Spider Season (4 page)

I laughed. “They’re not aggressive, Maurice. Quite the opposite.”

“Just the same, get rid of it, will you? I hate to do harm to an innocent creature, but I can’t work out here knowing it’s there.”

While he averted his eyes, I used the hand spade to crush the black widow against the packed soil. Then I destroyed each of the egg sacs. After digging in the soil to loosen and level it, I set the stepping-stone back in place and put my weight on it to firm it in the earth.

“All gone,” I said. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

Maurice sighed audibly, and began to relax.

“Spiders are the only part of yard work I don’t like.” He turned to Fred, clutching his arm. “I’ve always relied on Fred to handle them.” He stretched to peck Fred on the white stubble of his cheek. “My big, strong, reliable man.”

Fred grunted good-naturedly but wobbled a bit as he resumed raking, and finally agreed to sit. Maurice went into the house and returned with a cold drink for him. I was washing up with the hose when a visitor appeared from around the corner of the house, stopping at the edge of the patio.

It was Alexandra Templeton. Maurice brightened the moment he saw her.

“Fred, look who’s here!”

Maurice embraced her as he might a favorite grandchild.

“We never see you anymore,” he gently scolded. “Haven’t you time any longer to come visit a fussy old queen?”

“I’m here now,” Templeton said amiably, bending to kiss Fred on the forehead. She glanced in my direction, smiling awkwardly.

“Indeed you are, dear, and we couldn’t be happier to see you.” Maurice nailed me with a sharp look. “Isn’t that right, Benjamin?”

“It’s been a while,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I’ve been busy with a long-term project.”

Templeton was her usual gorgeous self. Her tall, lithe frame was draped in a light, flowing dress of vibrant colors that beautifully complemented her lustrous dark skin. She’d changed her hair since the last time I saw her, several months ago on her thirty-eighth birthday. It was drawn back and braided, with colorful string beads falling among the braids along her slender neck. I sensed another change in her too, but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The explanation came soon enough.

“I’m getting married,” she said, beaming. “In September, to Larry Kase.” Her eyes found mine again. “You remember Larry, don’t you, Benjamin?”

Indeed, I did remember Lawrence Kase. I’d known him for years by reputation—a top county prosecutor who’d once harbored political ambitions and still cut an imposing figure in the courtroom and before the cameras. The first time I’d met him he’d been out with Templeton and I’d been on a date of my own. Templeton and I had run into each other by accident, and she’d introduced us. Kase had been chilly, and I’d sensed right off that he didn’t like me. Maybe because of my unsavory past, I’d surmised, or maybe because I was homosexual and unapologetic about it. Or maybe both.

“Lawrence Kase, of course.” I worked up my best smile. “Terrific news, Templeton. Congratulations.”

I’d seen less and less of her over the past two years, assuming she was on special assignment for the
Los Angeles Times,
where she worked as one of its more prominent reporters. Now that she was getting married, I figured, we’d drift apart even further. I knew what a heterosexual marriage could do to an outside friendship between buddies, especially when one of them was gay. But Templeton’s impending marriage, it turned out, was only the half of it.

“We’re going to start a family,” she said. She grinned happily and laid a hand on her stomach. “In fact, I’m already expecting. I found out this morning. I wanted to tell the three of you right away.”

Templeton mentioned that she and Kase were to be married on the third Saturday in September, and Maurice promised that all of us would be there. Then he told her that he and Fred had just been married themselves in a civil ceremony, following the state supreme court decision validating gay marriage. Of course, he added, it could all be for nothing if voters passed an anti-gay marriage amendment in the November election. Templeton was ecstatic anyway, and hugged Maurice again.

“We wouldn’t miss your wedding for anything,” he assured her, and sliced me with another glance. “Would we, Benjamin?”

“As long as the groom wants us there,” I said, with a taut smile.

“Of course he wants you there,” Templeton said, sounding stung.

Maurice asked her in for refreshments, but she declined, apologizing for being on a tight schedule. Then she grew silent and glanced tellingly in my direction. Maurice picked up the cue, suggesting to Fred that they join the cats inside for naps. I helped Fred up—Maurice could no longer get Fred to his feet from such a deep chair—and Templeton and I watched them shuffle slowly across the patio, Maurice gripping Fred by the arm to keep him from falling.

