Drag Queen in the Court of Death (3 page)

I hated hospitals. Ever since my mother's long, lingering death when I was fourteen, I have avoided them as much as possible. Friends knew not to expect me to visit should they be unfortunate enough to land up there for a time. Members of my family wouldn't want to see me anyway, so that was a useful excuse when my sister had complications with her pregnancy. But with Logan, my strange sense of responsibility pushed past all these long-ago barriers. Once my university classes were over, I went to see him on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Gradually he had pulled me into his world, dictating letters to the insurance company he was suing for more compensation, asking me to pick up envelopes to stuff for the fund-raising mailing for the hospice where his brother died; suggesting that while I was there, I could bring along the labels and put them on too. And would it be too much to write up an ad for auditions for Wilde Nights in XTRA? When he explained about the musical drag extravaganza, I agreed to fill in for him, playing the piano for rehearsals. And that's when I met Ronnie "Luna La Dame" Lipinsky again. On stage. In full drag. Showing the girls how to be a star.

By the time I found a parking space and walked all the way to the hospital, it was almost eight o'clock. At least I was reasonably sure he wouldn't know about Ronnie's little surprise. He rarely watched TV.

Over the months, Logan had lost weight. He lay with his gaunt face turned towards the window, and from this angle, I couldn't see the scars and tight, angry red skin that spread across one cheek and down to his chest and arms. Luckily his hands had been spared, and he continually worked with a rubber ball to keep his fingers supple. He was doing it now with his left hand.

"How's the world treating you?" he asked, turning towards me. "Not good, by the looks of you."
I shrugged. "I've had better days." I sat down on the orange armchair and handed him the bag of fruit I'd brought. "Picked fresh from the crates outside your apartment," I said.
He smiled, an odd effect, since the skin on the right side of his face twisted that side of his mouth down slightly, giving him a cynical air. "Thanks. Tell me how the book is progressing."
"Well, it's slowing down a bit now. I'm writing the part about Greek hoplite shields and how the shape tells us what kind of weapons they were going up against in battle and that brought me up against the theory of artistic license. A lot of what we know about the period comes from a study of Greek vases, and I wonder how much of that is meant to be accurate. It was decoration, after all."
"Not a Kodak moment?"
"Exactly. Like Kane and the Indians."
"The painter?"
"Right. The Canadian icon. We use his paintings to illustrate history books, or we used to anyway, but how accurate are they? Not very. If you look at his sketches and compare them to the paintings, you can see the artistic license at work. In one painting he even has the Indians paddling the canoe backwards, but it makes a great painting. That's all he cared about, and his contemporaries appreciated them that way. Why not the Greeks?"
"Very persuasive. Are you allowed to range far and wide like that?"
"I can do whatever I want. It's my book. Of course they might not publish it, but that's not what this is about."
"Ah. Lofty sentiments. Scholar as artiste. Screw commerce."
I opened my mouth to protest and stopped myself. He was always doing this, his low, hoarse voice leading me on with interested questions, then throwing something back in my face that struck him as pompous or false. His moods changed suddenly too, probably as the pain washed over him or the drugs he was taking tugged him this way and that.
"We found a mummified corpse in Ronnie's trunk today," I said abruptly.
Slowly, he shifted himself around so that he was facing me. "Run that by me again."
I did, filling in what few details I knew as I went along. His hand had stopped its constant squeezing of the ball and his tired eyes never left my face.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said when I had finished.
"Looks more like Ronnie who'll be damned," I said.
"So that's why you look like shit." Logan closed his eyes for a moment. "Imagine sleeping at night, knowing that's in the next room," he murmured. "If he knew."
"Un-huh. Someone walks in with a body one day when Ronnie's out and stuffs it in his trunk. That makes sense."
"Good point. Unless he brought it with him from his hometown. Where was he from anyway?"
"Albany."
"Guess it would be hard to get something like that across the border."
"So that theory makes even less sense."
"I doubt we'll get very far in this by trying to find much sense in it," he said quietly.
"I don't want to get anywhere with it, Logan. I just want to forget it."
"Ronnie doesn't seem like an easy person to forget."
"And he's made damn sure of that, hasn't he?" I said bitterly. I was still angry, as if Ronnie had dragged me into this on purpose to give me a hard time. "I don't want anything to do with this," I went on. "I'm calling his lawyers on Monday and resigning as executor."
"Is it that easy? And what about the money?"
"I had no idea he had so much money, and I sure as hell don't want any of it now! I've had enough of this fighting over estates with my own family. Fuck it."
"That's not what you said when you found out about it," Logan murmured.
"Well, that's when I thought it was a small amount of money with no complications."
"Anyway, by Monday it'll be too late to extricate yourself. The papers will see to that."
"No shit. It's a circus already!"
"More like
danse macabre
, I should think," he said, settling back against the pillows. "What a wonderful puzzle he left behind," he said. "A wonderful puzzle..." His eyes closed and I felt him drifting away. His breathing rasped in his throat.
Indeed. A puzzle I wanted nothing to do with. A puzzle that reached deep inside and pulled at long-dead feelings and confusion. It was all very well for Logan to look at the problem, all Spock-like and removed. He wasn't there. He hadn't been there in 1965 either.
I took my chapter eight draft out of my briefcase and started to proof-read it. After a few minutes, I gave up. I shivered in the warm room as my nose was suddenly filled with the dusty must of Ronnie's old trunk as we forced back the cover.
"Pandora's box," I murmured, shaking my head. "We've opened Pandora's bloody box."
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Detective Chan from the homicide squad of 52 Division called the next day. I was at home, working my way down the list of chores I had prepared before the Gay Mummy Case, as the papers were calling it, had blown up in my face yesterday. Soldier on, my father used to say, though I admit to being glad he was no longer around to say anything about this latest fiasco in my life. The detective was taciturn in the extreme, merely asking me to drop in to the police station tomorrow sometime and dictate a statement for their records. He apologized for calling on Sunday, then hung up abruptly. I went back to waxing the floors, wondering if he had called
because
it was Sunday, if he had wanted to intrude.

