DANIEL TALKED ON about the politics of Charlotte and of North Carolina, but my thoughts kept returning to the hooded gang chasing an old black man through the woods. Men leaving their elegant homes in Dilworth and Myers Park, banding together, and crossing the railroad tracks into the Wilmore neighborhood to dispense justice. Sedgefield was probably little more than two or three miles back over to the "white" side of the tracks from Wilmore. Back then, it must have looked like a refuge of forest for a fleeing man, or maybe it was the horror of death for a captive man drug into dark woods full of potential gallows.
"Derek, are you okay?" Daniel asked.
The sound of my name brought me back to the present. "Oh, yeah, I was just entranced by the size of that tree. I forget how lush and strong trees get back here. San Francisco trees are battered by the Pacific winds and odd climate; they don't get big unless you get away from the coast."
" San Francisco is a great city, not a tree city like Charlotte, but it has lots of other things. Do you get energy from the outdoors?"
My thoughts went back to that first time with Mark on our camping trip. "Yes, I believe I do."
"Me too," Daniel agreed. "I love being outside with the trees, working in the yard, feeling connected to the earth…"
"That's a Southern thing," I kidded, becoming more attracted to him by his rustic pleasures-no pretentiousness here. "Southern literature has a common theme of special ties to the land."
Daniel sat back and considered it. "But Western writing has that too. Northern, Eastern literature? I don't get that much from the New York writers' club. The center of their universe is that little island up there."
"That's why they're in New York. They get energy from people, lots of people and activity," I said. "Southerners and Westerners get a charge out of the land, the history. I always thought that appreciation for our surroundings came from the Indians; sorry, Native Americans."
He smiled at my political correctness. "Being of Greek descent, I never thought about that. My family left Greece, their land…" His thoughts took over, then he brightened. "Hey, you look like you might have some Indian in you, dark hair, prominent cheekbones, tall, wide shoulders, narrow waist…"
"I've heard Cherokee blood ran with the Harris blood, but don't put that in the paper," I warned. "I can just imagine the uproar: not only is he gay, but he's a half-breed."
"Don't worry."
"Oh, did you know that about one percent of North Carolina 's voting population is Native American? That surprised me," I said. "I didn't expect it, I thought everyone here considered themselves black or white."
Daniel stood up to gather the plates and put his hand on my shoulder, then whispered in my ear, "The world is not all black and white, my young friend." He kissed my neck, and a trembling volt of electricity shot through my body.
I stood with shaky legs. Wow, he's a lightning bolt. I steadied myself with the back of the chair and then helped clear the table.
We settled on the living room couch with soft smooth jazz music and a bottle of even smoother merlot. Daniel told me about his work, but my thoughts drifted back to Vernon. He seemed too willing to give in to my suggestions. Why did they care if I felt included in his campaign? Was it just to shut me up? I didn't intend to give any more interviews. How would Vernon turn the article around to win votes?
He spouted religious doctrine as second nature, but I hadn't heard him say anything about homosexuality being against his personal beliefs. Votes, that pushed the conversation along; how to keep votes, how to win votes. The religion angle had to be just a ploy to gather the conservative Christians into his camp. I took a sip of wine and tried to catch up on Daniel's story.
"… I made the editor's changes even though I didn't agree with her, but it turned out that my source couldn't come up with concrete proof the husband was with his mistress when the wife was shot." Daniel kicked off his shoes and put his feet on the coffee table.
"How would you investigate an old crime? Something where most of the witnesses would be reluctant to talk?" I watched his dark eyes dart back and forth as he thought.
"How old a crime are we talking about?"
"Maybe, fifty years or more."
"Fifty years? Anyone still alive that was involved?" he asked.
"Well, probably." I didn't want to get into details.
"Okay, first you get in real good with a handsome reporter." He scooted closer to me.
The spicy scent of sandalwood, sage, and the lingering aroma of mesquite, charcoal, and sizzling steaks drifted around the warm heat from his body. "And?" I led him on.
He positioned his right arm around the back of the couch, resting his hand on my shoulder, and moved his left hand across to my waist. "And, you close your eyes…"
I did. Pulling my body close, he gently brushed my lips with his. His mustache tickled, and I smiled. He whispered, "Then, you relax."
