“Mark”—Pierce stepped toward me—“don’t.”
“No, Mark is right,” said Grace, rising from the chair, stepping a single pace toward us. “Douglas, I am so very sorry. I’ve always been fond of you, and I was reluctant to implicate you in the crime, but I needed
someone
to be the object of the extortion note I planted, and well, I’d actually seen you visit the coach house at night. But believe me, Doug, I had no idea that you and Carrol were in fact having a dalliance. I assumed you would easily clear yourself, but instead, it seems I’ve actually hurt your chances in the election. I didn’t mean to—what?—push you out of the closet. I didn’t even know you were in a closet.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips.
“Grace,” said Pierce, heaving a sigh, “you may have done me a favor. I can handle the ‘outing’—not that I appreciate being accused of murder.”
Stepping toward him, she said, “Well, Douglas—do your duty.”
He hesitated. “Grace, I can’t tell you how difficult—”
“Posh now. You know what needs to be done, Sheriff. How does it go? ‘You have the right to remain silent’?”
Roxanne rolled her eyes again.
And Pierce recited Grace’s rights.
Local voters return Douglas Pierce to office by a razor-thin margin
Election results compiled by the
Register
’s staff
Dumont Daily Register
N
OV. 8, DUMONT WI—
In Dumont County’s most closely watched local election, Douglas Pierce appeared headed for a narrow victory in his bid to secure reelection as sheriff. As the
Register
went to press in Wednesday’s early-morning hours, Pierce maintained a slim lead over his opponent, Lieutenant Daniel Kerr. They were separated by a margin of less than one-half of one percent.
Pierce overcame a flood of negative publicity tainting his campaign when he was falsely implicated in the September 17 murder of Carrol Cantrell. Though the allegations proved groundless, circumstances led Pierce to a public acknowledgment of his homosexuality.
The
Register
endorsed Pierce early in the campaign, maintaining its endorsement throughout the scandal. Public opinion, however, has shifted radically since the murder, first swinging against Pierce when the news broke, then favoring him with a sympathetic backlash when the crime was resolved. In the weeks since, debate has focused on whether Dumont County is willing to reelect an openly gay sheriff.
“It’s in the hands of the voters now,” Pierce said at an election-night gathering of supporters. “I’m confident that the people of Dumont will prove themselves tolerant and fair-minded, ignoring personal issues that simply have no bearing on county government.”
In Dumont County, city voters have traditionally taken a more liberal stand at the polls, while the county’s rural voters tend to be more conservative. Pierce garnered a comfortable lead in the city, with all precincts counted. His opponent led slightly in outlying areas, where some communities still use paper ballots and are slow to report.
Though a final count in the close race may not be available till after daybreak, the
Register
is sufficiently confident in Pierce’s lead to declare him the winner.
W
HAT’S IN A NAME
? That’s the question that keeps popping to mind as I look back at events that marked the last couple of months. Names—their meaning, their power, their hidden allusions—names played an unexpected role in the story that began that Thursday morning in mid-September.
Nine days later, when the mystery of Carrol Cantrell’s death was solved, some of those name games ended. We named Cantrell’s killer. We named the hypocrisy of Dr. Tenelli’s maneuvers to rid Dumont County of porn. And I discovered that the beautiful boyman pictured playing with his dog, enshrined in a gilt frame, had not one name, but two: Ward Lord and Rascal Tyner.
The events of that week in September left other riddles, other name games, that could not be resolved so neatly. I still wondered about my fatherly role toward Thad, unsure that I was fit for it and even less certain what to name it. I still fretted over Neil’s temporary residence in the house on Prairie Street—his project at Quatro Press would wrap up before winter, and by plan, he would return to his architectural firm in Chicago. Is there a name for such a relationship, a “marriage” restricted to alternating weekend visits? And I wondered, along with every other voter in Dumont County, whether an openly gay sheriff named Douglas Pierce, facing reelection, could overcome the latent prejudices of Middle America and find victory in the common sense of ordinary people.
Now, at least, I knew the answer to that last question. It was around seven o’clock on the Wednesday morning after the election. The November dawn was predictably cold and bleak—the sun had not yet risen, and a cloud-clogged sky would hold back the daylight for another hour. Indoors, lamps burned as if at night, day’s end, but in fact we three were coursing headlong into a new day, one that Thad, Neil, and I each greeted with special enthusiasm.
