Dramatization of Failed Hearts

The next morning, I rose early to meet the driver delivering papers; this time I paid and then went back to my glass house. My fears were unfounded. There it was, the truth in print, Floyd 'Butch' Picardy was the cop. I tore off that article and the neighboring one about the council meeting. I folded them gingerly under my mattress for Ellen to take back to Chicago, where she was putting together a scrapbook.

Tuesday at City Hall was no different than any other work day. I greeted the workers as they arrived. Some seemed friendlier, others less so.

Wayne Picardy's secretary arrived late, stopped in the foyer and looked contemptuously at me. "Haven't you done enough?" she yelled. "You think you’re so smart.” She spat out the words, “Getting justice.” She paused, calmed down a bit. “What do you know about justice? Ripping that poor family to shreds. Wayne Picardy has done so much for this town. He loves Urbana. You won't be happy until you've driven him into the grave."

“How dare you!” I snapped, jumping up off the mattress. She stepped back and I kept up, staying in her face. “Do you have any idea what that man’s cover-up did to me?” I curled my lip. “Wayne’s son,” I continued, “arrested me and said ‘no faggot can bring charges against a real man without defaming his character.’ Do you know what that means?” She didn’t answer, just stood there. “Do you?” I repeated, but she said nothing. “It means this is The United States of America but homosexuals have no rights. No right to equality under the law, just as we have no right to privacy and no right to family and no right to worship in most religions. How dare you tell me about justice!” Suddenly I felt good, very good and free—and proud. I backed off, in victory, not defeat.

Seeing me calm down, Wayne’s secretary retorted, “I guess you haven't heard what happened to Butch last night."

"No," I said, curious.

"Heart attack,” she said, in an accusatorial tone. “They had to rush him to the hospital."

"Really?" I replied, having a hard time picturing my nemesis, frail, in a hospital gown. It was like the world had turned on its head.

"Long ago he paid the price for that incident,” she said. “It hung over him all these years. Now it's in the press…Such a young man. What a shame. I don't know if he can survive it." Wayne’s secretary shook her head and went through the inner doors. The ways of the world are indeed strange to paraphrase Wayne Picardy on the eve of my mayoral campaign.

---

On Wednesday morning, at eleven, Wayne Picardy returned to work. He stopped in the foyer and looked down at me, his eyes squinting, as though the sight was as painful as a bright strobe.

"I'm sorry about your son," I said, fishing for words.

Wayne said nothing at first—then shook his head. When he finally spoke, the words were a burden. It wasn't anger, but misery. "You think you're so different than everyone else. No. Floyd thought the same thing. He had his plans, wouldn't listen to anybody else. Thought he had all the answers. Now look at him. Look at you. It's all the same. Both of you exactly alike, stubborn, never quitting until it’s too late, until it's all over." Wayne appeared on the verge of tears, and rushed into the city building.

I watched the glass doors close behind Wayne. I wanted to say “Your son dehumanized me and all gay people with his fucking words. He could have apologized and this whole fucking nightmare never would have happened.” But instead I mumbled to the empty lobby, “as you sow so shall you reap.” Then, I shuddered.

---

It was Thursday morning when the next shock wave hit. In the morning paper, I saw the story: 'City Clerk Wayne Picardy Hospitalized for Chest Pains'. The story went on to rehash the allegations against his son and the saga of my encampment at city hall.

Father and son were both hospitalized. I wondered if they shared a room. I imagined Officer Butch Picardy, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to IV’s and machines that beeped with his heartbeat.

I thought how Karma had finally caught up with them. I wondered how it would catch up with me.