One Dead Drag Queen (14 page)

“Yeah, it’s Monday, early evening.”

“Have you called school?”

“They don’t expect you back this week. Your boss and a few friends have been here.”

“Not quite the way I’d like to get a week off in the middle of the year.”

“Why don’t you relax while I fill you in on what happened?”

I nodded. I leaned my head deeper into the pillow. With my fingertips, I caressed the hair on the back of his hand.

“There was an explosion outside the clinic. That whole block was blown to smithereens. There was a huge fire. You were pulled out of the rubble just in time. A lot of people died.”

I whispered, “The last thing I remember was talking to Alvana and playing catch with her son. Are they all right?”

“We found a kid near you in the rubble. He was wearing a yellow and red outfit.”

“That was Alan.”

“He was alive when they rescued him. I’ll try to find out how he is.”

“Alvana?”

“There was a woman near the child. She was dead. I’m afraid it might have been her.”

“Jesus. Alvana dead.”

Alvana was the one who had asked me to come into the
clinic the first time. We had known each other since college. Back then Alvana lived in an apartment half a block from mine. She used to bake the most exquisite chocolate cakes for my birthday, and the frosting she made was unbelievably light and sweet. No one else I know has ever been able to replicate it.

It took me several minutes to digest this news. I managed to ask, “Do you know who else died?”

“I don’t have a list. I didn’t know that many people at the clinic, so I probably wouldn’t have recognized anybody mentioned in the articles in the paper.”

Scott began filling me in on the details of the scene and the rescue. When he told me about the horror while helping the victims, he began to cry. He spoke and wiped away tears at the same time. “I wasn’t really scared until I got home and I could think about it. Combined with fear about you, I never expect to live through anything worse.”

I pulled him close and held him. I’ve been in combat and know firsthand the kind of horror he was trying to get used to. I wished I could take away all those memories, his suffering, and that of the people whom he’d helped. I patted his hair, listened to his breathing, felt his muscles begin to relax. “It’s going to be okay,” I said.

When he finally sat back up, he said, “I think I’m supposed to be the one comforting you.”

“I love you” was all I could think of to say.

After a few more minutes, he resumed his story about that night. When he got to the part about my truck, I was appalled. “You were almost killed?”

“I can hardly bear to think about it.”

We’d come close to tragedy twice that night.

He quickly related the rest of the events of the past few
days. When he got to the part about the possibility of a terrorist cell across the alley, I asked, “Somebody really believes that?”

“It’s the rumor. You know how that Internet crap spreads. Like butter left out to melt on a summer’s day in Georgia.”

I said, “Where’s Pierre Salinger when we really need him?”

“We at least have Brandon Kearn.”

“I’m not sure I trust him either.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. If this were a thriller novel, he’d have been dead before he got a chance to tell you what he knew.”

A few minutes after Scott finished, a nurse and a doctor came in. They examined, probed, asked questions, unhooked me from a variety of machines, and declared me in acceptable and not-all-that-far-from-perfect health. They wanted to keep me overnight for further observation, but I could probably go home in the morning. The more water I sipped, the better my voice sounded.

My dad, brothers, and sister were summoned. Everybody gushed, hugged, joked, and finally left. I could have done with a few less nephews and nieces, although because it was late not a lot of the youngest ones showed up.

Finally, Scott sat at the side of the bed holding my hand. The rest had left. The hospital was quiet.

“I gotta piss,” I said. “Let’s see how steadily I can get to the washroom.” Nobody had said I couldn’t get up. Lifting my head off the pillow still caused me a little dizziness, but nothing unmanageable occurred. I swung my legs off the bed and tried to arrange my garments more modestly and comfortably. “These hospital gowns are totally useless.”

“You want me to buy you some pajamas?” Scott asked.

“Just help me get to the John.” I leaned on him heavily for the first few steps. My legs were a little wobbly, but I could eventually shuffle forward with a minimum of assistance.

“Why do you keep looking at the back of the hospital gown?” I asked. “I can feel a breeze.”

“I like the view.”

“I’m not sure this is a good time for me to be either dignified or slutty. I could use a shower and a shave.” I caught my reflection in the mirror. “I must have looked worse,” I muttered, “but at the moment I can’t imagine when.”

“You look great to me. Awake and moving.”

“You could get that in a pet and not have to be in a hospital. Just think, you could listen to all the country-and-western music you want to on the stereo.”

“Nobody looking at your butt would confuse you with a critter.”

Scott still says things like “critter.” I love him anyway. He’s always liked the way my ass looks. Some people look at faces, some at crotches, some at legs, others at breasts. He’s a butt man. It’s okay by me.

Scott made sure I was settled on the john and left me to my privacy. I propped my elbows on my knees and held my head in my hands as I felt my body resuming expected functions. When I finished, I managed to stagger to the bathroom door on my own, but was grateful for his assistance from door to bed. I felt better for having moved. He resumed his perch on the bed. I wasn’t sleepy.

I said, “I want to try calling Alvana’s roommate, Patricia Rodgers. She worked in the clinic as well. She might know how other people are.”

“It’s late.”

“I need to try. I want to know how my friends are.”

“Why not save that for the morning? I’m more worried about you.” Scott drew a deep breath. “I wish you didn’t take so many chances.”

“You take your share of them.”

“But then I’m taking the chances and not you.”

“And that’s okay because . . . ?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t say it was rational, just that I love you, and I don’t want you hurt.”