When they were inside, Templeton wandered out into the yard, commenting on how lovely the garden looked. She glanced up to a flutter of wings near the top of the stairs. Under the eave, a mother dove huddled over her nested eggs as her male partner stood watch nearby, from the stair railing.

“They come every spring,” I said, “returning to the same nest. Or maybe it’s a new pair of doves, we can’t tell. We see two or three hatchings every season, through the summer. This will be the second.”

“They must feel safe here.” Templeton smiled tentatively. “It’s like the Realtors say—location is everything.”

“You’ve got something on your mind,” I said.

She took a deep breath, found my eyes. “Benjamin, I’ve written a book.”

I cocked my head in surprise. “You’ve done what?”

“I’ve worked on it for the past two years. Last year, I took a leave of absence from the
Times
to finish it.”

That explained why I’d missed her byline for a while, although a lot of bylines had been missing lately, as the
Times
steadily downsized on its way to obsolescence, like so many other newspapers.

“So when’s it being published?”

“Next month.”

The news staggered me. “You never said a word about it.”

“I know. I feel bad about that. But it’s hush-hush. It’s very provocative stuff.”

“Hush-hush—even from me? Templeton, we used to share everything.”

“My publisher insisted.”

“You can’t even tell me what it’s about?”

“The title is
The Terror Within
. It’s nonfiction, investigating the threat of domestic terrorism in the U.S. That’s really all I can say.”

“Sounds impressive.”

She brightened. “My publisher thinks it’s going to get a lot of attention. They’re planning a big promotional push. All the major newspapers, a bunch of talk shows.
Newsweek
might do a cover. It’s all a bit intimidating.”

“Wow, next month.” I laughed uneasily. “It’s coming right on top of my little memoir.”

She stepped toward me, touching my arm. “I couldn’t control the timing, Benjamin. I wanted to warn you about it, but—”

“It’s okay, Templeton. I understand. It’s great news; it really is.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’ve worked incredibly hard. It’s the right time to take the next step. I always said you should be writing books.”

“I couldn’t have gotten this far without you, Benjamin. You’ve been a generous mentor all these years.” Her eyes fogged up a little. “More than that.”

Up above, the male dove flew off, making a squeaky musical sound with his wings, leaving the female to watch over the eggs. He did this from time to time, disappearing for a day or two, possibly to mate with another bird. When the eggs hatched and the downy babies were sprouting feathers, he’d return for longer periods, to begin teaching the chicks how to fly.

“I should go,” Templeton said. “With the book coming out next month, and the wedding in September, it’s getting a little crazy.”

“And the baby,” I said. “Let’s not forget the baby.”

I walked her to the street, we hugged good-bye, and I watched her zip away in a new Porsche, one of the pricier models. Templeton had been born into money—her father was a top corporate attorney—and she supplemented her salary at the
Times
with a monthly stipend from the old man. He also tossed in a new automobile every other year on her birthday, all of which allowed her to dress and drive like a movie star. With her stunning looks and family wealth, I thought, it was a miracle she’d turned out so well, hardworking and successful in her own right, and an unselfish friend. She raised a slim, brown hand out the window and waved as she turned the corner.

As I stood staring down the empty street, still digesting her news, the mail carrier was arriving behind me. I heard the familiar jingle of keys on the long chain at her side and turned to see her approaching briskly down the walk. She greeted me, handed me the day’s mail, and moved on to the next house. As I sorted through the various pieces, I found the usual bills and brochures. Also, one plain postcard, addressed to me.

The handwriting on the front was the same as yesterday’s, although the variation of my name had been changed:
Benjamin HIV Justice.

The unsigned message on the reverse side was brief:

Did I ever tell you that I deliberately infected your lover Jacques with the virus? (I’ve slept with lots of famous people too, not just poor, pathetic faggots like Jacques.) Gosh, I hope he didn’t suffer much. (Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.) Too bad he died, but you’re still alive.

