could drive the van for you. You have to take the flowers out to people sometimes, don't you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do a great many deliveries—to churches, to the funeral home, to the hospital. But I don't need anyone to drive me, and I have never employed a driver before. It would look odd to people.”

Lonnie thought again. “But if you couldn't drive yourself.”

He waited for the full implication of this to sink in.

“What's to say if you had an injury and couldn't drive? You could call over to JB's and ask him to see if there was anyone could make deliveries for you. And then when I was to come in and out of here every day, I would be coming through the front door and nobody would wonder why.”

I heard him talking, but my mind had shuddered, stalled at the word
injury.
What exactly did Lonnie have in mind for me?

“Besides,” he said, “the way I figure it is you would be demonstrating your loyalty to me. My friend was the only one who I ever knew was loyal to me.”

“I am loyal to you, Lon,” I said. I didn't know what he had planned, but it couldn't be worse than losing him.

“Well, I guess you're going to get a chance to prove that then, aren't you? You know, it wasn't my fault that things went the way they did tonight. You was careless. You was the sloppy one. And look what come from it. So, now we are linked, and I need you to show me that you is on my side. Or else I am going to leave here and never come back. And if I ever hear any talk about me that you said, then I can tell you . . .”

“Lonnie, I will never say anything to anyone about you, about us, about tonight.”

“Then you need to prove that to me. I'm gonna give you a chance to prove that to me. Why don't you wash up here and give me a minute. Then we will see how loyal you really are.” He pushed away from the table and was out the door, into the black. I scraped what was left from his plate, washed and dried the dish, and placed it back in the cabinet, my hands shaking so terribly that I thought I would chip the plate. Just as I was finishing, Lonnie called to me from the porch. I wondered if he had been there, watching me. In the dark night it took a moment for me to see that he was holding a stick of some sort in his right hand, but an oddly shaped stick. Or perhaps not a stick at all, but a crowbar.

“When I was on the inside,” he said, “there was a fella who wanted to get out of work detail, so he said the best way to lay off was to have a broke leg. Said a broke leg would heal, wasn't like getting shot or stabbed, but it would lay him off for a while.”

“What are you intending, Lonnie?”

“You need to prove to me that you got my side, that you want me here.”

“I want you here more than anything.”

“Then sit here on the step. You can tell people you was coming out the back door and tripped.”

He made it sound so logical. A broken leg was so much more easily mended than a gunshot wound or a gash from a knife. “Where will you . . . ?”

“The bottom's easier than the top. And you is pretty skinny to begin with.”

I lowered myself to the step.

“I won't say it won't hurt,” he said. “But don't holler out. Someone might hear. And when I leave, you can get yourself into the house to call the doctor. Or else wait for someone to find you in the morning. Are you ready then?

“Yes, I'm ready.”

And as he swung the crowbar back over his head in a high arc, I thought how easy it would be for him to bring it crashing down on my head, smashing my skull. Then he would never have to worry about me saying anything to anyone. That what had happened tonight would disappear with me. But I knew deep inside that Lonnie didn't want to bash my brains in. At least not yet. He wasn't done with me. There was more to come.

And as the crowbar began its descent, I remembered what César had said to me all those years before: “Sometimes love hurts just a little bit, sugar. Breathe out—one, two, three, like that. And say, ‘I love you so much, I do this for you.' ”
I do this for you.

4

People had to order flowers for Roger's funeral from Tabor City and Mullens. I remember that Joanne Jackson was actually snippy with me on the phone when I told her that I wasn't taking orders.

“But, Mr. Vale,” she said. “I do think it is important to make a nice impression considering the circumstances.”

“I don't know that you have heard, but I have a broken leg. I can't stand.”

“Yes, I did hear. But you are supposed to be a professional. You could always sit on a stool while you worked if you really wanted to.”

I hung up and took a pain pill. Yes, I could probably have sat and put some flowers in a vase for her, perhaps I could even have balanced on my crutches long enough to put together a spray, but it didn't seem appropriate. Roger was dead. I had watched him die. Besides, I knew that Joanne Jackson was a gossip and what she really wanted was the inside scoop. Not that she would have suspected I had any involvement with Roger's death—what she was interested in were the “circumstances,” which certainly had caused a stir in town. Though the police were quick to rule his death a suicide, there was no note, and so speculation and rumor were like a wildfire in a dry cornfield. The most generous in town speculated that Laverne's long illness and death had simply driven him crazy, and the holidays had proved to be too much. The evidence was clear. He had been drinking heavily for months, not acting himself. If only someone had taken the time to help him. A heavy helping of grits and guilt to serve along with the Christmas ham.

The more vicious were interested in the sordid nature of his death. Roger was found wearing bra and panties with half his head splattered all over Laverne's off-white living room. Surely that all meant
something!
Was Roger a homo? Was he a transvestite? Perhaps he was engaged in some sort of Satan worship or maybe even a sex game. After all, there were two cocktail glasses, washed and left to dry in the dish rack, and a half-eaten plate of cheese and crackers. Who has guests over for drinks and snacks before blowing his brains out? The autopsy also said he had had anal sex shortly before his death. I remembered the whimpers, the grunts, the groans coming from behind the closed door to Roger's room. I tried not to think about what that had meant.

