and said to Dwight, “I most certainly do.”
One officer walked forward, shut the door, and the reporters flocked around Ben like vultures on a piece of road kill. Ben avoided them, and continued to walk as they came after him down the hall and ultimately out of the building. The reporters followed him right up to his truck, yelling questions, and he hopped in, locked the door, and drove off, answering none of them.
As he drove home in the early hours of the morning, he realized that life would never be the same again. For Ben, the days of taking a stroll down the sidewalk to 3rd Street Cafe for lunch were likely over. Drinks at David’s were a thing of the past. He feared that he would no longer be welcomed here in Freeden.
Ben had once really loved his hometown, but with the realization that the town was full of people who could not move past old practices and discriminatory ways of life, he knew by morning that Freeden would have already convicted Dwight in the court of public opinion. Dwight was the only openly gay man in Freeden, and Ben believed that most people in town would likely think he was the only person sick enough to do something like this.
He knew the townspeople. He knew Freeden. And he knew they would think the only person who would do something like this was “a gay.”
Freeden would believe it was Dwight.
Dwight the gay.
5: Day of Wrath
Day of wrath
That day will dissolve the Earth in ashes.
The sun rose just as it always had. Saturday mornings were Ben’s favorite. Usually.
He woke up after only a few hours of sleep. Ready and dressed in no more than fifteen minutes, he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door of his empty house. He needed breakfast before a busy day. He drove to his office, then walked to 3rd Street Café on his usual stroll there for a weekend brunch. On Saturday mornings, no one was ever out unless they were at 3rd Street Café, and this morning proved no exception.
A few cars passed by Ben as he walked along the sidewalk, but they came in spurts and usually one at a time. Some of those who drove by stuck their hand out the window to wave at him, which in the South was almost a more obligatory act than anything else. He didn’t feel like anyone recognized him; they just waved as if they were indebted as genuine Southerners to do so.
Morning birds chirped in harmony on the cool late spring morning that welcomed comfortable temperatures, bringing a peace over Ben that he feared he might not enjoy for long.
Ben walked in the front door of 3rd Street Café to a packed eatery. Outside, Freeden looked like a ghost town. Inside, the café emulated Wall Street. There was a seat at the lunch counter, though, and that’s where Ben went.
“Coffee?” the server asked as he ran around behind the counter, scrambled and disoriented due to piling responsibilities from waiting tables at a traditionally short-staffed venue.
“Black, please,” Ben replied.
The place was loud, but Ben could hear the conversation the three men next to him at the counter were having, and it was clear that they had heard about Dwight.
“They say they found him at the school early yesterday evening,” one said.
“Do they know who did it?”
“That Dwight Kerry, teacher over there at the school.”
“Isn’t he a gay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be damned, that’s what you get for letting queers teach the school children.”
The third of them took a sip of his coffee. “They ought to let a firing squad shoot him dead at the front of the school building.”
“No, no that would be too quick – what they ought to do is have somebody do him the same way he did Dale’s boy.”
“The faggot would like that too much,” the other said.
“It’s a damn shame our police can’t walk into the jailhouse and torture and kill that son of a bitch. What has our world come to, letting these freaks walk around, rapin’ and killin’? What has it come to?”
Indeed, Ben wondered, what has the world come to? What has Freeden come to? It’s a damn shame. How has this place I loved turned into such a hateful, scummy place? Why are people out here letting hearsay rule their opinions before even considering the development of their own? The way he viewed it, the town had become a judgement-spouting megaphone, and hate had its finger on the operating button.
About that time, Aaron walked in.
“What you say, Johnny?” he said to one of them as he walked over, standing behind the three men.
“Me and the boys just talking about what happened last night.”
“Can you believe that?” he replied. “It’s all over the paper this morning.”
“Waiter!” Johnny shouted playfully at the server working the counter. “Why ain’t y’all got the paper yet this morning?”
“They haven’t delivered it.”
“Well, you just wait until you see it,” Aaron said. Then he looked over and noticed Ben. “I’ll be, there he is right there.”
Ben looked forward and did not even glance at Aaron. He was not eager to engage in conversation.
“He who?” one of them next to Johnny asked.
“Ben Bailey,” Aaron said as he pointed at Ben. “Do y’all know this man?”
Ben hung his head down, trying to remain calm. He knew Aaron was up to no good.
“I’m afraid I do not,” Johnny said.
“’Fraid not,” one said.
“Looks familiar,” the other said.
“Oh yeah?” Aaron paused, and started walking toward Ben. “Looks familiar, you say?”
Ben now stared directly ahead at the mirror across from the counter. He saw Aaron walking toward him.
“He does look a bit familiar,” Johnny said.
“Oh I’m sure you’ve seen him in here,” Aaron continued. “But when that paper gets here, you’ll recognize him there, too. He’s on the front page of it today.” Aaron was about six feet away, continuing to walk slowly toward Ben. “This man is the Ben Bailey in today’s headline, you see.” He finally arrived and stood right next to Ben. Ben continued to look forward. “He’s Dwight Kerry’s attorney.”
“The queer we were just talking about?”
Aaron leaned over and whispered in Ben’s ear. “You’re fucking done here.”
Then he backed away from Ben – slowly.
“This boy right here is defending that faggot?” one asked.
“Oh yes,” Aaron replied, “and he’s from here, too!”
“Momma didn’t raise you real well did she?” Johnny said.
“It’s amazing what money will get people to do,” the other said. “Damn shame.”
“Money has nothing to do with it, and you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ben finally spoke.
“If you can sleep at night knowing you’re defending that murderer – fine!” Johnny said. “But you’ll have to answer to the good Lord for this.”
“Hey, Bob, this man over here is that Dwight Kerry’s attorney,” one of them said as he pointed to Ben.
Bob was the owner of 3rd Street Café,