Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? (13 page)

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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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On the left as you walked in, a wooden bar stained dark brown backed by a wall of mirrors ran the length of the room. On the right, tall black booths marched somberly to the back, interrupted by a usually silent jukebox.
Few other customers had braved the bitter cold to celebrate the passage of the ordinance. Ed, the bartender, joined us in the back booth.
“I like sitting with you guys. People think I can still date hunky men.” Ed is a Chicago cop. He's around fifty, with a potbelly. He moonlights two or three nights a week as a bartender. His lover is a hairdresser named Prentice.
Briefly, we told him about the murder at school. He took a cop's cool interest but had no solutions. When we mentioned being followed, he shook his head and said, “You've got to be careful, and not just with suburban dangers. You've got to watch out for fag bashers around here.”
Scott filled him in about the attack on Neil, then asked, “You had trouble with fag bashers lately?”
Ed moaned. “Last week, we had a couple guys beat up not ten feet from the door.”
Used to be gay-bashing season was only in the summer. Mix those TV hate evangelists with AIDS, however, and it's become open season all year round.
Ed continued: “I'll use a gun on those bastards, if they ever get near me. Goddamn straight kids in their big brave groups attacking one or two guys. I'd like to see how brave they are with a gun in their faces.”
Ed's an okay guy. I share his anger and frustration at fag bashers. I firmly believe that if more gays pressed charges and took the attackers to court, we'd all be better off.
Two new customers entered. Ed left to minister to them.
We talked of next day's schedules. Scott had a breakfast speech to give for a children's Christmas charity at the Hyatt Regency downtown. I wanted to talk to Frank Murphy to see whether what we'd learned had been helpful to them, and if they'd found out any more. I had to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, which Scott pointed out I could have done weeks ago. We finished our coffee and left. Outside, the wind had picked up again, and light snow fell. They expected the temperature to rise before morning. For now, it felt as if it were still twenty below.
At the bottom of the steps, we turned right to go east on North Avenue.
“Fucking faggots,” a voice screamed. I turned to check the direction of attack. Four men weaved toward us from the west, maybe twenty feet down the sidewalk.
As we turned to face them, Scott stepped on a patch of ice. His arms flailed the air for a moment. I grabbed for him, managed to keep a firm footing, and righted us. Scott and I could handle most attackers. Jungle training helped me, and Scott was a tough fighter from way back.
“Look at the fairies.” The loud one minced his words. He stopped his drunken weaving and switched from entertaining his friends to confronting us. The leader might have been twenty; the others were about the same age. We had two apiece. The fight was quite brief. One of mine lay moaning in the snow clutching a bleeding, and I hoped broken, nose. Two others ran off. Scott knelt over the last one, fist raised. “Shit,” he said.
I joined him. The man on the ground stared up at him.
“Hello, Scott, faggot.”
Scott didn't plaster the guy's face into oblivion at the insult. Instead, he climbed to his feet and brushed snow off himself.
The other guy, the former group leader, stood and wobbled. He inched a few steps away but didn't run.
“Who is it?” I asked.
Scott said nothing. The guy gave a nasty laugh. “I'm Jack Frampton. And the high and mighty Scott Carpenter is a fucking queer.”
“Let's go,” Scott said.
“We've got to turn these guys in,” I said.
“We're leaving,” Scott said. He began walking away.
“Better follow your lover, honey,” Frampton trilled. I considered pounding his face into the snow, thought better of it, then hurried after Scott. I'd never met any of Scott's teammates until that moment. As he stomped through the biting cold and gathering snow, Scott neither looked at me nor spoke. He slammed his way into the penthouse. One light burned above the kitchen sink. I checked on Jeff. He'd gone to bed where I'd shown him in one of the spare bedrooms. He didn't stir when I opened the door. In our bedroom, Scott threw his keys against the wall. His coat, scarf, hat, and gloves followed in rapid succession. More slowly, I hung my paraphernalia on hooks and hangers.
If one of us loses his temper, it's usually me. When I do, it's volcanic. He knows the tricks to calming me down. In the press, he's often referred to as “The Ice Man.” His reaction now wasn't all that odd, however. Coming out for gay people is a process, not a one-time event. Some days you feel free, open, and ready to piss on the world if they care what you do in bed. On other days, even if you've been out to yourself and others, you're ready to hide in the darkest closet—because sometimes it is safer, easier, and more secure to hide. If you're partly out, this schizophrenia can be exacerbated, and if your job is public or sensitive, it can drive you crazy. Scott's been in enough headlines to make the most wily politician envious.
Scott stomped out of the bedroom. I found him in the southwest corner of the living room. Chicago lay sprawled beyond the windows in its vast glittering array.
“Let's talk about it,” I said. I touched his shoulder.
He flinched away. He stared out the window, his back to me. He rested his hand on the floor-to-ceiling window, placed his forehead next to his hand.
Early in our relationship, he'd close himself off from me in emotional situations. He'd changed and it'd become easier, but times like now could occur and talking could be tough.
I let the silence build.
Finally, he said, “I can't do what you want. I can't be open about being gay. I try. I'm thirty-seven years old, and only two months ago, I told my parents why I'm never going to bring home bouncy cute grandkids and the girl of their dreams. It's too scary for me.”
“It's that way for me sometimes, too,” I said.
He talked on as if I hadn't spoken.
“We live quietly. We don't shove our relationship on others. I know my closet will never be so severe that it would endanger our relationship. But now this bastard Frampton. Everything's fine for years. I'm getting better with being public. This morning with the kid, I felt good and proud. Now one asshole teammate sees me leave a gay bar and I panic.”
“Maybe he won't tell.”
He finally turned to me. “Don't you understand? I don't want to live in a world where I have to worry about who might tell. Who might see. Who might say. Who might start a rumor. Or worse, at which press conference after a game, which reporter will ask the question ‘Do you fuck guys?' I'm fed up with living in fear. In your teaching, you don't think about it. You've got the confidence to cope. I don't.” He walked partway along the glass wall to the table where he kept his World Series awards.
“You were ready to take me to your teammates' New Year's Eve gathering.”
“That was a party, not a blatant announcement.”
I didn't move from my spot. “You know, I do understand,” I said. This wasn't the first time we'd had this type of discussion.
But then he'd never been seen in a possible compromising position by a teammate. “Do you want to try to talk to Frampton?”
“I don't want to have to talk to anybody.”
“What do you want to do?” I moved toward him.
“Run. Hide. Turn the clock back to make it never have happened. Make myself not gay.”
We hadn't turned the lights on. We faced each other in the glow from the city below. His blue eyes glistened almost black.
“They can make us hate ourselves so easily,” I said.
“I don't hate myself.”
“Every time one of us wishes we weren't gay, they've taken another step toward repressing us. We can't let that happen.”
“I can't be as politically perfect as you want,” he said. “I'm just a guy with a life I want to be happy about.” A glint of a tear shone on his right cheek. He shook his head. “I know I'm probably making a fool out of myself. I know I could quit baseball today, and if all my endorsements ended tomorrow, even then I'd barely notice a dent in my lifestyle. I've got advantages and possibilities most gays only dream about.”
I said, “The point is, you don't want to live in fear. You don't want to alter your life because you're gay. And each alteration we make for that reason diminishes us as a person. And if you had to quit because you're gay, it would hurt. You love baseball. It's been your life since you were eleven years old.”
Scott said, “And when I leave, I want it to be on my terms, not because a snotty little bigot who can barely hit a major-league curve has a fucking big mouth.”
I moved close to him, gripped his forearms. I felt the muscles ripple beneath my touch. said, “You can't control what Frampton says or does. I know of no reason why any gay person need live in fear in this day and age. All of us in some way, you and I in particular when we went for the test, have had to face AIDS and the fact of our own mortality. We were lucky. We both tested negative.”
His shoulders sagged. His eyes searched mine. “It never stops, does it?” he asked.
“No. It never stops,” I confirmed. I pulled him close and held him tight. After a moment, I felt his arms entwine around me.
 
