Forever and a Day: Chapter 5
“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”
– Zora Neale Hurston
She just disappeared. She and William were gone. On the third day of her disappearance, Frank filed a missing person’s report. Dean, myself, Dusty’s mother, Dusty’s father and his wife, Sylvia, and Frank were standing in a loose circle at the front desk of the downtown Seattle Police Department.
Hulking Frank stabbed the air with his finger. “You! You were with her! You know where she is! Tell me where she is!” In all his ragged rage, he looked truly bereft. But I still thought he was capable of murder.
“Well, that’s not true,” the officer, athletic and authoritative, said. Flipping through pages on his clipboard, he looked straight at Frank, “She checked out at 11:10 pm, June 19th, from the hospital after signing an order of protection.”
“I was the last one to see her.” Mrs.Connor spoke softly, as though the effort of saying those words cost her an ounce of depleted strength. “She came by taxi. She said she would spend the night, but when I got up the next morning, she and William were not anywhere in the house. I thought maybe she had gone to a motel. She said she would never go back to Frank again. ‘Never’, she said,” she choked back her tears and sputtered, “‘The marriage is over.’”
After an awkward moment of silence while Mrs. Connor composed herself, the police officer said, “We can assume she left of her own volition, but we will make inquiries. I will need statements from all of you.” The officer indicated a waiting area with benches. “Mr. Freeman, please follow me.”
“You,” he sneered at me as he passed, “you know where she is.”
“I don’t.” Leaning into Dean’s shoulder, I closed my eyes and reasserted, “I don’t know where she is.”
Mr. Connor paced, back and forth from one end of the bench to the other. Dusty’s mother sat still, staring vacantly at her hands clasped in her lap. Dean snugged me closer to him, resting his chin on top of my head. The only one who was calm and cool was Sylvia; like she had no interest in what was going on. How did I ever even think she was a caring person?
After twenty-five minutes, Frank barreled out of the interview room, glowering but wordless as he thrust the door open and departed. Our little group, silent up to now, sighed collectively.
Dean and I were the last ones to be interviewed. It was an hour before I sat down with Officer Tanning, and a fifteen minute interview. Dean, after I exited, slipped in through the doorway and took a seat. I stared numbly out the window as clouds scuttled by, much like the thoughts inside my head. I looked around when Dean approached, surprised that everyone else had left.
“Just you and me, kiddo,” he extended his hand to pull me to my feet. “Let’s get something to eat before I take you home. I have evening rounds.”
Before Dean had buckled his seat belt, I exclaimed, “I know, you said people can change. I just don’t think they can. I can’t imagine Frank changing.”
Dean heaved a big sigh. “Frank wasn’t always an angry guy. You know he had to give up his dream of being a professional baseball player when Dusty got pregnant. I wish she had been smarter and on birth control.”
“Like Dusty said, it took two to make a baby. And Frank could have been ‘smarter’.” Annoyed, I twisted the hem of my t-shirt. “And his affairs? Can you justify that? I wonder if he ever gave a thought of getting and giving an STD. Poor, angry Frank, acting out his disappointments. Big man on the playing field, little man in life.” Buildings blurred as we drove.
We went to a nearby pizza parlor. Seated in the nearly empty restaurant at three-thirty in the afternoon, Dean looked intently at me. “How are you doing, Fran?”
I waved my hand, as if I could express myself with one grand gesture. “Funny how you can do something so normal, so casual, like ordering a pizza and Coke, after….after…”
“Gut-wrenching experience,” he stated flatly. “We do have more than our fair share of drama, don’t we?”
“And you always say I am the queen of understatement.” I chewed my lip before going on. “Didn’t you think Sylvia was a whole lot of casual? Like she was totally bored with the whole proceedings. I thought she cared—-she gave me fifteen-hundred dollars to give to Dusty! What is she all about? I feel like throwing the money back in her face.”
Dean grew thoughtful. “I wouldn’t be too harsh, Fran. I think there may be lot more to her than appearances.”
With elbows on the table, I put my chin in my hands and said with mock sweetness, “I wonder, Dean, if I said black is the new color, would you say purple, lilac, magenta?” I sipped from my glass, purposefully loud, then looked him in the eyes. “You always do that, counter what I say.”
