China Lake (10 page)

‘‘The girls are having a closed practice.’’ Her tone was peremptory.

‘‘For what?’’ he said. ‘‘NATO maneuvers?’’

Wyoming walked up behind us. ‘‘She’s trying to be polite here. But you’re disturbing these young ladies.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘I thought disturbances were your department, Reverend Wyoming.’’

He looked at the crutches. ‘‘The sight of feebleness is always disturbing.’’

Jesse didn’t move an inch, but I flinched.

‘‘These young women shine with a strength that glorifies the Lord. It’s a sign of their virtue and purity,’’ Wyoming said. ‘‘But weaklings are a sign of decay, of sinfulness punished in our midst.’’

Jesse shifted his weight. He was taller than Wyoming, six foot one, and looked down at him. ‘‘I guess when you’re used to picking on the dead at funerals, a live target must look scary.’’

‘‘If you sow corruption of the heart, you will reap corruption of the flesh. The rot will erupt.’’ He pointed at Jesse. ‘‘Whatever it is you have done, you should think hard about repenting it. Unless you truly want to go to hell.’’

‘‘Been there, done that, got the wheelchair.’’

With the tinkle of ice cubes, Tabitha came outside, carrying a tray that held tall glasses of iced tea and Ritz crackers decorated with squirt-cheese crosses.

‘‘Here we are,’’ she said in her anxious-to-please voice. ‘‘Pastor Pete?’’

He turned and saw her proffering the tray. ‘‘What’s this?’’

She lifted it toward him. He grimaced and twisted his head. ‘‘Take it away!’’

He shoved it and the tray flipped. Glasses and crackers flew, splashing Tabitha and raining on the grass. Everyone stood motionless with shock and embarrassment, with music from Shiloh’s boom box rattling the mountain air.

Wyoming said, ‘‘Get rid of it!’’

Chest heaving, cheeks blotchy, Tabitha dropped to her knees and began gathering up the debris. I said, ‘‘Jesse, let’s get out of here.’’

A voice called from the house: ‘‘Peter! Peter Wyoming!’’

A baby-blue cowboy hat appeared at the sliding glass door. Wyoming wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, jaw muscles popping. Chenille called him again. Nostrils wide, mouth white, he stalked toward the house, muttering, ‘‘Rot. The rot will erupt. . . .’’ Spinning back around, he shouted at Jesse, ‘‘Rot! You want proof? Look at Stephen Hawking. Scientist, and he paid for it!’’

Jesse pivoted and headed across the lawn. When I murmured good-bye to Tabitha, she didn’t look up.

Rounding the side of the house, we saw a blue pickup truck, baby blue, parked next to my car. Through the front window of the house we saw the Wyomings, Chenille circling Pete, talking and gesturing. On the front step stood Curt Smollek, the Remnant’s crew-cut, pock-faced bully, arms crossed like a bouncer. I climbed into the Explorer. Soon Jesse pulled himself in beside me. He slammed the door and stared straight ahead.

I said, ‘‘He’s seriously disturbed.’’

‘‘No shit.’’

He was quiet for a moment. Absorbing, I feared, Wyoming’s bigotry. But he said, ‘‘Know what’s in the garage? Stockpiles of food in crates stacked to the roof.’’

I hesitated, key in the ignition. ‘‘Creamed corn and SPAM?’’

‘‘And beef jerky, three hundred boxes of Tampax, and a glass-topped freezer full of Tater Tots and Reddi-wip. Plus something called the Revelation checklist. A hundred items you tick off whenever biblical prophecy comes true,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s a countdown.’’

‘‘And?’’

‘‘Ninety-five were checked off.’’

Unexpectedly, someone tapped on his window—one more surprise, cherry on the weirdness sundae. Huddled outside was Glory, my fan from the book signing.

Her voice was hushed. ‘‘What I said at Beowulf’s, I want you to know, I really meant it. I love your book. Totally, and that’s the truth.’’

‘‘Right. Gotcha.’’

‘‘You have to believe me.’’ She grabbed the window frame. ‘‘Please, Evan—’’

‘‘What’s going on?’’ I said, nodding toward the house. ‘‘Why’s everybody so excited?’’

‘‘Haven’t you heard? He died.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Who?’’

She glanced around, fearful. ‘‘The crazy man, the one who broke into church and tried to attack Pastor Pete. He died this afternoon.’’

