James Henderson: Family Thang

Victor, in bed with the sheet around his waist, shook his head. “No, I’d rather not.”

Leonard stepped back from the mirror and pirouetted. “How do I look?”

“Great. Just great, Leonard. You…” He stopped short.

Leonard sat on the edge of the bed. “What?” Victor looked away. “What?”

“You blame me for what happened? If you do I understand.”

“No, Victor.” Leonard stroked his face. “I don’t blame you one bit. I blame myself for thinking my family, especially my father, would understand.”

“I thought one of your sisters, Shirley, understood what you were going through.”

“On a certain level she does. My other sister and brother—forget it!”

“How can the police think you… you know?”

“I killed my father? You know I didn’t do that.” Pause. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was too mean to die easily.” Shaking his head: “I should have gone to the funeral. They say you’ll never have closure if you don’t attend the funeral.”

“Leonard, this is so bizarre… so strange.”

“I told you events might not go as expected.”

“You didn’t mention neck bone poisoning and a murder investigation, nor a motel room with cockroaches the size of crabs.”

Leonard gave Victor’s knee a playful squeeze. “I’ll settle this today. When I get back you and I will check out of this flea-bitten room and go back to our wonderful apartment and enjoy our wonderful life.”

“Is it really wonderful, Leonard?”

Leonard leaned in and kissed him on the chin. “Yes, it most certainly is. You sound as if you’re having second thoughts.”

Victor shook his head and smiled.

Leonard stood up. “I better go now and get this over.”

Victor, wearing only a pair of red Hanes, rose from the bed and embraced Leonard. “I love you!”

“I love you, too,” staring into the dirty mirror above the dresser.

Leonard, thin, dark-skinned, early thirties, mini afro; Victor, portly, pale white, late forties, bald.

“Victor, I should go before I get excited. Imagine the Sheriff’s reaction if I appeared with an erection.”

Victor followed Leonard to the door. Stepping outside felt like stepping into a furnace. Leonard waved at Victor, hoping he would close the door and go back inside the room. Victor blew a kiss.

Leonard surveyed the parking lot. No one in sight. Thank God. He would remind Victor where they were, Dawson, Arkansas, not Chicago, Illinois. Here, public displays of affection by same-sex couples could result in an arrest or a busted head or both.

Inside the rental, a gray Chevrolet Lumina, Leonard looked into the rearview and saw Victor stepping out onto the balcony. A man and woman stepped out of the room next door and the man stared long and hard at Victor. Leonard started the car and drove away. He needed to hurry. The sooner he got Victor back to Chicago, the better.

Arriving at the Dawson County jail twenty minutes later, Leonard composed himself before going in. Stay calm and don’t reveal any unsolicited information.

Just as he neared the door a cruiser pulled up and Sheriff Bledsoe got out carrying a box of Shipley Do-Nuts with two large Styrofoam cups balanced on top.

Leonard held the door open and followed him inside.

“Leonard Harris, I presume?”

“Yes.”

Sheriff Bledsoe put the box down on a desk and extended a hand. “Sheriff Bledsoe, nice to meet you.”

Leonard shook his hand. “Same here.”

“Have a seat. You’ll have to overlook the mess.”

Leonard noticed every chair looked an accident waiting to happen. A large air conditioner, held in a window by cut-off bars, clanged noisily. A familiar scent of cologne hovered in the air. Old Spice, he thought at first. No, too cloy.

“Yes, they’re rickety,” Sheriff Bledsoe said, “but they’re sturdy. Have a seat.”

Leonard considered sitting atop one of the desks. Not the time for practical jokes . Now was the time to tell this adipose hayseed the skinny, exonerate himself, and get Victor and himself the hell out of Dawson, never to return again.

He sat down in a chair with a sawed-off baseball bat for a leg.

Sheriff Bledsoe busied himself about the room, transferring paper from one cluttered desk to another, and then disappeared inside a bathroom.

He’s acting rather nervous, Leonard thought. He heard running water. The noise continued… and continued. Either Sheriff Bledsoe was taking a shower or washing his hands. The noise wasn’t loud enough for a shower faucet.

He’s washing his hands bloody because he knows I’m gay and he touched my hand.

You’re being paranoid.

Presently, Sheriff Bledsoe came out, drying his hands thoroughly with a paper towel. He nodded at the doughnuts and coffee. “Help yourself. The coffee machine is on the blink, I picked up an extra cup.”

“Thanks,” getting up and retrieving a glazed doughnut. “I’ve already tried the coffee, not my particular brand.” He bit into the doughnut and looked up.

Sheriff Bledsoe was frowning, staring at the two cups. “You took a sip?”

“Yes, I sure did.” Leonard could tell by the Sheriff’s expression he was dying to ask which one.

“So you’re from Chicago,” Sheriff Bledsoe said, sitting behind a desk.

“No. Originally I’m from here, Dawson. I moved out of my father’s house when I was in high school. I moved to Chicago eleven years ago, right after I graduated college.”

“Which college?”

“University of Arkansas at Monticello.”

“Is that right? I went there myself. Business administration. Didn’t graduate. I lack a few credits. One day I’ll go—”

“Sir, I didn’t poison my father.” He then recognized the cologne that seemed to breeze in through the air conditioner.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Why I’m here, isn’t it?” Hai Karate, the cheap cologne his father used to slather on. Where in hell can you purchase Hai Karate today?

“Okay, Mr. Harris, you want to cut to the chase. As you know, your father was poisoned with arsenic, along with his pet, which I think was poisoned incidentally. And, according to eyewitnesses, you and your father got into a heated argument shortly before his death.”

“Yes, we had a few words. If your eyewitnesses were completely honest with you, sir, they would have told you my partner and I were late arrivals to the barbecue. My partner can attest to that. He accompanied me from Chicago.”

“I see. What’s his name?”

“Fields. Victor Fields.”

Sheriff Bledsoe nodded, but didn’t write the name.

“Sir, I’m sure your eyewitnesses have informed you I’m gay, and Victor is my mate of five years.”

Sheriff Bledsoe loosened the collar on his beige shirt. “Kinda hot in here, isn’t it?” Leonard shook his head. “So… uh…” He cleared his throat. “So at no time did you come in contact with the neck bones prepared exclusively for your father?”

“No. Not once.”

“If someone said they saw you—”

“They’re telling a damn lie! I don’t poison people’s food, Mr. Bledsoe. My father and I had an argument, which I truly regret and will regret till the day I die. I did not poison him!”

Sheriff Bledsoe interlaced his fingers and nibbled on both thumbnails.

Leonard held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. He noticed the jail cell, the thin mattress covered with what looked to him a piss-stained sheet, and the aluminum commode. I’ll die before I go in there.

He returned his attention to Sheriff Bledsoe. What the hell!… The man was still staring at him. Leonard stared back.

The man wore his afro in a shag that went out of style fifty years ago. And that goatee, another joke: the peach fuzz under his broad nose didn’t droop far enough to connect with the fuzz that formed a crude U under his chin. Big boys should never try anything more than a moustache anyway.