Just then the half pepperoni, half pineapple, Canadian bacon pizza plopped down in front of us.
“Ahh,” Dean scooped a slice of gooey, cheesy, pepperoni, “food for thought.”
“Oww, the pineapple is hot!” I hurriedly sipped my soda. “Maybe a message from God.”
“Or just a reminder that you might have to eat your words.”
To spite him, I took two bites and chewed loudly.
He waggled his eyebrows, always a gesture that indicated he thought he had won a point of argument. We ate in silence until I finished my last bite. I wiped the grease from my fingers and mashed the napkin into the emptied pizza pan. “When,” I leaned across the table, “did you know you were gay?”
He blinked, then tossed his napkin onto the pie pan. “Well, it was not in a pizza joint.” He stood, coming to my side. “Let’s go to the park and talk for a while.”
I thought how ironic it is that the nicest thing about knowing another person for as long as I have known Dean, is the comfort zone of our relationship that allows quiet space, not having to engage in useless chatter. On the drive to Gene Coulon Park by Lake Washington with a view of Mt. Rainier Park in Renton, we were both silent and I absorbed the quiet as a calming balm. Sun filtered through the clouds, but my sweater felt just right as we walked along water’s edge. Dean stopped and pointed to a picnic table.
“Let’s sit. First let me play the devil’s advocate.”
We would do this as an exercise all the time when were in high school, especially for a term paper; one of us would take an opposing view, or just try to find the most outrageous argument that the other would have to refute or support. I remember thinking in my freshman Humanities class that I had learned to weed out the insignificant ideas to get to the root of the idea, and how well it worked to impress my professors that I could present a problem in layers.
“Let’s look at what has happened from another perspective.” I sat across from him, hugged my sweater close. “Dusty could not have gotten an order of protection in twenty minutes; nor could she have ‘disappeared’ without a lot of organization. There are ’underground’ organizations for battered spouses.”
“What?” I barked. “Are you saying she had that already in motion when we were there?” I shook my head. “Pft..don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t think she did. I think someone else did. I’m thinking her mother.”
I sat up straight. “Remember that woman with clipboard?” Dean nodded. “Maybe she wasn’t a social worker.”
“Yeah, maybe not. The hospital staff, the police, and even Mrs. Reed, were just too accepting of Dusty’s disappearance. I know, I know better than anyone there is that code of professionalism, but all this time, it seems strange to me the lack of urgency. Except for Frank. And I really don’t think he could kill her and William, then dispose of the bodies. He’s not that cunning. And he has an alibi.”
“You’ve overlooked his temper, what I think of as ‘murderous rage’.” Although I had to grudgingly admit that I could not conjure a picture of Frank being that cold-blooded. Unless of course he had killed in a spontaneous rage and then had to get rid of all the evidence. But then again, his alibi; he was at the Cowgirls bar downtown, left with a woman, and then closed the Admiral Pub: apparently Frank had gone to her apartment after the bar closed and he had witnesses at both bars and the woman’s roommate. But he had lied about working; he had taken three days vacation from his job at Boeing.
“Now here’s what I want you to think about. We have been so fixated on the monster Frankenstein; let’s examine Frank the man.”
“Oh, no, you are not going to excuse his behavior, are you?”
“Not at all. But Fran, he is person, not a characterization. He’s more complicated than that. And give some credit to Dusty for loving him. He has good qualities. Remember how he treated his brother, Billy? And he didn’t always bully Dusty. Think about it, without prejudice.”
“Well, Dr. Frazier, you might give him CPR, but I’m not so sure I would.” I was irritated by his line of reasoning, until he snagged me.
“Oh, yes, I’m pretty sure you would Fran. It comes down to a question of our humanity, our ethics. and I’m certain that you would do the right thing, in any case. Because you’re a moral person.”
I looked at him steadily, rooting for a rebuttal. I changed the subject. “Do you really think Frank had the talent to be a professional baseball player?”
Several Canada geese were milling about the vast green expanse of lawn. One particularly large one spread his wings, and flapping and honking, chased another goose around in a circle. Dean and I watched for a moment, both us chuckling.