Jesse knocked on the door at seven the next morning. He always knocked before coming in, though he had a key. It was talismanic, a ritual. Sharp light was painting the grass and yellow hibiscus to a polychrome shine. The sky was smooth with promise, the air soft. I was still in my pj’s, pouring my first cup of coffee, and Luke was sound asleep. Jesse was dressed for court in a black suit, white dress shirt, and royal blue tie. He rolled in and tossed the
News-Press
on the dining table.

‘‘Local section, page one. They identify the guy.’’ His tone said this was going to surprise me.

I found it below the fold: ‘‘Doctor’s Injuries Fatal.’’

‘‘Jorgensen.’’ I looked up, startled. ‘‘The plastic surgeon?’’

‘‘Seems like yesterday he was threatening to rip off your kneecaps.’’

Neil Jorgensen was a cosmetic sculptor to the posh and aging. A busy and expensive surgeon, he was also arrogant and incompetent—a terrible combination to let loose on your face with a scalpel. I had once served him with a summons for malpractice. He had taken it badly.

I rubbed my forehead. ‘‘I didn’t recognize him. Not for a second.’’

‘‘You said the man looked sick.’’

‘‘Yeah, but Jorgensen . . . That time I served him, he called me the full spectrum of obscenities, up into the ultraviolet. How could I go through a plate-glass window with him and not have a clue?’’

I recalled the feverish glow in his eyes, thinking about illnesses that could devastate a person’s appearance. Cancer, or AIDS . . .

I said, ‘‘Something’s screwy here.’’

‘‘He probably agrees, being dead and all.’’

I gave him a look.

‘‘Sorry, Ev. I know you tried to help him.’’

His remorse was for me, I knew, not for the late doctor. Jesse had an extremely pragmatic attitude toward sudden accidental death: Shit happens. Still, I wondered at the casual sharpness of his remark.

‘‘Jorgensen’s behavior makes no sense,’’ I said. He had cared about only one thing: money. He ran patients through the operating theater like steaks through a meat saw to keep himself in Porsches. I had never heard about his being remotely religious or political. ‘‘What was he doing breaking into the Remnant’s service?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

Neither did the reporter who had written the story. The article did no more than quote hospital and police department statements. Suspecting that the Remnant’s Web site might comment on Jorgensen’s death, I flipped on my computer. I poured Jesse a cup of coffee and sat down at my desk. The Web site loaded.

UPDATE! FAGGOT DIES FOLLOWING
DESECRATION ATTEMPT

A queer who tried to destroy the Remnant’s sanctuary died yesterday. The rampage was stopped by courageous churchgoers, the queer ran away after his attack failed. Fleeing from horrified Christians, he collided head-on with a truck.

WHAT DID HE EXPECT?

‘‘Surely, because you have defiled my sanctuary with all your detestable things and with all your abominations, therefore I will cut you down.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Surprise, they trash the victim.’’ ‘‘Yeah, standard operating procedure.’’ We looked at each other. ‘‘It doesn’t scan, does it?’’

The Remnant seemed delighted that Jorgensen had met his end. So why had Chenille and Pete been worked up about his death? The news had vexed them—and they had brought their pique into Tabitha’s house. In fact, they had apparently taken over Tabitha’s house.

The strangeness of it ate at me for most of the day. I worked downtown at the law library, distracted by everything: coins clanging into the photocopier, angst wafting from other lawyers in the room. Eventually I left and headed to the
News-Press
building in De la Guerra Plaza. I asked for Sally Shimada, the reporter who had filed the story on Jorgensen’s death. Craving information, I hoped to get it from her, or to convince her to go after it.

Shimada came into the lobby with an athlete’s long stride. She was young, with sorority-girl enthusiasm, trying to look sleek in her white turtleneck and paisley miniskirt. She had a glossy fall of black hair and angular features that were striking rather than pretty. Her handshake was firm.

I said, ‘‘I have some news that might interest you, about Neil Jorgensen’s accident.’’

‘‘You mean the Remnant’s claiming he was gay?’’

‘‘No, another angle. An eyewitness account.’’

‘‘Whose?’’

‘‘Mine.’’

Her face lit with an eager Miss California smile. This kid should never play poker. She said, ‘‘Come on back.’’

I went on the record. Sitting at Shimada’s desk in the cluttered newsroom, I described the Remnant’s church service, trying to impart the eeriness and alarm I had experienced, leading her to the moment Isaiah Paxton and Curt Smollek hauled me to the door, the moment when Jorgensen burst in. She was leaning toward me across the desk, eyes acute and unblinking. I paused, a long pause. ‘‘That’s when Jorgensen started yelling.’’