Something more was bothering him, but I didn’t know what. That he was upset by what had happened to me was clear. But I, who had known him for years, guessed he was holding something back. He does that at times, especially when it involves emotions. I’ve learned to be patient and wait for him to tell me. He’s learned that it’s important to recognize those things and eventually talk about them. I would wait.

I pulled him back to me and kissed him. I felt his body relax against mine. He sat back up and took more deep breaths. His eyes misted over. He wiped his hand across his face. His nickname on the team is the Iceman because he is so cool and calm in tense situations. He’s always calm with even the most obnoxious reporters or interviewers. I’ve seen the competitive volcano under that down-on-the-farm exterior he portrays to the media. I’m one of the few people he’s ever let see the intensely emotional man underneath the cool exterior. I still love the deep thrum of his voice, especially that residue of Southern drawl that sneaks in when he is deeply moved. He spoke softly, “I never want to be this scared again. I was afraid you were dead. I thought about missing you, a life without you. I don’t want that to happen. I want us to have years together.”

“I do too. Always. The two of us on rockers in the old gay persons’ home.”

He smiled. “I want them to write love songs about us, like Scarlett and Rhett.”

“That wasn’t a song, it was a book and a movie. She was a neurotic, conniving bitch, and he was a war profiteer. Which one do you want to be?”

“I don’t think you’re as dizzy or worn-out as you look. You sound pretty much like your old self.”

“I’m sorry to joke. I love you. I’m sorry for the pain you’ve been through.”

“In some ways, you’re the lucky one. You’ve been unconscious through all this. I’ve been the one awake and worrying.”

“I’ve never considered the saving graces of being in a coma. It could become the new self-help rage. Think of the ad campaign. ‘We put you in a coma, not as bad as death, but better than reality.’ You and I could set up our own little cult and become rich and famous. Make predictions about the end of the world. I see a whole coma cottage industry.”

“Keep alliterating that way and you could be drummed out of the English teachers’ union.”

“I couldn’t help myself. Knock me unconscious for a day or two and there’s no telling what I’ll alliterate.”

He leaned down and gave me another quick hug.

A nurse bustled in. “Feeling better are we?”

“Very much so,” I told her.

She took my temperature and blood pressure. “He should get some rest.”

“I’ll be going soon,” Scott said. The nurse left.

I said, “I still want to try and call Alvana’s roommate.”

He handed me the phone, and I dialed. Patricia answered. She sounded awful. She confirmed that Alvana was dead. She also told me the names of the others from the clinic who had died. I had worked with two of them for a short time.

I said as many words of comfort as I could think of. That I was all right cheered her a bit. After I hung up, I said, “Patricia’s in bad shape.” I shook my head.

“You’ve known Alvana a long time.”

I reminisced for a few minutes about the good times she and I had shared. “I’m going to miss her.” My eyes misted over. A few moments later I said, “I’m going to find out who did this.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Scott said. “How? They’ve got hundreds of Chicago cops working on it. What earthly good could you do? Even if the attack was directed against us, how could we possibly find out anything significant? Besides, I told you, I hired private detectives for that.”

“Who did you hire?”

“Borini and Faslo.”

“You didn’t! They’re notoriously homophobic.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that? Is there a list of required gay knowledge somewhere that you’ve been keeping from me? Brandon Kearn thought so too. That twit Myrtle Mae was here and said the same thing.”

“Myrtle Mae showed up here?”

“And he was as snide and snotty as ever. Why do you like that creep?”

“He can be genuinely funny. I know his flair for the uselessly dramatic annoys you.”

“He’s developed it into a high art.”

“He works very hard for many of the same causes I do. He did a lot of good work for this community for years before any of the rest of us. He was out there on his own taking risks that no one else dared to take. He lost three jobs and got beaten up numerous times before he started doing drag twenty-five years ago. Actually he’s been safer in drag.”

“Fine. We’ll elect him saint of the millennium. I hate him.
Although he did call earlier this evening. He said a woman named Susan Clancey was planning to come to town. Myrtle Mae said you’d recognize the name.”

“I know she’s a doctor who performs late-term abortions. I bet he’s thinking that Clancey’s visit could have been connected to the clinic bombing.”

“I guess so,” Scott said. “Right now I don’t want to talk about him or any investigation. Let’s talk about what the hell we’re going to do with the rest of our lives. I think we’re in danger, and I think we need to take drastic action.”

“Like what?”

“We need to get out of here. We should go far away. If we’re really pushed to it, I can afford to buy us a small island in the South Pacific. We could be happy there.”

“I’m a teacher. I have a life here. We can’t just disappear off the face of the planet.”

“I know you want to be independent and not beholden to my money, but we’re in heaps of trouble. People are trying to kill us. You could find something to do on an island.”

“I have no intention of spending my life hiding in a lead-lined bunker holding a bazooka in my hands waiting to blow to smithereens the first person to walk through the door.”

“I’m talking lovely tropical island here.”

“Palm trees and miles of ocean are just another kind of lead-lined bunker. Whether confined in a tight space or a hundred square miles, it means those who have threatened us have won.”

“Haven’t they already?”

“Running away isn’t my style. Nor do I think it is a very good solution. A terrorist organization capable of the destruction they caused here would be able to buy, borrow, or steal a boat or a plane, sneak onto an island, and bomb, maim, torture, and do whatever else they enjoy doing to victims.
Do an army and a navy come with the island? Or maybe it could be a ‘discount island’ with a limited protection warranty.”

“You’re the one that’s hurt, and you’re making jokes.”

“I’m not ready to take up my machine gun and walk. At least not until tomorrow when the doctor releases me. Then I’ll be ready.”