Returning from the bathroom early the next morning, I let one eye open to observe the swirling snow. I breathed a prayer of thanks to the god who gives teachers vacations. I rolled close to Scott's warmth and snuggled down to a cold winter's doze. I awoke again at seven. Scott adjusted his tie in front of the mirror.
“Go back to sleep,” he said.
“What time'll you be home?” I mumbled.
“Around eleven.” I watched him don his suit coat and overcoat. He stopped on my side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed me lightly on the forehead.
Jeff got up a few minutes after I did—around eight. We put together some clean clothes for him—a pair of Scott's old jeans and a flannel shirt of mine. I found enough food for a sufficient breakfast. I lazed about the apartment. Jeff tried a few of the weights in Scott's half gym, switched on the TV, wandered around restlessly through rooms. Almost shyly, he asked whether he could go out and walk around. It wasn't far to the Michigan Avenue shops. I told him it was okay but to be back soon.
I read some of McPherson's
Battle Cry of Freedom.
Around ten, I decided on a shower. After I was done, dripping wet, still toweling my hair, I heard the buzz from the doorman twenty stories below. I presumed it was Jeff.
Instead, the doorman's voice said, “A Mr. Courtland for you, sir.”
A voice bellowed in the distance, “I'll be up in a second.”
The doorman uttered a protest. The phone on the other end clicked off.
Doug Courtland was Scott's best friend on the team. Scott
described him as a six-foot-six chunk of first baseman. They elected him team captain and player union rep, both tributes to his popularity and shrewdness. He often tried hiding behind a “dumb hick from Arkansas” facade. They shared a rural southern background and an affinity for late-night poker on the road. It was his party we planned to attend New Year's Eve.
Towel draped around my neck and wearing the bottom to a warm-up suit, I padded to the door to answer his ring.
He gave me this big goofy grin when he saw me. “You're Tom, right?” He had one fist gripped on to a very red and angry Jack Frampton.
I invited them in.
“Scott's mentioned you a few times.” Courtland filled a large portion of the entryway.
“Scott's not home,” I said.
Frampton growled something unintelligible.
“I know he's not home,” Courtland said. “He's giving a talk. I saw it on the club's press schedule.”
“Oh,” I said. I put some coffee on, stepped into the bedroom, threw on some jeans, socks, and a sweat shirt, and joined them in the kitchen. The breakfast nook where we sat overlooks Lake Michigan. I poured coffee.
Courtland said, “I got a call early this morning from this jerk.” He pointed a thumb at Frampton. “I hear you met last night. Jack is quite concerned about your relationship with my best friend. I wish Scott felt free enough to tell me about you. I guessed he was gay years ago. I figured he never brought it up, so it wasn't my business. It never stopped our friendship, so I ignored it.”
I wasn't sure what to say.
“I stopped here for three reasons. To have Jack apologize, to meet you, the person my best friend loves, and to invite you both over for dinner next week. My wife and I would love to have you.”

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