VERNON 'S CAMPAIGN OFFICE sat on a comer of Providence Road near the Manor Theater. I pulled off the busy road and parked behind the low brick building. The office had huge glass windows plastered with Vernon 's campaign posters. As I walked in, the receptionist glanced up from her phone call and motioned me into a wooden chair near the door. She didn't smile at me or to whoever spoke to her over the telephone; instead, she scratched her scalp with the end of her pencil and stared at a People magazine. Each scratch moved her sprayed-stiff helmet of hair about one inch to the right and then back to its original position. I watched to see if anything fell out. Her face reminded me of a damp dishrag, drooping and sagging around her eyes, nose, and mouth. About the time I started to guess her age and weight, she hung up the phone and asked how she could help me.
"I'm here to see Bill Robertson. I'm Derek Mason."
"Oh." She inhaled the word. "Let me check to see if he's in his office."
She scurried off down a hall. I studied one of the posters; Vernon hadn't changed much from what I remembered, same thin white hair, dark eyes, wide mouth, and not many wrinkles for his age. He probably could stand to lose some weight, but most men in their sixties have accumulated a few pounds over the years.
"Mr. Mason?" the receptionist yelled from the end of the hall.
I walked back to where she pointed to an open door.
Vernon sat on a leather couch along with Mark. Across a desk, Bill Robertson, a tall, lean man, stood and offered his handshake. Vernon and Mark kept sitting.
"Come on in and take a seat," Robertson pointed to a side chair next to his desk. The three men stared at me.
"Why do I feel like I'm on trial here?" I asked.
"No, no-o-o," Robertson soothed. "We want towork together and turn this intoa positive for the campaign."
I looked to a fidgeting Vernon. "Hello, Vernon."
"What were you thinking? I should kick your-"
"Dad," Mark interrupted, "Derek's here to help us."
"That's right, Vernon," Robertson added, "he can help us reach voters who may have not considered you before now. This isn't damage control; this is an opportunity to gain votes. Of course, we don't want to seem too liberal and isolate our core supporters."
Like a child having to share his candy with a sibling, Vernon twisted on the couch. "All right, damn liberal paper makes me look bad cause I don't like queers."
"Hold on," I fumed. "This redneck jerk just lost my cooperation." I looked from Robertson to Vernon. " Vernon, it would be a danger to have someone as ignorant as you in public office." I pushed my chair back and headed for the door. A vision of Vernon yelling "queer" and picketing a gay bar chilled me, but then my mind made a more startling picture: a young Vernon tossing a rope over a tree limb to string up Mr. Sams. Did he do it? My mind turn-bled the possibilities of allowing a racist, a possible murderer, to run for the United States Senate.
"Derek." Mark grabbed my arm. He pulled me to the side of the hall. "Please come back and talk to us. Dad's not used to watching his mouth around family; he doesn't think of you or me or Bill as someone he has to be politically correct around."
"This man is running for the Senate; he shouldn't have to act."
He tried to make excuses for his father. "Dad's just upset about the article. Publicly, he's a sensible conservative, but he goes off the deep end when he blows off steam. That's all he was doing, blowing off steam. Come back in and talk with us, please."
I relented like I had too many times before. The animated conversation between Bill Robertson and Vernon stopped when I walked back in.
In a hushed voice to Vernon, Robertson said, "Of course, you're right."
What have they cooked up? I looked Vernon straight in the eyes. You treat me with respect, and I'll do the same for you."
"Fair enough," he agreed and stuck out his hand to shake on it. I squeezed his hand as hard as he squeezed mine.
"Wonderful," Robertson sat back down behind his desk, "let's talk about how a young, smart, gay nephew can benefit Vernon 's campaign."
"Now that's a question," Vernon grinned at Robertson.
Silence filled the room as we all strained to think of a way to integrate a gay relative with a conservative campaign; left and right, open and closed, opposites till the end.
"Inclusion." Robertson looked at me, then at Vernon. "Our campaign is the campaign of the people, all people: white, black, Hispanic, Asian, straight, gay, whatever."
"Is that true?" I asked.
"Sure, it's true." Robertson answered before Vernon could open his mouth.
"So, where are the blacks, Hispanics, and Asians working on his campaign?"
"Oh, we don't have any directly working with us, but we have their support-"
"Butif you say this, you need to have diversity on the team-"
"Mom's girl, Martha," Vernon piped in.
"Yes?" Robertson asked.
"Martha's black. Mom's maid, she supports me." He turned and smiled at Mark.
"But, Dad, what they're saying is we need more visible association from different people."
"Hell, I know what he's saying. I just don't want minority opinions clouding my positions. I have to have a clear and easily understandable stance on the issues. If I need to add a few tokens, then they had better be of my ideology." Vernon sat back and lit a cigar.
Mark thought for a moment. "We can find some minorities. I can check with some of the guys that work for the company. In the past few years, we've hired a lot of Mexicans to work on the construction crews."
