Murder at Willow Slough (44 page)

“Lord, it’s always hot in here,” Kent complained, unbuttoning his dress shirt and discarding it. He strode into the hallway in his undershirt, checked the thermostat. “Good grief, you have it set on 78.”

That’s where Jamie and his mother always kept it. Kent came back into the family room. The shape of his upper body stole Jamie’s breath. He sputtered, “I can put on a sweater if you want to turn it down.”

“That’s okay. Long as you don’t mind me sweating.”

How tasty is it? “Would you show me your tattoo?”

“Sure.” Kent held his left upper arm out. Jamie didn’t focus on the big muscles, but on the design; it beautifully reproduced the back of Kent’s baseball jersey, his name a blue semi-circle above his number, red numerals outlined in navy and etched in the segmented way baseball

prefers, KESSLER 22.

“May I touch it? I’ve never touched tattooed skin.”

“Of course.”

With a finger Jamie traced the name and the shape of the two 2’s. It felt slightly scarred, almost but not quite like normal skin. “I don’t usually like tattoos. I suppose I’m disloyal to my generation. But yours makes perfect sense. If I’d played ball it’s the very thing I might have done.”

“I got it two months after I was called up. We won the division, I made the playoff roster.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Heck yes. You try having needles and dyes in your arm.”

“That’s the appeal, I guess. Suffering. Very macho.”

“Shoot, Tim had to strap me down or I’d have never gone through with it. He laughed at me the whole time. When it comes to pain I’m a sissy.”

“Tim Virdon? The Cy Young winner?”

“My best friend, Jamie. I’m thrilled he’s your favorite player.”

The next day Kent said, “I got you something. You know I’m egotistical.” He tossed it onto a recliner. It was an Atlanta Braves home jersey, KESSLER 22.

“Oh, my. I’ll treasure it forever.”

“Nah, put it on. I’d enjoy seeing my name on your back.” Jamie changed in the bedroom.

He didn’t realize it, but Kent was marking him. Here’s who you belong to, boy. Kent had to adjust himself.

Jamie came back, turned a 360. “I feel a little silly, since I’m not you, but also very proud to wear your jersey.”

“Looks good on you. What does Michael Jordan feel when he sees people wearing his name and number?”

Jamie faced him. “Will you autograph it?”

“Get a marker.” Jamie found a black one. Kent held his waist, stretched the cloth tight and signed clear across those bumpy abs. You’re mine now. You’re mine.

But he couldn’t bring himself to kiss those sexy abs; while Jamie had the whole world telling him, “Straight cop, Gay reporter.” More than that, he was shamed by the myth of the Gay predator; too young to grasp the politics of shaming.
***

It turned out Kent never watched baseball. The Braves won the division again, Tim won a playoff game; but they were tossed early, all pitching, no hitting, like they’d been ever since they lost their once-ageneration centerfielder.

Jamie finally wrote his cover story. His fingers knew where all the keys were, not even a coma could obliterate QWERTY; but his fingers didn’t always type in the right order. But there were Bulldog, Hickman and Phil in print, “Cops Knew All Along, But Couldn’t Prove It” by James R. Foster. The issue sold out.

***

After their next workout, Kent brought out a tape measure, but Jamie absolutely refused it. They argued. Feeling better was one thing; Jamie wasn’t about to reveal himself to Kent. Jamie covered his mortification with fleece and dance music and a great many words. Finally Kent said, “Please don’t be shy; not with me. At 140, I combed your hair, Jamie, I brushed your teeth. You’re 15 pounds stronger now.”

Jamie turned away. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“How about if I don’t show you the numbers? I won’t bring them out till you’ve built yourself back up. Then you’ll see how far you’ve come, and you’ll feel good about it.” Jamie wavered. “Athletes measure their progress so they can achieve their goals.”

“I’m no athlete.”

“You always say that, and I’m sick of it. Off with the sweats, let’s get this over with. Now do it, Commander’s orders.”

