On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard - Страница 48

He twitched some more as I walked out.

Marlene Compton chirped, "Have a nice day."

In the ways that counted, I did.

Epilogue Crane Trefusis survived five months in Albany before being dismissed by Millpond and fleeing to Wichita, his wife's hometown, where he became manager of a J. C. Penney's store. Just before his departure, I walked into La Briquet and knocked him across his table into a chocolate walnut souffle being served to the speaker of the New York State Assembly. Trefusis's jaw collided with a silver bowl and shattered. He pressed charges. I was fined five hundred dollars, put on six months' probation, and just barely kept my license. Bowman loved it.

As a result of the outrage generated by Peter Greco's death, Fenton McWhirter signed up eleven additional men and women for the gay national strike before moving

up to Burlington, Vermont, for a recruiting effort there. Greco was cremated and his remains carried across the nation in McWhirter's backpack, and later scattered over the Pacific, like Harvey Milk's. At a memorial service in the Albany Gay Community Center, Dot Fisher talked about Peter's resiliently gentle ways; Edith was at her side, though she'd worn a veil over her face while entering the building.

No shopping mall was built on Moon Road. A small commercial establishment did, however, spring up at the corner of Moon and Central. On Labor Day weekend I stopped at the spot, where Dot Fisher and Kay Wilson were helping Heather Deem run a refreshment stand. The sign read, moon road plaza associates —kool-aid 25 cents.

One unseasonably warm September night, Timmy and I put Lyle Barner on a bus for San Francisco, armed with a citation of merit for his role in the capture of the Andruses. I heard later that he was living in Daly City, California, and was married to a forty-six-year-old divorced woman with six children—though this might have been gossip spread by Ned Bowman hoping that it would reach me and set an example. If so, it was an example I did not consider following.

Three days after Lyle left town, Timmy and I joined Dot and Edith for a feast of roast duck and Dot's famous elderberry cheesecake to celebrate Edith's seventy-sixth birthday. Afterwards, on the way back to the apartment, Timmy said, "Dot and Edith are quite a pair. All that love, devotion, emotional simplicity, repose. It leaves an impression."

"On me too."

"That's us, thirty years from now," he said. "With luck."

"It's what I want," I made myself say.

We were heading across Washington Park, which smelled moist and hot and alive.

"In the meantime," Timmy said, "why don't you swing down by the lake? Maybe we can pick up a couple of humpy SUNY students and take them over to our place for a wild foursome."

I swerved, straightened out, then glanced over at him to see if he was grinning and shaking with mirth. He was. As we continued on across the park and out onto Madison, I glanced at him a couple more times.

"Just testing you," he said brightly.

I said, "I'll bet," taking a quick look back toward the park, and he laughed again.

It was going to be a stimulating thirty years.