After lunch I went down to the basement and did some work on the current wine-making project, clarifying the Burgundy for the second time. It should be a full, rich flavor by the new year. It was soothing doing all these physical tasks, demanding enough to keep my mind from wandering, but not taxing. In this way, I managed to keep the world at bay for the whole day. Naturally I ignored the phone and paid no attention to the doorbell.

I had half expected a call from Laura, canceling our dinner for tonight, but she didn't call. Surprisingly, I was looking forward to our visit now, to being enveloped by the atmosphere of peace and stability that she always provided. There would be no embarrassing questions, no thoughtless probings into my tenuous stability. Perhaps that was what had really drawn me to her so strongly all those years ago, what I had naively believed to be love, the basis of a marriage.

Technically, Laura was still my wife, although we had had little contact for many years. Now that I was back, we met from time to time at parties, once or twice at the yacht club, where I now felt like an outsider. We talked of getting together, but I left it up to her and then when she did arrange something, I had to cancel. Tonight was long owing, as was the more formal dinner party she had set up for next Sunday. I was leery of the past. Although I had returned to my hometown, I told myself I was doing so on my own terms. But I had left almost a pariah; my wife in despair, my family not speaking to me, old friends avoiding me in the street. I was still not sure how much of the 'old' life I could handle.

Laura was firmly entrenched in that 'old' life. She lived in the house where she had grown up, where I had courted her in the formalized rituals of our youth. It was a large, generously proportioned home overlooking the Rosedale Ravine. It felt odd driving up that familiar road. Years dropped away as I passed the ancient tree in the middle of their lawn and pulled sharply to the right, directly into her circular driveway. As I got out of the car, I glanced around, looking for signs of the passage of time. Everything looked exactly the same; the roses between the tall front windows, the geraniums spilling out of the white urns on either side of the front door, the carefully tended grass. The house gleamed with new paint, but the color, even the trim around the windows, was the same. I hadn't been here for twenty-five years, and it might have been twenty-five minutes, except for the size of the Austrian pine that had been planted the year Laura was born. It now towered over the far corner of the front lawn.

I had barely touched the bell when the door opened and Laura stood there, trim, smiling, impeccably dressed in a simple white linen dress and gold jewelry. She held out both hands to draw me in.