Under his sweats Jamie’s trunks packed a pouch, and suddenly he saw them as faggoty, like a European bikini. What else would a Gay guy wear? Of course his shorts were all crotch. But if he got excited, being so near to each other, Kent would notice, the truth would drip out. Jamie couldn’t let that happen. He went clinical, and flipped on “Wall Street Week” for the sole purpose of watching ugly guys talk economics.

“Come on, Modelboy, you’ve done this before.”

Jamie yanked off his sweatshirt, “Measure away.” But his fingers had trouble with the drawstring on his pants. Kent finally reached out and pulled the knot loose. Pants fell to ankles, and the erotic possibility dawned on Kent.

He was the one who got aroused. He got to touch Jamie’s neck, his shoulders and arms, his big nipples; trailing the tape around his waist, across his crotch, around his butt. He did the job slowly, savoring Jamie’s skin.

He knelt and measured the calf, then softly said, “Widen your stance.” Then he measured Jamie’s thigh, which is biggest at the center of a man.

He looked up at Jamie, who casually handed him up.

Kent put the paper in his wallet, Jamie put his sweats back on. Kent sat, filled with a thousand different feelings of pleasure and pain. The waist was down to twenty-five and a half. He pictured muscles eaten alive, wanted to throw the paper away after all. If Jamie saw himself as a puny, pathetic, 97-pound weakling, Kent saw a bodymind that never gave up, a fierce and deadly competitor.

An athlete, by God. Stop letting this Gay thing work on your mind, Jamie, enough already. Jeez, how will I ever break through?
***

It changed things a little; Jamie got freer with his body, stopped wearing sweats to work out. Then there were days when his body was okay, but his mind went on holiday. He’d forget between the family room and the kitchen why he went to the kitchen. Kent would have to say, “You wanted ice water.”

There was an episode about cardinals on the power line, where Jamie ordered a hundred pounds of bird seed C.O.D., no cash and no feeders in the yard. Even with feeders, he’d forget to fill them.

Caregiving hurts. Kent couldn’t stand to see Jamie reduced to such lunacy. Kent’s mother had to step in and help her son relax, “He’s making good progress. You’re pressing, let the game come to you.”

That ushered in some golden days when Jamie was as sharp as his old self. Sarcastic, witty, intelligent, intense; the boy wasn’t easy to live with, but he was fun to be around. Kent never stopped believing Jamie’d come back.

On the last hot day of summer, Kent drove his pickup to Tad Lincoln Drive and beheld a wondrous sight: Jamie rollerblading up the street towards him, wearing nothing but those tight yellow workout trunks, blond hair flying. They waved to each other, then Kent slammed the brakes and yanked the wheel.

Jamie skated up, surveyed the damage. “Mom needed a new one anyway.” He skated inside as the state trooper backed up and tried again. Kent’s cowcatcher toppled Thelma’s mailbox.

***

They watched some TV but their tastes clashed, one voting for Bravo, one for the Nashville Network; one for C-SPAN, one for the Comedy Channel; one for “Keeping Up Appearances,” one for “Taxi”; one for “Now, Voyager,” one for “Shootout in Little Tokyo,” hi-yah, chop chop chop, kablooie!

Jamie tried to turn Kent on to the university’s classical radio station. When a talky program finally came on, Kent tuned in Kick-Ass 98 and his buddy gritted his teeth shut. When Kent went to the bathroom, Jamie mashed the minus button.

On his way back Kent noticed, in the sewing room, photos on the wall: Thelma, Indiana’s Junior Miss; Danny and colleagues on the set of “NFL Today,” Stone giving a speech to a big crowd of businessmen— Jamie a few years ago, blond and shimmering, muscled and tanned, in a suit with no shirt underneath, “L’Uomo Vogue.” The most dangerous homosexual in America.

***

In mid-October, a sunny day when Jamie could travel longer, they drove north to Jasper-Pulaski State Wildlife Area to see the migration of the sandhill cranes. Jamie had never heard of them, though their staging area was only 30 miles from Willow Slough. “Are they big birds?”