Shimada spread her hands. ‘‘Yelling what?’’

I waited, expecting that, like most reporters, she would fill the silence.

‘‘Did he say anything specific?’’ she said. ‘‘Did he mention any names?’’

‘‘Like whose?’’

‘‘Mel Kalajian.’’

When I couldn’t place it, she said, ‘‘Mel Kalajian, MD. He was murdered last summer. A gay man. The Remnant picketed his funeral.’’

Now I remembered reading about it. ‘‘Jorgensen didn’t mention him. Why would he?’’

‘‘He was Jorgensen’s medical partner. He was killed during a robbery at their offices in July, apparently when he caught some guy stealing drugs,’’ she said. ‘‘He was also Jorgensen’s lover.’’

I betrayed my surprise.

‘‘It wasn’t a secret,’’ she said. ‘‘They weren’t closeted, just sort of Republican about it. They wore Ralph Lauren and bought real estate together.’’

I considered it. ‘‘You think Jorgensen’s grief overwhelmed him?’’

‘‘That’s my take on it. He died because he finally found the strength to stand up to the Remnant. It’s tragic.’’

She had already written the lead for her follow-up, I bet. She would play it for all the pathos and political correctness the story could offer. I dealt another card.

‘‘How long did Jorgensen have? I mean, if he hadn’t been hit by that truck.’’

Yes, playing poker would be a disaster for her. She leaned back, lips parting.

I said, ‘‘The hospital didn’t tell you that he was ill?’’

She blinked, looking as if she’d been caught with her skirt stuck in the waistband of her panty hose. I guessed that she hadn’t spoken to anyone who had actually treated Jorgensen, but had written her story straight from a hospital press release.

‘‘What about the paramedics?’’ I said. ‘‘Or his office? Nobody mentioned it?’’

Her embarrassment was becoming palpable. She said, ‘‘What did he have?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘Then how can you say he was terminal?’’

‘‘You’ve never been around anyone who’s seriously ill, have you?’’

That was gratuitously rough, but I figured she needed a kick in the pants.

She picked up a pencil and started doodling on a notepad. Regaining her composure, she said, ‘‘You know, it’s not every witness who shows up here asking to be interviewed. Exactly what are you after?’’

‘‘Off the record,’’ I said, ‘‘I want to know what the Remnant is up to, so I can keep my nephew out of their path.’’ She nodded, accepting it. ‘‘Listen, Sally. More is going on here than meets the eye. The Wyomings were really bent out of shape by the news of Jorgensen’s death.’’

She stopped doodling. ‘‘Now, how do you know that?’’

I stood up. ‘‘Check out what I’ve told you. If you think it’s worth pursuing, call me. I’m in the book.’’

I saw myself out, gambling that I’d hear from her.

That evening Jesse and I took Luke out for tamales at Playa Azul and ice cream in Paseo Nuevo. Luke was gregarious, talking about school, and I ached at the thought of saying good-bye to this—to his classroom play-by-play, to the notes from his teacher that got squashed in the bottom of his backpack, to twenty other six-year-olds whose names I had never truly deciphered. Jesse listened, but seemed distant. When Luke was running up State Street ahead of us, rainbow sherbet dripping down his wrist, I asked what was bugging him.

He shrugged. ‘‘Work, tooth decay, the dumbing down of America.’’

‘‘Pastor Pete?’’

‘‘Yeah, he’s a piece of work. Mr. Virtue and Purity, protecting his über-twirlers from me. He’s the kind who would have stoked the ovens at Buchenwald.’’

‘‘Sorry I convinced you to go up there with me.’’

‘‘Guilt—I knew it; you’re having an episode. Quick, go bang your head against that wall.’’

I punched him on the arm. He said, ‘‘It could have been worse. He could have tried to heal me.’’

I touched his shoulder, stopping him. He wasn’t an angry person, but with all the crap he had to contend with, the blues sometimes dogged him. Pastor Pete’s taunts had, I thought, been one knock too many. People ribboned around us on the sidewalk. Gold light spilled from a nearby café, and Latin music pulsed through the air, cocky and sinuous. I took his face in my hands and kissed him.

‘‘That’s better,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t worry about me. Feel culpable for something else. Ozone depletion.’’

When we returned to my house, he helped Luke pack his backpack for school the next day. Asking him, ‘‘Is that everything? Homework?’’ ‘‘Yep.’’ Lunch? Yep. Dog biscuits? ‘‘We don’t have a dog at school.’’ ‘‘Right. Teacher biscuits?’’