"That's fine and dandy, Mark," Vernon leaned forward, "but I want to know exactly what percentage of registered voters fall into each category. I will agree to having representation equal to the voting public. If fifty percent of the voters are Mexicans, then half my campaign workers will be Mexicans." He got up and paced the floor. "Hell, we'll all eat tacos and hug." Stopping in front of me, waving the cigar, he asked, "Is that okay with you?"
"Sounds cool to me. I like the idea of shadowing the makeup of your team from the diversity of the state."
"Young man, I can tell you that this state is mostly white, then black, then the rest of you. I get a couple of black guys in here-"
"Women? What about women?" I wasn't going to let him slip.
"Women aren't part of diversity."
I rolled my eyes at Robertson.
"Yes, I think they are," he corrected.
"Damn, will I be the only white man left on this campaign?"
"Now, Dad," Mark said, "I'll get the demographics information, and we'll know what we're really talking about." He left the room to find his reports.
Vernon sat back down on the couch. "I guess since this uproar was over you being gay, you would need to be on this team.
"I don't live in North Carolina. But I'm sure you can find someone else to work with you." I thought for a moment. "Thanks for asking."
"Sure. I just don't know any other gay people. You guys got a newsletter or something? Maybe a directory?"
I imagined Vernon placing a gay personal ad for someone to work on the campaign: WCM (White Conservative Male) looking for energetic gay man to assist in US Senate run. This would be strictly physical-no emotional or intellectual ties required. "No, but I think there are some organizations around town where you might find some interest."
Mark came back with his demographics report. "State Board of Elections posts this on their Web site: Democrats 49%, Republicans 34%, Unaffiliated 16 %."
"See," Vernon said, "I'm already a minority; damn state is full of Democrats."
Mark continued, "White 78%, Black 19%, Indian 0.8 %, Other 1%."
"Where am I going to find an Indian?" Vernon chuckled.
"Male 45 %, Female 55 %. Sounds like the women have us outnumbered." Mark handed his father the printout.
"Doesn't say anything here about gays versus normal people." Vernon flipped the page over to look at the back. "No, no gays here."
"We're mixed in with all the other categories." I looked at Robertson. "Most estimates I've heard place gays and lesbians at 10% of the general population."
"What are the political issues?" he asked while taking a pen and tablet in hand.
"I'm not exactly politically active-"
"Until you came to Charlotte," Vernon quipped.
"I guess the most basic is to be treated fairly and with respect." I stared at Vernon. "What everyone wants: no discrimination."
He flicked the ash off the end of his cigar onto the floor.
"That would work for all the minorities," Mark said. "Dad, wouldn't you agree that no one should be judged solely on their skin color, nationality, religion, gender, or sexual orientation? That should be a positive to work into the campaign."
Vernon looked at Mark, then to Robertson.
"Yes, Vernon," Robertson said. "That would be a positive. Do you believe in it?"
"No."
"No?" Robertson repeated. "But we agreed we needed to make some concessions."
"Whose campaign is this?" Vernon roared. "I agreed to add some minorities, and I'll agree to treat everyone in a Christian way,
but I won't spout some ACLU crap about non-discrimination. Discrimination is against the law. I stand by the law."
"There's not a law on discriminating against gays and lesbians."
"There isn't a law about discriminating against Republican senators either," he shot back.
I didn't have the energy to try to win the point.
"Dad," Mark ventured, "let's just say we're against discrimination of all kinds."
"But what happens when the gays want to be added to the list?" Vernon puffed the cigar. "Everyone wants special privileges."
"Right," I said, "like I had the special privilege of being banished from the family because I said I'm gay."
"You didn't have to broadcast it. You could have kept it to yourself." Vernon snuffed out the cigar on the bottom of his shoe.
"Fine. I'm hitting a brick wall. No discrimination, and more blacks and women on the campaign." I summed it up.
"Okay. I can live with that." Vernon turned to Robertson. "Bill, what will this do to my other platforms?"
"We'll talk through all the possibilities, Vernon." Bill Robertson stood and turned to me. "Thanks for coming in, and please no more reporters?"
"Yeah, at least he seems a little more open than before." I shook his hand and left.
Mark followed me out, closing the office door behind him. "Derek, thanks for talking with us. I think you did Dad some good."
"A little more of an open mind." I shrugged. "Hopefully, he will add some diversity to his campaign; it wouldn't hurt him to get some new ideas."
Mark patted me on the back. "So, what's Ruby cooking for dinner?"
Dinner? I had forgotten to call and cancel dinner with Daniel. "Oh, I don't know, I guess I'm going to meet an old friend."
"Kathleen said she would like to have you back again before you leave town."
My mind swarmed around Daniel and dinner. "Yeah, that would be nice. I'll talk to you later." I hurried out of the office and drove through Myers Park to Sedgefield. Pulling into Ruby's driveway I saw her weeding flowers under the big oak, Mr. Sams' oak. What if Vernon did it? Had I just assisted a murderer's campaign?