And then there was the matter of Laverne's jewelry and her car. Her sister said some of her earrings and a necklace were missing, and Laverne's Cadillac was gone from the garage. She said the jewelry were pieces that had been promised to her personally by Laverne. I wasn't sure whether Laverne's sister was due to inherit the jewelry, but I was pretty sure she would know exactly how much loot there was and where it was kept. As for the car, Laverne had been dead and buried for some time, so no one had seen her car or even thought if Roger had gotten rid of it. To most, Laverne's sister was just a greedy grave robber, willing to steal the pennies off her sister's eyes. However, I suspected she might have been on to something.

The funeral was held quietly with only Lorraine's sister and her husband attending. Roger's family had died off years before, and even though he had sponsored a generation of Little League teams and while half the town had attended his barbecues and golf events for the country club, no one wanted to be seen standing at his graveside. It would be as if they were complicit in his hidden decadence.

The whole thing was very depressing—certainly Roger deserved better than he got, but that wasn't what had me down. Lonnie had not come around the shop since the night of my “accident,” which meant that I had spent the holidays alone. All the plans I had made for a romantic Christmas Eve together, the stocking stuffers I had stashed away for him, the bottle of real imported champagne I had purchased for a New Year's Eve toast—all for naught. I was missing him like a crazy person—just to see him, I told myself, would be enough. But I knew that was a lie. I wanted to touch him. To feel him. To taste him. But it was impossible, I knew. I had a home health care provider for the first week I was home, a heavy-set LPN who went about her duties with an unrepressed contempt for me that she masked with only the slightest hint of professional pleasantries and Southern propriety. I chalked it up to her having to work for a homosexual during the celebration of Christ's birth. Whenever I would wake from a nap, I could hear the religious broadcasting station playing in the living room, evangelicals trumpeting the end of days and the spiritual defilement that had become America. I figured she saw me as a part of that wilderness, a leper for her to tend to in order to gain stature in the kingdom beyond.
I will wash your clothes now, and fix you a sandwich, and by the way it's too bad how you are going to burn in hell for eternity.
But I was a good patient—a model patient. I wanted to recover as quickly as possible. The sooner I was able to maneuver on my own without her help, the sooner I would be able to reopen the shop and hire Lonnie.

The day before the doctor gave me the all clear, I called Joe Boggs and told him of my predicament.

“I am able to get around the house, but with this cast on my leg, I am going to need someone to make deliveries. Is there someone at the shop who might want to work a couple of evenings—I don't want to impose on you, but I need to get back to my church deliveries.”

Joe hesitated a moment. “I'm not sure.” I knew he was squeamish about sending one of his men over to me—goodness knows what I might expose them to.

“I thought business might be slow now after the first of the year. If you would just ask. Maybe someone could use some extra money. I'm happy to give you a finder's fee as a courtesy as well. I can donate some flowers to the sanctuary in honor of whomever you choose.”

There was a hesitation as I knew he was considering the offer. “My mamma's birthday is coming up in a few weeks.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I am happy to do an arrangement for her if you can find me a driver. I will call you tomorrow to see if anyone is interested.” If the thought of free flowers weren't enough to close the deal, I knew that last comment would at least get him to ask—he knew I would pester him until he did.

When I called the next morning, Joe told me that several people had been interested in the job, but in the end, it had been decided that Lon would come over to see what I needed if that was okay by me. He also told me that I should know up front that Lon had been in a little trouble with the law, had spent some time in prison, but that he was conscientious and dependable. “Just don't expect him to say too much. He's a quiet one.”

I assured Joe that would be fine with me, but secretly my heart was dancing—no, not just dancing, it was Fred Astaire in a tuxedo tapping up a marble staircase, tipping his hat. It was smiling like Gene Kelly. It was singing like Mario Lanza.

Someone else
—one or more of the other workers—had shown interest in the job. How had Lonnie reacted? Did he bully them into submission, stare them down? Or did he say, “He belongs to me.” I wanted to ask Joe Boggs for more information, but was afraid to show too much interest. After all, it was only a delivery driver that I was after. And if there had been a confrontation, I knew Lonnie would never speak to me about it. But still, it was better than a scene from a Hollywood musical or a romantic opera. Lonnie had fended off the other candidates—repelled these other suitors, if you please, in order to keep me all to himself.

