Tom Hubbard Is Dead

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ezekiel, Carrie Phillips and her son, Tommy, pushed their way through the front door and into the crowded entrance hallway of the Hubbard farmhouse. Little Tommy tugged on his mother’s arm signaling an accident was eminent. Carrie looked down at her son’s round desperate face and tapped Ezekiel’s elbow. “Listen,” she spoke softly, trying to keep her comments private, “I enjoyed talking with you, and I hope to see you later, but right now I’ve got to find this little man a bathroom.”

  “I think I’ll be easy to spot in this crowd,” Ezekiel said, gesturing toward the white mourners surrounding them. On top of that, he was about a foot taller than almost everyone else.

  Carrie and Tommy rushed through the dining room, past the caterer’s table and skirted the group that had gathered around the self-serve bar. Ezekiel watched them move, Carrie’s head bowed, Tommy pulling her as if they were hurrying through a maze.

  Hands on his hips and surveying the collection of people in the front parlor, the sadness Ezekiel had carried for most of the day was now hidden away deep in his chest cavity, and in its place welled a sensation he recognized like an old friend, something close to joy. Ezekiel loved crowds. He loved meeting people. And these people especially because he saw them as Tom’s people. After years of hearing about and practically knowing them from a distance, he would finally meet his partner’s family and small town friends in person.

  Ezekiel moved through the parlor; the small room was crowded and the flames from the lit fireplace made it hot as a furnace. Who are these people? he wondered. Distant cousins? High school friends? College? Sports? Teacher? Family doctor? Dentist?

  A bulky, tall man, yet still shorter than Ezekiel, stood in the doorway between the parlor and the living room. Sharply attired in a gray business suit, he nodded a greeting.

  “Hi, I’m Neil Bingham.” Feeling slightly intimidated by Ezekiel, Neil felt the need to validate his presence: “An old high school friend of Tom’s.”

  Ezekiel leaned forward and took Neil’s extended hand. “Pleased to meet you, Neil. My name is Ezekiel. I was close to Tom in Arlington ... Virginia,” he clarified.

  Neil Bingham from high school? Tom had shared numerous stories about his school days—mostly related to athletics, namely track. His favorite ones he’d recap during their pillow talk at night, sort of romantic versions of the ‘high jinks’ of small town teenagers. Tom had repeated the same stories enough times, however, that Ezekiel, a city boy, treasured the tales and could recite them as if they were his own. But Neil Bingham? he puzzled. The name sounded familiar, yet he had trouble placing it.

  “I knew him from high school,” Neil repeated. “Sad.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Long drive up from … Virginia?”

  “I flew.”

  “Me, too, from Chicago.”

  “Chicago?”

  “Couldn’t believe it when I heard. What did you say? You worked with Tom?”

  “No,” Ezekiel nervously laughed. Since arriving in the area, this was Ezekiel’s first conversation that involved Tom’s death. And thus the first in which he would need to keep their relationship a secret. On the plane ride up, he had thought these conversations would be best handled by picturing Tom alive at home, in their house, waiting for him to return. That way he wouldn’t have to deal with his loss while simultaneously trying to conceal their relationship. He knew Newbury was not Arlington, and that these people were not like their friends back home. Those people, his and Tom’s friends, had all gathered around Ezekiel and supported him. They tended to his emotional needs; he cried on many shoulders. There, at home in Arlington, Tom’s death and their relationship were very real and he could mourn openly. But up here, in Tom’s hometown, he was on his own, alone with his emotions. “Work together? No, no. We were just very close.”

  “Oh, neighbors?”

  “You might say that.”

  Although Ezekiel had accepted Tom’s decision, he hated it. He hated when he encountered Tom’s “barriers to freedom.” But out of respect for his partner, Ezekiel moved the conversation away from his relationship with Tom. “Well, you two must go way back then … high school. Wow. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Just talking about that this morning. Five years ago Christmas, I think. But yeah, I’d say he was one of my best friends. It was me, that thin guy over there …” Neil raised an arm over people’s heads and pointed across the room, “Ted Dorsey, and another guy, Julian Reynolds, who didn’t make it, or at least I haven’t seen him yet … and some of his cousins. You know, the old high school gang. But things change, you know. I can’t believe how things are so different around here, the new houses and all. Yeah, so I figure it had to be five years anyway, since I’d seen him last.”