I felt his kiss again, this time stronger, more urgent, more passionate. My desire grew, pulling at the roots of my lust. Excitement surged to every nerve ending. I could hear the rhythm of my pulse beating in my ears as he nibbled my earlobes and ran the tip of his tongue down the side of my throat. My hands caressed his broad back, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his jeans. A rush of cool air brushed my chest as my own shirt fell to the floor, then a warm, safe sensation flooded me as Daniel's hairy chest pressed against mine. I reached to the side table and clicked off the light.
WHEN I WALKED into Ruby's house the next morning, she shook her head and sipped her coffee. "And you wanted to stand him up."
"Well, he turned out to be a nice guy. In fact, a really nice, great, incredible guy." I knew I gushed, but I had just had blue-ribbon sex, the type of passion that only comes from crossing the line from repulsion to desire. Twenty-four hours before, I had wanted to kill him; now I wanted to go back to his bed and sleep the day away.
Ruby poured a cup of coffee for me and guided me into a chair. "Is he coming over?" She smiled. "I'd like to meet this young man who has you in such a daze."
"You will, you will." I picked up the newspaper, hesitated, then looked at Ruby.
"Oh, yes. Vernon has made a statement."
On the front page, Vernon 's picture had a caption: VernonHarris agrees to help nephew overcome battles. I scanned the short article, not written by Daniel, that said Vernon realized I needed help "to deal with certain issues." The old man kept everything vague, and the reporter didn't push him for specifics, almost as if Bill Robertson had written the article himself. I let it drop on the floor. "There's no getting through to him."
"That's for sure," Ruby seconded. "Oh, Gladys called to see when you were going back to San Francisco. I told her I wanted you to stay, to move back."
"Bet she about had a hissy-fit over that." I drank the hot, sweet coffee and entertained the idea of living in Charlotte: Daniel, Ruby, Valerie, Mark, Grandma… the entertainment value lessened… Vernon, Gladys… "No, I don't think this is the place for me." I glanced at Ruby's soft face full of mixed emotions, obviously still grieving the loss of Walterene. "Why is it some family members are so close and others can't stand the sight of each other?"
"That's the family bond," she explained. "We get thrown together because of family ties, and like any bunch of people, some will get along and some will grate each other's nerves. But we keep together because we're tied together by blood, love, and duty."
"Duty? Mark talks about duty." I tried to make that fit into my life, "My duty is to be true to myself."
"Mark sees something larger," Ruby said, pouring us both more coffee and heaping sugar into it. "I think he puts himself after his father's happiness and Kathleen's, and his brother's and sister's. Guess that isn't always the place to put yourself, but sometimes you don't always come first."
"What is your duty?" I asked.
"As a young girl, it was me. To be happy. Papa Ernest would tell all us grandkids what we should be doing, what our mission in life was to be. Of course, the girls were to get married, have children, and take care of their husbands. Walterene and I never cared for that." A faint smile played across her lips. "But I think Mark still believes that a Harris takes care of the family first, then worries about the individual."
"Do you think I'm being selfish?" I felt self-centered talking about my own happiness before all else.
"Lord, no," she said. "You have to be at peace with yourself before you can even think of other people. Are you at peace?"
I sighed and thought. "Yes and no. My biggest unease is still my mother. Why does she not want me around? If family is so important, why am I being asked constantly when I'll leave?"
Ruby looked down at her lap. "Gladys is an odd bird."
"She hates me because I'm gay; she's ashamed of me. But I don't get it; she's not that religious, and her church isn't as conservative as most. What's her personal disgust with me?" I could feel tears welling up in my eyes; was it from anger or something else?
Reaching over to hold my hand, Ruby said, "Honey, Gladys doesn't hate you."
The tears spilled down my face.
She continued, "People don't want to be reminded of things they see in themselves, things they don't like. You're as stubborn as she is, and as proud. You two are like a mean old blue jay attacking his image in a window. His own reflection makes him want to fight."
"Was she like this as a girl?" I asked. I couldn't remember her ever being a loving, caring mother; she had always seemed distant, like children inconvenienced her.
Ruby frowned. "Honestly, I never played with Gladys as a child. She didn't care for me or Walterene, or for that matter Edwina. The boy cousins got along much better than us girls."
The diaries, I thought, could Walterene's diaries have something about Gladys, something that turned her into "Gladys the Bitch"? I also wanted to read more about Mr. Sams. Maybe that was it. Walterene had accused Mother of blaming Mr. Sams for something-molestation? Had Mr. Sams sexually abused her, and Vernon taken revenge for his sister? I wanted to get back to the attic and search the diaries. "Ruby, I still have some straightening up to do in the attic."