“Huge, a yard tall, with wingspans over seven feet and bright red foreheads. Northwest Indiana is their most important stopover. They spend winters in Georgia and Florida, then fly in big flocks every spring to their nesting grounds in the upper Midwest and Canada. You should see them during mating season, they do this hilarious dance, bob their heads and jump up, then they land and bob again and throw twigs over their shoulders, males and females both. They’re so eager to get started they’re practicing building their nests. They always stop here, ten, fifteen thousand of them—if we maintain their habitat.”

They could hear the birds before they could see them. Kent drove to a handicapped parking spot next to the crane viewing shelter. Jamie climbed the steps slowly; he wasn’t very good with stairs yet. He got to the top and there before him was a meadow filled with a thousand light-gray sandhill cranes.

A stiff breeze blew right in his face and he quickly got cold, but they enjoyed the majestic birds through Kent’s telescope. Kent told how important the cranes were in the mythology of the native Miami Indians. “They called them twaa twaas, after their call. An old Miami legend says the cranes led them to victory against some marauding Cherokees. The cranes showed the Miamis the enemy’s whereabouts. A decisive battle was fought, with all but one enemy killed.”

“Twaa, twaa, twaa,” called the cranes overhead. And one or two of them did their little mating dance, even out of season, bob, hop, bob, toss—then check to make sure the mate was watching. If not, do it again!

Kent said the cranes all but disappeared from northern Indiana for decades because the Whites drained the wetlands; and bringing them back home, setting aside state preserves for them, was a huge triumph, paid for by outdoorsmen like himself. “We can’t undo what we did to the Miamis; but we can give them back their cranes.”

Between the birds and the words, Jamie was utterly moved. Plus there were cattails and prairie grasses in the park, and the state trooper even poached a little cutting of them so Jamie would always have a keepsake from home.

Kent loved breaking the law for his buddy.

He noticed Jamie’s fancy black leather jacket with braided accents and lace-up sides. Jamie looked like a little lawbreaker too. With that mind, that face and that body, the boy was dangerous, all right, a blond Hell’s Angel. Kent knew all about the angel; it was the hell part that turned him on.

On the way back, he asked if Jamie wanted to listen to some country music. “Okay, but there are some mispronunciations my ear can’t tolerate.” He thought country singers twanged it up to boost sales in Redneckville. “Let’s hope we don’t hear any.” So Kent kept it low and drove them down the highway.

Then a song came on and Jamie turned it up, “I know this one. Is it country?” Kent started singing along. He had an excellent voice, baritone to tenor, and this record was right up his range. Jamie’d sung this song alone in the car a hundred times too. He listened to Kent sing the melody, and suddenly Jamie started harmonizing with him. They drove down the road singing together.

Jamie was inventive, didn’t stick with the recorded version, added to it. Their bodies loosened and they sang, full-voiced and free, four minutes of unalloyed happiness.

Followed by a screaming commercial for someone’s carpet hut. Jamie yanked the radio off. “That was fun!” Kent said. “How’d you pick out the harmony like that?”

“That’s just how I hear pop songs. I want to sing with the professional, not against him; I want to hear his or her performance too. But man, you’ve got a voice.”

“I love singing. It’s like sports to me, something you do with your body.”

“And your emotions, vocal dancing. I love to dance. Which I haven’t done in ages.”

Kent frowned, Yes, you have, Jamie.

He turned the radio back on, hoping for another song in common,

but none came.
***

One night was a total disaster. Kent rang the bell, Jamie let him in, Hi, Hi. Extremely subdued. They sat and Jamie stared into space, didn’t say a word for five minutes. “I’m sorry, Kent, I’m out of it.”

“What’s wrong, man?”

It took a long time for Jamie to say, “I’m in shock. In mourning.”

“I’m sorry. Something reminded you of your Mom?”

“No. I’m in mourning for Matthew Shepard.”

“Oh.”

Jamie stared at the black TV. Kent felt increasingly uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what to say, how to help. Who was Matthew Shepard, and why the heck wouldn’t Jamie say anything? It seemed passive-aggressive almost. But Jamie was in mourning, he said so right out. “I’ll go. Let you grieve in peace.”