"Michael," she said. "You poor dear. I can see what a shock you've had."
"It was ... unexpected," I said, "and I'd rather not talk about it."
"Of course. How gauche of me."
Her skin felt cool and remote as I kissed her tanned cheek. She still wore Fleurs de Rocaille, and as the scent enveloped me, I felt a dizzying sensation of sliding back to a time when everything was bright and sure, and we had rules to guide our lives and keep us safe. I would stand in the hall watching her sweep down the stairs in one of her many long dresses, all with demure scoop necklines, watch her smile as she slid the short fur cape around her shoulder and come toward me, pulling on her elbow-length white gloves. But I had broken the rules, and that moment was long gone.
"Do you still like Saint Raphael Blonde?" I asked, handing her the bottle I had tied with a gold ribbon.
"Your memory is wonderful." She smiled. "But nowadays I add soda water. Let's sit on the terrace. Lupe made some sangria before she went to take her nap."
"God, she must be in her nineties by now," I exclaimed without thinking.
"She wasn't that old back then. We just thought she was, because she had so much more sense than we did. I think she's about twelve years older than I am, but she's not sure of her birthday, or so she says. We made one up when we went through all that trouble with immigration a while back."
"What was that all about? Didn't your father go though all that years ago? I seem to remember something."
"Well, that's what I thought. Apparently there are still miles of red tape left to wade through. Sangria?"
"Super." I winced, hearing myself slip back into the vocabulary of another life. I sank back into the chintzcushioned armchair and took the ice-cold glass she offered. I sipped as she chatted on about people I used to know and had thought I cared about. It was all vaguely interesting, like hearing about someone's travels to a place you have never even thought of visiting. It felt quite detached from me, my life.
"I haven't seen Ed Summers since university," I said, trying to picture the man behind the name. I had a fleeting memory of glasses and carefully combed hair, of bad skin and well-cut clothes. "So he finally got married. Did you go to the wedding?"
Laura nodded. "It was nice to see some of the old crowd," she said.
"I thought you saw 'the old crowd' all the time."
"Not all of them. Goodness, some of these people I haven't seen since school." She sounded a little defensive.
"Ancient history." I laughed. "Not a place I want to live anymore."
"No one's suggesting you live there, Michael, but a visit now and then can be very pleasant."
Pleasant. Life was always pleasant for Laura, or seemed so. I know she worked hard to give this appearance of effortlessness, but I never understood why.
Laura set down her glass and leaned forward slightly, her back, as always, perfectly straight. "That was tactless of me," she said, her voice dropping.
I looked at her, into her eyes, clear gray with very dark pupils. I didn't say anything, but I was not relaxed anymore.
"I'm not a total boor," she went on, her voice speeding up slightly, as if she wanted to get this out of the way. "I've canceled the dinner party next Sunday. It's the least I can do to spare you."
"Spare me? What are you talking about? I didn't say I wanted out of the dinner party." I had been trying to think how to broach the subject and do exactly that, but now that she had sprung this on me, I rebelled.
"Dear heart, it's all over the news about ... what you've been through recently."
"You mean Ronnie's grim little secret? What's that got to do with me?"
"It's your name that's linked to the whole gruesome thing. I thought it best to cancel, under the circumstances."
"I won't come, if it will embarrass you. Have your party. There's no need to cancel."
"Have you forgotten it was that ... person who broke up our marriage?"
"But Laura—"
"I can assure you that no one else has forgotten. And if by some miracle they had, it'll all come back to them now!" Her voice, even her face, seemed to have sharpened. She looked older. Maybe it was that the sun had moved enough to fall slantwise onto her face, showing the fine lines around her lovely eyes, the occasional glint of silver in her carefully bobbed hair. It hadn't occurred to me how this whole thing might impact on her peaceful existence, how it might once again tear at her inside, as it had before, with such force that it had almost ruined her life. She had never really moved on.
"Laura, you don't have to worry about this. I'm getting out of it as soon as I can. I don't have to be executor for anyone, and I'm resigning the instant the office opens on Monday."
"The connection has already been made," she said quietly. "If anyone cares to dig at all, they'll find a much closer connection than that of executor."
"Oh for God's sake! The tabloids, maybe. Come on, Laura, it's 1990! Besides, in a day or two some other horrifying or scandalous thing will happen down at City Hall or somewhere to knock poor old Ronnie off the front page for good."
"One can but hope." Laura got up and took the empty cut glass pitcher in both hands. I stood up too and reached for it. "Let me take that for you," I said, my hands closing around the cool, damp crystal.
"No need, Michael, I can carry it. I've been carrying it for years."
"Point taken." My hands fell to my sides.
"Really? Do you really understand?"
We stared at each other, and I saw her hands tighten around the pitcher. Two spots of color burned red on her cheeks.
"Laura—"
"Shall we eat out here? There's a slight breeze, but it's still quite warm."
"Here would be fine." I moved over to the glass-topped table, set with hand-loomed mats I recognized as made by her sister. From this vantage point, I could see the small swimming pool that had seemed such a marvel when we first met. No one else I knew then had a pool. The turquoise water dimpled in the breeze. I turned, thinking I'd go in to help Laura carry out whatever was needed, but then thought better of it. She wouldn't want me there. I could see that this was a bit of an ordeal for her, entertaining me while headlines about my murderous old lover sizzled across the papers and TV screens all over town. Why it hadn't occurred to me earlier was one more instance of how out of touch we were.
