So Weeps the Willow - 28. Salix Babylonica - 6 - Feet of Clay

Salix 6 – Feet of Clay

Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.

Bruce Lee

Ahead of him was a tussle. Someone was being harangued, and it was the usual shit. Clay hitched his backpack up on his shoulders more securely, and felt his lips curl into a snarl. He really hated high school. The bullshit coupled with the cliques and constant challenges were exhausting and so ridiculous.

Living with Rush and Ben had opened his eyes making things clearer. They weighed the impacts of how people acted. They considered the effect of interactions. Ben and Rush tried to be good people. It was kind of weird, in a way.

His fucking classmates were constantly engaged in pointless exercises over who was cool, and who wasn’t, and what they could gain from someone’s faults. They were like a pack of dogs, following the leader and chasing down the rabbit or the cat or the damn squirrel. At least, that’s what they were like in a group, like teenagers. Nothing but a bunch of bitches.

Okay. He was being a bit unfair. Yet, he felt such bitterness at his classmates and their derisive looks at him. Clay saw some of the comments on Instagram and heard murmurs in the hallway. Someone sent him a text with a screenshot of a Snapchat mention. They’d judged him and considered him trash. A sleaze. Nothing.

Clay knew he wasn’t popular. He’d never be cool. He was alone, utterly and uniquely alone. Nobody invited him to sit at lunch or go to the mall or even to sit with him after school and bullshit about classes.

That wasn’t right. He went out with the stoners a few times, here and there, and the GSA kids, but not consistently. Mostly, he felt like he was alone in the world; his mom scared of him and his dad running off, no abandoning him… them. No one actually wanted him.

Well, that wasn’t actually true. Rush and Ben loved him, and he knew it. Denying it was pretty silly at this point. Rush had proved it. Ben was adamant about it. Clay realized he was feeling sorry for himself, which was easier than caring. Talks with both of his foster dads had revealed that. But, goddamn, it was hard.

Clay was trying to figure out how this all worked. Families seemed so broken. People seemed so screwed up. Did anything really work? He’d realized it really didn’t. Pondering wasn’t helping

As he walked faster, he realized those harassing sounds ahead were getting harsher, the tones sharper. They were noises Clay recognized from his past. They were the frightening, unique echoes he remembered of kids hiding in the shadows of the halls, and humiliating others. As he turned the corner to his locker here on the second floor, he saw a kid being pushed.

The dude was small.

The guys doing the pushing, taunting with hushed voices, weren’t small. They were bigger and dressed in nice, designer clothes with sweet name-brand kicks on their feet. Even from down the hall, Clay could see they were quality pieces. They surrounded the smaller kid like a pack of wolves circling their prey.

They were whispering, looking around furtively, and their faces were jubilant, flushed and pink with excitement.

Clay felt something click within him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he bellowed. It wasn’t a conscious decision. He was so pissed.

Clay strode forward, completely oblivious to the danger. The guys and a girl, looked up at his approach, first frightened for a second, and then defiant and glaring at him. One of the guys, stepped toward him.

“None of your goddamned business, skank. Why don’t you go back to your street corner?”

Clay stepped up to the kid, his name was Sam, or something, and said to him softly, but vehemently, “Leave him alone. If you want to pick on someone, try me.”

The kid, blond haired with peach-fuzzed cheeks and the faint shadow of a moustache gracing his upper lip, snarled. “The little bitch has it coming. He made fun of my girl.”

Clay nodded just once, as an affirmation, and stepped closer, crowding the guy. At first, the blond didn’t move, but with Clay’s chest only an inch from his, he backed away.

“Don’t touch me you sleazeball,” the wispy-haired dude said, waving his arms in disgust.

“Leave him alone,” Clay demanded again, taking another step forward. He was at least three inches taller than the blond. Crowding him was intoxicating. It felt so good, and he wasn’t sure why. The girl came up beside Sam, and another boy, taller than Clay, also joined them.

“Stay away from Sean,” the girl said. So, the blond’s name wasn’t Sam. It was Sean and the taller guy was on the basketball team and had to be Sam.

“Stay away from him,” Clay said again, pointing at the smaller guy, now out of the circle with his back against the lockers. “I mean it,” Clay announced sternly.

“Or what?” the basketball guy said, and he now approached Clay.

“Or I’ll corner you and do this,” Clay said, reaching out to stroke Sam’s plush brown locks. Then, Clay made kissing noises and leaned closer.

Sam pulled away and growled. “You’re a sick motherfucker.”