I arranged with Joe that Lonnie would work for me two evenings a week and on Saturday afternoons when they closed the garage at noon. What I didn't tell Joe was I had decided that I would ride with him when he was making the deliveries; if anyone asked, I could tell them I was merely showing Lonnie all the regular stops I delivered to. The truth was I just wanted to be with him. And not only with him, but we were in public together. Driving around Morris as big as life for everyone to see. And when we finished our deliveries, we went home—together. I want you to know the next few weeks were like a heavenly honeymoon for me. Lonnie would arrive at the store, walking in the front door like he owned the place. No one cared. I ordered him a shirt with the Vale's Floral Design logo stitched on the front and his name embroidered directly below on the shirt pocket—our names close enough they were almost joined. And I was happy with that. I began to think that this was going to be how life might be. I thought of the hundreds of ways I would express my gratitude, my appreciation, my affection, my . . .
love
to him.

Yes, I loved Lonnie. But therein lies the curse of love. It feeds you, but it also consumes you. As my love grew for Lonnie, it only left me emptier, more lonely. It isn't enough to be the lover, to cast all your affection out like feed seed to hungry chickens. Love must come back—César had shown me that. My life with Lonnie had a pattern, a certain routine, but I felt as if I walked behind him in his shadow. I cooked for him, washed and ironed his clothes, gave him cash for his work, and blew him whenever he would allow. Still, I wondered sometimes if he ever even noticed me. It began to weigh on me more and more every day. I wanted to matter to him. He was my whole world. Could he not see that? What I needed, what I wanted, what I desired more than anything was to know that Lon wanted me, needed me, desired me as well. In short, I wanted Lonnie to love me back.

If the truth be told, the more I did for Lonnie the less I seemed to matter to him, or even worse, the more I seemed to irritate him. When I would approach him with the offer of sex, he would brush me off. He grew ill-tempered if his shirt wasn't pressed to his satisfaction or if dinner wasn't to his liking. Then, if I didn't have cash to spare between “paydays,” I began to notice cash disappearing from the store. I knew he was taking it, but there wasn't anything I could say about it. I began to suspect, wonder if his attention was drifting. It didn't help that he insisted I stop accompanying him on the deliveries.

“I don't need you watching over me every minute,” he said.

And so, I stayed at home and waited for him to return, his shirt ironed, his dinner warm in the oven. And like so many stories of this type, there was one night when he didn't come home. I worried at first that he might have been in an accident, but I knew if he had, the police would have called me since the van was registered in my name. I told myself that he needed some time to be alone, that it was okay. Then I sulked. Then I cried. Then I wrapped his dinner up and put it in the fridge and went to bed. I was used to waiting for Lonnie. I had spent many nights when he did not come over or in the weeks after Roger's death when he could not come over. But this was different somehow. In those long, still nights, I had imagined that he wanted to be with me. But now, I could not pretend. He wanted to be somewhere else. And with every stray headlight I would rouse, thinking finally he had come home to me. I don't know when I finally fell asleep, but when I awoke the next morning the van was back in the driveway and everything was back to normal. Then it happened again. And again.

Finally, one Saturday afternoon in mid-February, just after Valentine's Day, things came to a head. A piece of toast overcooked, who will control the TV remote, whose turn it is to take out the trash: Like so many squabbles that escalate into a full-blown quarrel, ours began when Lonnie complained about the lunch I made for him.

“With as much fucking money as you have, you think I could get something besides baloney.”

“But you like baloney.”

“I like
The Dukes of Hazzard.
Doesn't mean I want to watch it all goddam day.”

“I am happy to make whatever you want. You should know that. Just tell me what you want.”

I could see the wheels clicking in his head, like tumblers in a lock turning over. This wasn't about baloney. He wanted to ask me for something—and not a tuna or roast beef sandwich.

“What is it, Lon? Is there something you want me to give to you?”

He laughed. “Whatcha got in mind, M.R.? You gonna get me a puppy?”

I stopped short. “I just want you to be happy. What would that take?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I'm getting tired of driving that piece of shit van of yours. Goddamn, there ain't even a decent radio in it. And I can't smoke in it.”

“It would mask the scent of the flowers. Besides, I haven't even paid all the bills for the hospital yet.”

“Shit, M.R. I see the money that comes in here. And what kind of expenses do you have? With all the money that comes through this place, you must be stashing money away. You own this house outright, don't you?”

“Yes, you know I do,” I said. “But . . .”

“Yes, but,” he mocked, making a face at me like a child who doesn't want to eat his dinner. “I don't want a car. If a car was all I wanted, I know how I can get me one.”

“Then what?”

“You don't understand. I ain't never had nothing except what I could fit into a box,” he said.

“It's not a sin to be poor.”

“Why don't you try it sometime, then?”

“Lonnie, I am not a rich man.”

“But you own a house. You ain't got no expenses except for yourself and whatever little thing you think you might want to give me. And what happens to this place when you're gone?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I've never really thought about it. Perhaps I will sell it and set up a scholarship at the community college.”

“Hah! You act like you want me to be here, but you're the one who says how much I can have. You get to be the one who decides. And when you're gone, you're gonna give all this to somebody who don't even know you. Somebody you don't know. Why do you get to decide that? Why do you get to be the boss here?”