The rest of the evening ran like a drawing room comedy of manners, without the comedy. We talked about theater and music, the plans for the new opera house, the guest prima ballerina dancing with the National Ballet. We discussed how her old family friend Rolly Paterson had had to sell his boat to pay his yacht club fees. Even Laura thought this was amusing, though she admitted she felt a little guilty about her laughter. But no matter what we talked about, there was Ronnie, looming over us like a bad-mannered ghost. Not content with tearing Laura's life apart once, he was obviously determined to do it again.
As I left that evening, I wondered suddenly if Ronnie had done this for a reason. Had he named me executor for the sole purpose of throwing my life into turmoil once again? Was it like him to harbor a grudge for years? This man—so apparently careless and free, living only in the moment—was a successful accountant, shrewd enough to be a silent partner in the firm he had joined many years ago. I was only now finding out about this other life, this secret respectability that lay concealed underneath the laughing extravagant gestures of the drag queen. He was quite capable of planning this as an embarrassment to me and Laura.
"Not this time, buddy!" I muttered through clenched teeth as I drove down the steep hill from Laura's house. "You're not going to have the last laugh!"
After all this time, our last days together were muddled in my mind. But I was clear about one thing—
he
had left
me
! And that still rankled.
It was just after ten thirty as I drove into the gay ghetto. I felt the urge to immerse myself in the here and now, to wash away the clinging cobwebs of my past, to feel alive. The street jostled with men in short shorts and bright tank tops, walking in pairs, talking in groups, stopping to greet friends as the crowd flowed around them. I swung into a sudden Uturn and parked illegally close to the corner of Alexander. There were a few motorcycles outside the Black Eagle. Two men in leather lounged near the front door, silent, watching. I recognized one as the dentist I had been to a few times for that troublesome root canal. I nodded and passed on.
There were balloons tied to the brass railing outside Woody's. Three drag queens swept up the steps in front of me in impossible heels, calf muscles bulging. The place was huge, but the exposed brick of the walls, the polished brass and division of space into rooms, gave the place an air of welcoming coziness. So did the hum of masculine voices, the laughter and cheerful music. I knew there were many who hugged the walls, watching, appraising, longing for contact. Older men like myself often feel out of place in a society that idolizes youth.
I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered a Rickers Red. The bartender looked vaguely familiar, but he was more likely just a type I had seen hundreds of times before in places like this. I took my beer through to the back and watched a game of pool, this ritualized sex dance that lately made me feel rather like an old
roué
. Nevertheless, the bend and stretch of denim against a tight ass was aesthetically pleasing.
There were three of them around the pool table, one in his early thirties, one older, the third, a young-looking twenty something. The boy was lithe and sinuous, his hair the color of streaked sunlight. He looked good and he knew it, smiling up at me from time to time in a quick, sideways look. The older man was big, with a great chest and biceps that stretched his T-shirt sleeves. He reminded me of someone. A definite someone, not just a type. I let the half-remembered resemblance tickle in my mind as I watched the boy bend and stretch, sight down the cue, shift his weight.
When they invited me into the game, I was surprised. A flush of pleasure was, I hoped, not noticeable in all the heat and ruddiness of drink. We exchanged first names as we chalked our cues. The youngest, Ryan, flirted shamelessly with me all evening, sliding hot glances my way from under those thick eyelashes and standing very close as we watched the others play. I even gave him my card, during one of those lulls when someone was getting us drinks from the bar— drinks that I paid for. It was a good thing I didn't do this sort of thing often.
An hour or so later, eighty dollars poorer and pleasantly buzzed, I went out into the street and yanked the inevitable parking ticket off my windshield. As I drove home, I thought of Laura, in that big house with an aging servant, and a sudden rush of sadness flowed over me. In a way, I admired her, but I didn't want to be with her or share her life.
I was almost home when it hit me, and I finally remembered who the big man at Woody's reminded me of—Al Delvecchio. Al was Ronnie's new boyfriend for a brief time back in 1965, and the reason he had left me. They used to fight viciously, fiercely, going at it at full throttle. I was called by the neighbors once. The cops were called twice. With all that practice, Ronnie must have learned a few street moves from Al. One fight too many, perhaps? One final unlucky punch or shove that left Al dead on Ronnie's floor? And whom could he turn to? By that time I was desperately trying to lose myself in grad school, spending days buried in the dim netherworld of the stacks in the library, trying to forget all about the boy who had rammed into my life so spectacularly. But I couldn't forget that I was the one who had brought him out. And I was the one who had introduced him to Al Delvecchio. Was Al the shriveled, mummified corpse who had leered up at us so recently from Ronnie's trunk?
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