“It’s funny you should bring that up, because I was thinking of that earlier. Well, this is what I was thinking, relating it to myself. All throughout grade school, junior high and college, I was pretty much of a wiz-kid——prestigious awards, scholarships, you know the candy for being smart. When I got into med school, suddenly I’m not the only bright boy around. I had some serious competition. You know what happened?”
I smiled. “You got your first ‘C’?”
“Something like that. I really had to work hard for not only the grades, but the positions—-sort of like doing interviews all the time. It was an eye-opener, too. I think it is too bad Frank never had an opportunity to find out if he is truly good enough to play in the big leagues with other big boys. If he had pursued his career and found out he couldn’t cut it, he might not have resented settling down with a wife, son and a good job.”
“So, he has a reason for using Dusty as a punching bag.”
“It’s a lot easier to blame someone else than admit your own shortcomings. He is, after all, human.”
“And not a very nice one. Although,” I replied sarcastically, ”he did buy her a very expensive espresso maker after he broke her wrist. Such a kind hearted guy—-she didn’t have to go out anymore in the big, bad world to get a latte. And,” I paused dramatically, “he brought four dozen roses this time when kicked her in the stomach. I guess a baby is worth a little less than a coffee maker. Such a guy!”
Dean leaned back on his elbow atop the table. “Well, this could effect some changes in him. We’re all capable of change.”
“I just don’t think in Frank’s case that’ll ever happen. He’s a first class bully and he’s used to always having his way by dint of magnitude, his size, his entitlement.”
“I guess that depends on how bitter he is. He’ll have to change his behavior, or he’ll die a lonely, embittered old man.”
I wondered if Dean meant that for me as well. Could he have guessed that I had been praying that this time together, the intensity of each minute we spent together, that he would realize he wasn’t really gay, but wanted a relationship with me, and we would live happily ever after together?
“Do you really think he might take responsibly for his behavior? He was insistent to the very last minute that we were to blame for Dusty leaving him. I never saw or heard one single thing that would make me believe he would man up and admit she left him because of the way he treated her.”
“He’s going to have lots of time to think about it. He’ll go through the stages of grief, anger and denial. He could get stuck in any one of those stages, or he could work through them and mature into a better man.” Dean looked down into his hands. “I’m pretty sure Dusty is not coming back to him. It must have been the most heart wrenching decision for her to leave. Everyone and everything she’s ever loved is here; her Mother, her friends, her life.”
“She didn’t even leave a note for her Mom. I think that’s scary, that’s why I’m afraid….”
Dean took my cold hand and warmed it by sandwiching between his two. “What could she say? Think about it. What could she say?”
It was at that moment that I looked at Dean’s left hand, at the wedding band and knew that we weren’t in a fairy tale, and real life stories did not always have happy endings. I pressed our hands to my cheek, held them tight, and wept.
“Oh, Fran, Fran,” he soothed. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you. I wish I had a good story to tell you to make it sensible, to make you understand about me.” He wiped my tears with both of our hands. “I cannot pinpoint a time and place when I knew I was gay. A situation, maybe. Marcus is my age, met him my senior year when we scouted the prospective colleges. We hit it off because we are very much alike—-at least superficially. Both young, smart, not into sports, not quite fitting in any place or group. I guess at one time when I had been talking a lot about you, he just hit me with ‘choose, buddy’ and it put it all out there.”
I fluttered my hand, “I’m so flattered to have been the deciding factor!”
“Stop it, Fran. It was not that easy for me.”
I got as close as I could to his face. “We did everything but…do you think it’s that easy for me?”
He got closer. “What do you want me to do? I cannot hit an undo button, I cannot change what is, Fran. Some things are just the way they are, and will be. What is it you want from me? I am not going to apologize for being who I am.”
No. Yes. Emotions upside down, all around. I swallowed hard and looked away, then glanced at my watch. “Time to go, Cinderfella.”
Dean reached for and gently held my wrist. “I’d like you to meet Marcus. He’ll be home Thursday. Please come by, Friday?”
The warmth of his hand, the salty smell of his breath, the closeness of him. I slid my hand from his. “I don’t know. I’ll call you.”
It was chit-chat on the way home. Both us, I think, realized we were at a crossroads, with all the signs awry, leaving us directionless. Nothing was quite resolved, and to make it all the worse, I still wanted him, still wanted him to be my lover.