Gathered in the kitchen, we clucked about the election, giddy and a bit groggy in the wake of Pierce’s narrow victory—his “mandate” of barely a hundred votes was now official. Thad, not yet dressed but wearing a long, loose pair of knit shorts that reminded me of bloomers, was busy spreading his usual peanut butter on toast. Neil stood at the counter in his robe, adding a few things to the shopping list. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “Chee-Zees have graduated to the top of the list, along with bread and milk.” Seated at the table, I laughed while studying page one, drinking coffee, fully dressed for the office. It had been a long night, both in the newsroom and at Pierce’s campaign party, but I needed to get back to the
Register
early—it would be a hectic day, with follow-up stories on winners and losers alike.
The morning after an election always brings with it a sense of relief. Regardless of outcome, the tension and hype are over. That Wednesday morning, my sense of relief was tempered by an undercurrent of letdown. Though my friend had won his election, the adrenaline-rushed days of fighting the good fight were now past.
By contrast, Thad was still on an emotional upswing. His energies had yet to peak, as his school play was now in the final week of production—
Arsenic and Old Lace
would open in two days, on Friday night. “So, you’re like
coming,
aren’t you?” he asked while scooting to the table with his toast and milk. “I can’t
wait
for you to see this—it’s great!”
Though both Neil and I had seen
Arsenic
several times over, we’d never seen it with Thad as Dr. Einstein. I assured him, “We wouldn’t miss it.”
Neil joined us at the table, asking Thad, “We won’t make you nervous, will we? If you’d prefer, we can skip opening night and come on Saturday.”
Thad gulped some milk. “
Nervous?
Are you kidding? I
want
you in the audience. I’ve told the whole cast, ‘Mark and Neil will be there.’ I want them to meet you after the show.” He paused. Dead serious and a bit sheepish, he added, “I want to show you off.”
Neil and I glanced at each other, astounded. There I was, still fretting over which label to apply to my relationship with this sixteen-year-old, still perplexed by the odd makeup of our household, when Thad suddenly taught me that he
needed
me. Not only that, he valued us, Neil and me. And he had no problem whatever in describing us to his friends—we were simply Mark and Neil. Period. I realized in that same instant that I not only felt duty-bound to rear and protect Thad. I now understood something far more profound: I loved him.
“Of course,” we told him. “We’ll be there.”
Neil added, “You’re obviously enthused about the show. You must be ready.”
“Mrs. Osborne says we are. Tonight is our last rehearsal—full final dress—complete with costumes, makeup, lights, and sound. She plans to give us Thursday night off, says the rest will do us good. Then Friday night, curtain up!”
Wryly, I looked past Thad to tell Neil, “It seems the theater bug has truly bit.”
“Big time,” Neil concurred.
Thad asked him, “Will you run lines with me again tonight before rehearsal?”
“You bet—that’s my job. I’d be offended if you asked anyone else.”
The back door cracked open. “Any coffee left?” asked Pierce, stepping in. He’d been up all night, awaiting the final vote tally, then went directly from his victory party to the gym for his early-morning workout. He’d shaved and changed there, looking fresh for the day—his hair was still wet from the shower. Wearing that olive-colored, calf-length duster, he had the rugged look of an outback lawman. The bagged kringle he carried was so fresh, he must have waited for the bakery to ice it.
We rose from our chairs with a chorus of congratulations. Neil gave Pierce a victory hug as Thad took the pastry and opened it on the table—its cream-cheese topping was still warm and glistening. Thad reacted to the sight of the big Danish as if it were covered with slime; though he’d matured in many ways during the months since I’d first met him, his adolescent tastes still found cream cheese repugnant. Laughing, I helped Pierce out of his coat and hung it in the back hall. Then the four of us settled around the table, one on each side of it.
Reaching to pour coffee for Pierce, I told him, “Well, Doug, it was an uphill battle, but you did it.”
“
We
did it,” he emphasized, “and I’ll never be able to thank you guys.”
“Don’t thank us,” Neil told him. “Just keep doing a great job, as always.”