I stared at the postcard in disbelief, feeling clammy and ill. Jacques had been dead for eighteen years, his death precipitating the series of articles I’d written that had led to my downfall as a journalist. A day didn’t go by that I didn’t think of him. His was one of only two photographs I owned; the other was of my little sister, Elizabeth Jane, taken on her eleventh birthday. Over time, I’d accepted his death from AIDS at an early age, when the disease was killing gay men by the thousands. It had taken me a while to absorb the crushing reality that he was gone, but I’d finally come to terms with it and moved on.

Or so I’d thought. Seeing his name invoked like this, in such a bizarre and hateful context, was a shock to my system. Who could have sent me a message like this? What kind of person would write these words? And why?

Trembling, I scanned the message again:

Did I ever tell you that I deliberately infected your lover Jacques with the virus? (I’ve slept with lots of famous people too, not just poor, pathetic faggots like Jacques.) Gosh, I hope he didn’t suffer much. (Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.) Too bad he died, but you’re still alive.

I slipped quietly in and out of the house, leaving the rest of the mail for Maurice and Fred on their kitchen table. Then I climbed the stairs to my apartment, feeling an indefinable uneasiness settle over me. The mother dove sat perfectly still on her nest, staring implacably at me with her dark, beady eyes, ever watchful.

FIVE

That evening, Judith Zeitler showed up at half past six in her shiny new hybrid to transport me to a downtown café for my first interview with Cathryn Conroy.

I wasn’t keen on having a publicist present—something I’d never tolerated as a reporter—but I didn’t want to drive that far at rush hour and Zeitler didn’t mind. She didn’t seem to mind anything that was part of the job, and didn’t appear to have much life beyond it, as far as I could tell. So I agreed to include her in the first of two scheduled interviews, as long as she promised to stay out of the way, even if Conroy and I started throwing food at each other across the table.

Zeitler arrived chattering like an excited squirrel, a salon-tanned gamine clutching a sixteen-ounce Starbucks cup in one hand and the latest
Publishers Weekly
in the other. She was wearing a pale blue pants suit and heels, and she’d tinted and permed her hair into a blond Afro. I tried to get a word in, but she chatted nonstop while urging me to get a move on. We were down the stairs and on the road in a minute or two.

We hadn’t driven three blocks when we hit the rush-hour glut on Santa Monica Boulevard and turned east into a flow that moved glacially, when it moved at all. I wasn’t in a great mood after getting the vicious piece of hate mail that afternoon, and slogging through L.A. traffic didn’t lighten me up.

“You seem awfully quiet this evening,” Zeitler said.

“Pensive, I guess.”

“The Conroy interview?”

“That must be it,” I said.

Judith reached over and patted my knee. “You’ve faced tougher challenges than Cathryn Conroy, Benjamin.”

“You must have read my book.”

She laughed and swung right, just before we reached West Hollywood’s burgeoning Russian neighborhood. She seemed to know all the shortcuts, punching the accelerator down side streets, working her way over to Third, where we turned left, heading east again. We reached downtown L.A. at half past seven, having covered nine miles in an hour. Zeitler was ecstatic.

“We made great time,” she said, and got on her cell to tell Conroy we’d only be a few minutes late.

Conroy was waiting for us at a bistro at Fourth and Main, sitting at the bar and ordering another Johnnie Walker on the rocks. After the obligatory introductions, she asked us in a whiskey voice if we wanted a drink. Before we could reply, she said quickly to me, “That’s right, you don’t drink these days, do you, Justice?”

“Not for some time.”

“Didn’t like it?”

“Liked it too much,” I said, “which I thought I’d made clear in my book.”

“I always like to get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

She’d been attractive when I’d last seen her nearly twenty years ago, and still was, although she had a face with plenty of mileage on it. Her hair was brown with a reddish tint, medium length, modest curl, and swept back from her face. Despite the alcohol, or maybe because of it, her golden eyes seemed especially keen and alive. She wasn’t a big woman, but her posture was erect and the set of her chin was strong. You got the impression that she knew who she was and what she wanted.

“Shall we get a table,” Zeitler asked, “before we lose our reservation?”