"Now, don't throw out anything else," she warned.
"No, I just want to get it organized for you. Bet you don't know half of what's up there." I grabbed a pencil and pad from the kitchen drawer. "I'll make a little inventory of what you have and put the things you need the most closest to the stairs."
"My, someone's got a lot of energy for being out all night," she joked.
I washed out my coffee cup and headed to the attic. After clicking on all the bare light bulbs so I could see better, I finally settled next to the box of books. First, I sorted the diaries from school textbooks, notebooks, and Mother Earth News and Southern Living magazines; then, I checked each one for a date and lined them up in chronological order. Several time gaps appeared, and I wondered if there could be another box buried under the eaves. On my notepad, I made a list of the years accounted for and then the missing years. Walterene had chronicled more than forty percent of her life, up to her college years. I paged through the diary with the passage on Mr. Sams, and found another entry from a month later:
Ruby and I went to Mr. Sams' Oak tree and cut down the piece of rope that still hung from a branch. I buried it, and we sang Amazing Grace and cried. No one talks about him anymore-like he never existed. I saw his daughter downtown the other day. I waved, but she just turned her head. Maybe she didn't recognize me. All I wanted to do was tell her how I missed him, but she went into one of the colored stores, and I was afraid to follow. I wonder how they're getting along without their daddy.
Grandpa Ernest took the boys hunting up near Asheville. I wonder if they wear hoods to scare the deer, too. He's such a mean old man. I hope he dies soon.
Mama wants me to go to the dance Saturday night with Aaron Walters. I can't 'cause the girls at school kid me and say if I were to marry Aaron, my name would be Walterene Walters, and they start calling me Walla Walla. Anyway, Aaron and I would never marry. He's too much like me, neither one of us like that boy-girl dating stuff. He reminds me of Uncle Earl, sweet and caring, a confirmed bachelor. I'm a confirmed bachelorette.
"Aaron was gay," I said and flipped through the pages looking for more on Mr. Sams. "He had a daughter, maybe I can find a name. She might still be around." I wondered what I would say to her if I found her. Hz, I think my uncle killed your father. What do you think? No, that wouldn't be the way to do it.
I ran out of pages in that diary, and the next one started up over a year later. The one that came before had its little lock rusted shut. I worked it some, but it didn't give. I hated to break it, but no key could be found. Finally, I took a finishing nail from the toolbox and jiggled it in the lock; it popped open. Flipping through the pages, scanning for names, I found a passage about Gladys:
Gladys told Edwina that she thought Ruby and I had "an unnatural affection for each other" and that cousins shouldn't be so close. She's just jealous 'cause no one likes her. She thinks she's so pretty, always wearing new dresses and having her hair done every week. Aunt Eleanor takes her downtown to Belk and buys her a new dress about every other week. She parades down Tryon Street with those dress and hat boxes like she was the Queen of Sheba.
At Sunday dinner, she sat there all prettied up, new dress, hair perfect, rouged cheeks, and Papa Ernest looks at her and says, "Gladys, what are you all made up for? You look like a hussy with your face all painted up like that." She got up and ran out crying. I thought it was funny at first, but then I felt a little sorry for her, just a little. I never know when Grandpa might say something mean to me in front of everybody. Aunt Eleanor stormed out after Gladys; she was mad at Grandpa, too. He just chuckled at them both. "More food for the rest of us," he said.
Gladys isn't all bad. She's had a hard time. Vernon is Grandpa's favorite, and her being his sister, she gets the short end of the stick all the time. The rest of us are lucky we don't have to be around Vernon and Grandpa together.
Ruby says Gladys is young and just trying to find her fit in life. I wonder what my fit in life is? Maybe it's not here, maybe it's in New York. Uncle Earl says that's the place to be.
I sat back and thought, I'm not the first in the family who didn't feel I belonged. Old man Ernest was a crusty, harsh guy; it must have been hard growing up different then. I heard Ruby calling me, so I boxed the diaries back and went downstairs.
"Come in here, it's almost lunch time. Valerie called to say she was stopping by." Ruby herded me toward the bathroom. "Take a shower, you look like a Saturday night whore on Sunday morning." She playfully slapped my butt.
"But I feel like a morning angel," I kissed her plump cheek, "and you're my sexy cherub."
"Get washed up before I call your mother on you to settle you down," she mocked sternness.
I got in the shower and realized I hadn't thought about going home since yesterday afternoon. Wow, I might actually start liking it here.