With a pensive chuckle, Pierce said, “I knew the election would be close—but ninety-six votes? It seems I still have a bit of work to do in winning back the confidence of my constituents. There are plenty of them still uncomfortable with the idea of a gay sheriff.”
“The point is,” said Neil, “you won. You proved yourself innocent of Carrol Cantrell’s murder, and in the process, you arrested the true killer.”
Thad asked, “The old lady, right?” Inching from his chair with excitement, he told us, “It’s so cool—everyone says it’s just like our play, like Aunt Martha and Aunt Abby, who poison everybody. There’s been so much in the paper about it, Mrs. Osborne says we can expect sellout crowds. Are you coming, Sheriff? I’ll make sure you have a ticket.”
I suggested, “Why don’t you come with us, Doug? Neil and I are going to the opening, Friday night.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Pierce said, “Sure. Sounds great.” As he yakked with Thad about the play, I marveled at the progress Pierce had made with his coming out. Though he’d befriended me during the week of my arrival in Dumont, he’d always seemed uneasy about socializing with Neil and me—he’d even turned down invitations to parties at our home. Now, of course, people had no reason to speculate about his sexual orientation, which was a matter of public record. Though Pierce had been outed in a particularly ugly way, he quickly concluded that he’d been not shamed, but liberated. So he didn’t think twice about making a date with Neil and me to attend the opening of our kid’s school play.
“Gosh,” Thad told us, glancing at the clock, “I’d better get dressed.” Carrying his dishes from the table, he turned to tell Pierce, “Congratulations again, Sheriff.” Then he raced from the kitchen to the front hall, bounding up the stairs.
“Imagine that,” said Pierce with a laugh. “They’re selling tickets like hotcakes because the play bears a resemblance to a local murder story.”
“Hey,” said Neil, ever the practical philosopher, “whatever works.”
I observed, “Unfortunately for Grace Lord, the future’s not nearly so rosy as it was for the dear aunties, who committed themselves to Happydale Sanitarium.”
“No,” said Pierce, shaking his head, “life in prison will be no Happydale for Grace. She’ll be treated well, of course, and with any luck, she could be eligible for parole in a few years. But at her age—who knows? She may never see the outside world again.”
Neil said, “Her ‘little world’ just got a lot smaller. Poor Grace.”
“She murdered a man in cold blood,” I reminded him, “and the crime was premeditated, planned in exacting detail. She almost got away with it, and if she had, Doug wouldn’t be pothering over ninety-six votes this morning. Justice has been served.” Even so, I felt no joy in the situation. Neil was right. Poor Grace.
Pierce cut a couple of slices from the kringle, serving Neil and me. He told us, “It was hard enough arresting Grace. Harley Kaiser had to
prosecute
the case against her, a task he didn’t relish. It didn’t set well with a lot of people.”
I smiled. “The DA seems adrift in a public-relations crisis, doesn’t he?”
Neil chomped the corner of his pastry. After wiping cream cheese from his lips, he told us, “Kaiser sure looked like a fool when he lost his must-win porn case. At considerable expense to county taxpayers, he shipped in that army of expert witnesses, and he
still
couldn’t get a local jury to agree on what’s obscene. Maybe he’s finally learned a lesson.”
“Regardless,” said Pierce, “the county board will now be loath to renew funding for the assistant prosecutor hired by Kaiser to handle these cases. Their moral indignation over the presence of the porn shops has been overshadowed by an unshakable political reality—after all is said and done, the people of Dumont are
not
book burners. They simply don’t appreciate the efforts of those who seek to force their own private morality on the public at large. This is an issue to be fought from the pulpit, not city hall.”
“Amen,” said Neil with a smirk.
Listening, nodding, I was in complete agreement with the sentimerits expressed by both Pierce and Neil. “But it’s ironic,” I told them, “that Kaiser didn’t lose this case on moralistic grounds. From the beginning, the prosecution was tainted by the whiff of witness tampering, a direct result of Kaiser’s ill-advised visit to Cantrell on the morning before the murder. Ultimately, though, what scuttled Kaiser’s chances of wooing a jury was the public outrage over Dr. Tenelli’s financial interest in the trial.”