A FEW MINUTES after eight o'clock, I parked in front of Daniel's house. The setting sun stretched shadows across his carefully maintained lawn. Several large azaleas weighted down with scarlet blooms lined the foundation of the house, and a pin oak stretched its massive limbs showing off its new tiny thin leaves over the house. Through the warm humid air, the spicy scent of charcoal and steak drifted from the back of the house. I climbed the stairs to the long porch and rang the doorbell.
"Hello, Derek, come in," Daniel greeted me at the door. "I wasn't sure you would come, but I'm glad you did."
"Well, I said I would, didn't I?" The front room looked like where he spent most of his time, television and stereo in one corner with a large sofa and chair facing them, one wall covered with bookcases stacked with books and magazines; the paintings on the wall revealed an interest in classical architectural drawings and Greek mythology, the twins Artemis and Apollo flanking his fireplace.
"Can I get you a beer? I have steaks on the grill." He led me to the kitchen and handed me a Michelob.
"Thanks. Nice place you have here." I wanted to get things out in the open. "Daniel, why did you write that article?"
He leaned against the counter and took a swig of his beer. "Like I told you on the phone, I didn't know you being gay was a big family secret. It intrigued me how Vernon Harris dealt with having a gay nephew, especially with his history. I'm sorry I stirred up trouble for you; honestly, I would not have written a word about it if I'd known the story would affect you this way."
"Everything said tonight is strictly off the record, right?" I asked, but still wasn't sure if I trusted him.
"Of course, yes, I'm off duty as a reporter."
"Most of my family is very distant to me, but there are a few I love dearly." I thought about Walterene, Ruby, Valerie, and Mark. "I came here for the funeral of one of those few."
His dark brown eyes cast down. "Sorry to hear that."
"Anyway, I had a talk with Vernon today, and I think we both feel a little better about what's happened."
"How so?"
I smiled at his question. "Thought the reporter hat was off tonight."
"It is, sorry. Let me check on the steaks, medium-rare okay? I thought we'd eat outside." He walked out the kitchen door to a large private patio set up with an intimate table for two in candlelight.
"Wow, you went to a lot of trouble for not being sure if I'd show."
"I hoped you would." He flashed a bright smile framed with dimples. "So, you and Vernon are okay?"
I thought for a moment. "As okay as can be expected. I have a question for you. How far back does the newspaper keep copies of each edition?"
He took the steaks off the grill and added them to plates with baked potatoes and steamed vegetables. "How far back are you looking to go?"
"Late forties or early fifties."
"Yeah, on microfiche. You looking for something?"
I took a bite of the steak. "Wonderful, you're a good cook."
"My family had a restaurant a few years back, I helped the cook after school. Now, what went on in the late forties that has you so interested?"
I didn't trust him enough to reveal my suspicions about Mr. Sams' death, but I wanted to see if anything had been in the paper about it. "Just researching some family accomplishments. You know plenty about my family, what about the Kaperonis clan? They owned a restaurant; what else?"
Daniel sat back in his chair, smiled, and said, "Typical Greek family: we all lived close to each other, tried the restaurant business for a while. My mother and father live in Madison Park, just below Woodlawn Road. I have two brothers and a sister."
"Where are you? Youngest, oldest?"
"I'm the middle boy. David and Emily are older, then me, then Theo. In fact, David works for your family. He's an architect working with your cousin Margaret's husband, Gerald."
"Does he like it?" I waited for him to finish chewing.
"Sorry, yeah, Gerald's a good guy. I hear Margaret's a bit of a bitch, if you'll excuse me being so blunt."
"No, that's fine, I want honesty." I remembered Mark's sister as being very opinionated and headstrong. "What seems to be the reason for her bitchiness?"
He grinned with his eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "Now this is all hearsay, I don't know anything firsthand."
"Go ahead, forget the disclaimers." I moved my leg against his under the table. Why not? I'm only in town a few days.
"David says Gerald has a place in town. He doesn't make the drive down to Ballantyne each night like a good husband should." He looked down at his plate as if he wasn't sure if he should be telling me this.
"No big deal. Maybe they're going through some rough times? What about the kids? They should be teenagers by now." Margaret had two of the most beautiful little blond boys, always laughing and hanging onto their father's hands.
"Guess the family doesn't keep you up to date in California. Jerry, the oldest, got caught shoplifting at Southpark. Vernon pulled strings and had all charges dropped, but not before little Jerry cussed out the security guard in the middle of the food court. Racist little shit, too; he used the N word when a black police officer arrived. They threw him in jail overnight just to scare him."
"Margaret must have had a fit."
Daniel shook his head. "Old man Vernon handled everything, He was the one who told them to leave his grandson in jail."
Some things never change; they all stand back and let Vernon, and before him, Grandma Ernest, handle things. No one ever questioned heir decisions, offered alternatives, put up a fight; right or wrong hey had the last word. I looked up at the shadow of the towering pin oak over Daniel's house; a vision flashed in my mind: a limp body swung from a strong limb in the darkening spring sky.