  “Ted Dorsey?” Ezekiel said aloud, familiar with that name. Ted and his wife, Shelly, were two of the people he had hoped to meet.

  “You know him?” Neil asked, surprised.

  “Oh no, but the name sounds familiar. Maybe Tom mentioned it or something—”

  From the corner of his eye, through the crowd, Ezekiel saw a short, stout man with hefty arms and big hands coming toward them, a well-manicured woman following behind.

  “Bing!” the man said excitedly. “The Binger! The Binger is back in town. I heard you were here. Look at that belly. Looks like someone’s packing it on!”

  “Jesus Christ, Billy Quinn! Hey, I wouldn’t go bragging, if I were you,” Neil said, patting his own stomach and pointing to Billy’s at the same time.

  Ezekiel recognized Neil’s nickname and put it together—So this is Bing, the big sports ego of the gang. He took a step back and allowed the woman to join the group.

  “Bing, you ever meet my wife, Jeannine? You might remember her from high school? She used to be an Olson.” They shook hands. No motion was made to introduce Ezekiel. “So whatcha up to these days, bro? Where you living now? Haven’t seen you in years.”

  Ezekiel listened to the exchange about what their lives had become since they had last seen each other. No kids; three kids. Not married, but still looking; married eleven years. Into marketing; contractor. Two straight men jockeying for each others’ respect after years of no contact, accompanied by a woman with bright red lipstick and a gold crucifix around her neck. She even smiled and giggled on cue. They mystified Ezekiel. And they ignored him. Eventually, however, his presence became obvious. His bright, forced smile alone was enough to intimidate them into acknowledging him.

  “So, who’s your friend?” Billy Quinn asked.

  “I’m sorry, shit, we just met here.”

  “Oh,” Billy and his wife, Jeannine, sized up Ezekiel and stopped short of offering their hands.

  “Sorry, I forgot your name,” Neil said sheepishly.

  “Ezekiel.”

  “Ezekiel. That’s quite a name. This here’s my wife, Jeannine, and I’m Billy Quinn. Tom is, uh, was, my cousin.”

  “Nice to meet you both. And I'm sorry you lost your cousin,” Ezekiel said, although he had the impression that none of them cared what he said.

  “Shit, Bing, I noticed you and him talking and I thought you found yourself a new knob-polisher,” Billy joked, snorting out a half-laugh.

  Jeannine shrank in embarrassment.

  Neil shoved Billy and they both laughed. “You’re not still onto that one, are you? I can’t believe you remember that.”

  Ezekiel stepped back from the circle.

  “Just an old joke,” Billy explained to Ezekiel. “Goes back to high school when we were both on the swim team. There was always this one big dumb guy we picked on. We called him the knob-polisher, because he was big but kind of, well, kinda dainty. He was like our team mascot, if you know what I mean.” Billy leaned forward and spoke as though he were letting Ezekiel in on a secret: “Sort of a big, fairy towel-boy.” He straightened up, like he had just suitably explained himself.

  “Shut up,” Jeannine said under her breath as she lightl
y punched Billy in the side.

  “Let’s see, what was that kid’s name? I swear—” Billy rubbed his chin and quizzically looked at Neil for help.

  Neil’s eyes were on Ezekiel, however.

  Billy quickly changed his demeanor when he realized that the big black man, twice his size, wasn’t laughing. “Hey, man, I was only kidding. You know, just an old high school joke. I hope it didn’t offend you any?”

  Ezekiel extended his large hand for Billy Quinn to shake. Billy, relieved, responded in kind. Ezekiel wrapped his fingers firmly around Billy’s hand. “I trust you don’t pass this type of humor onto your kids?”

  Without loosening his grip, Ezekiel held Billy’s gaze and stared down into his eyes. Billy Quinn swallowed hard and Ezekiel felt he had finally caught a glimpse of what Tom’s youthful struggle must have been like, the things Tom never mentioned about growing up in Newbury. He thought, Sometimes fighting’s not worth it. It’s easier to leave it alone—keep quiet, leave town, move away—like Tom did.

  “I’m really just here to pay my respects to Tom’s family,” Ezekiel said. “But it has been interesting making your acquaintance.”

  He let go of Billy’s hand and, tipping his head, extended his ‘best wishes’ toward Jeannine, excused himself from Neil and moved further into the living room in search of more enlightening conversations.