“I know,” Clay said and blew Sean a kiss. “I know what you’d like, sweetheart.”

The effect was immediate; shock filled with fear. Then four all turned and walked away, with the girl circling Sean’s waist protectively with her arm, and Sam and the two other boys looking back as they scooted down the hallway, trying to look nonchalant, but not quite succeeding. The retreat was so abrupt, and Clay was shocked, but tried to hide his reaction. He looked over at the prey; the kid.

The smaller guy was shaking, and Clay saw him swallow heavily, relieved. His face relaxed, his shoulders eased, and he slumped a little.

“Th-th-thanks,” he stuttered.

“No problem,” Clay said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered thickly, a frog in his throat. He coughed and said more steadily. “I’ll be fine now.”

Clay shrugged and walked over to his locker. He spun the dial one way, then the other until it clicked open. He pulled the handle up and felt, or rather sensed, someone behind him. Clay didn’t turn.

“My name is Carl,” the kid said. “Thank you.”

“You thanked me already. Don’t worry about it.” Clay got his algebra book out and his red notebook and folder. He turned and saw Carl’s face was no longer a bright shade of red, but it was flushed, his cheeks blooming pink.

“You’re Clay, right?” the little guy said. “I heard about your story.”

“From who?” Clay asked, sighing with exasperation. Everyone knew, and that was what tormented him.

“Around. I think it’s pretty shitty what happened to you. What that guy did to you, before you came here.”

Clay almost dropped his books. Nobody had ever said this to him. They always danced and alluded, but this kid had guts. “You do?”

“Yeah, I mean. If someone did that to me, I’d want to kill him.”

Clay looked at Carl, up and down, and saw he was now trembling again, but not in fear. The five-foot, going on ninety-pound boy was looking up at him with glowing eyes and a shit-eating grin.

“I was stupid,” Clay responded sincerely, adding, “and I thought he loved me.”

Carl’s smile faded, but his eyes didn’t. “I don’t think you’d let it happen now.”

Clay paused and thought before he said, “No, I wouldn’t. Not now.” He realized the boy was right. If someone like Garret tried to use him now, he’d know better. It made Clay feel a little better about things.

“Can I buy you a pop or something? Just to pay you back.”

Clay nodded. Then he added, “Okay. I’d like that.”

“You would?” Carl said.

“Yeah,” Clay said and he reached out his hand.

At first, it seemed Carl didn’t know what to do. He looked at the other teen’s hand for a minute, then he reached out and grasped it, shaking it firmly.

“Can we get something off campus later?” Clay asked. “I have a class right now.”

“Sure. It’s a date then,” Carl answered, then he choked out, “I mean, an appointment, not like a date, date, or anything. Sorry.”

“Why not a date-date?” Clay teased. “I promise not to bite.”

Carl’s face broke into another of those magnificent smiles. “If you’d like.”

Clay grinned back.

***

“What did you do that pissed off Sean and Gina so much?” Clay asked. They were at a coffee house a couple of blocks from South High School. Clay had a cola and Carl was sipping a bottled water. True to his word, Carl had paid, but Clay noticed the boy wince when he’d heard the price.

Carl smirked now, bringing Clay back to the present. The smaller guy’s eyes were flashing with glee. “Gina was bragging about her new blouse and I was a little critical. That seemed to make her a little peeved.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her she was cheated. It looked like a Walmart reject.”

Clay giggled. “Why would you say that? You know, you kind of had it coming, the boyfriend defending her.”

Carl shrugged. “She’s always criticizing me, well, my clothes. I have to pay for my things. Her parents buy her whatever she wants.”

“So you work?”

Carl nodded. “I babysit for neighbors in our building. It’s just me and my mom and so I try to make things easier for her.”

“I don’t know Sean and Gina. Are they spoiled or something?” Clay asked. He watched as the other boy seemed to retreat and consider his words carefully.

“No, not really,” Carl admitted. “Gina works at Target and Sean does lawn stuff. Mows grass and shit. Sean is usually pretty cool. Gina gets a little bitchy with me sometimes. Pisses me off.”

“So, you like Sean,” Clay said. “You’ve got a crush on him.”

“Well, duh!” the smaller boy laughed, his face crinkled so cute. “Heteros have it so easy. They like someone and all they have to do is ask the person out.”

Clay shook his head, and he felt weird in this role. He kind of felt like Ben or Rush at this moment.

“Come on, Carl. You know it’s not that simple.”

Carl chuckled. “I know, but there are so many more of them. I feel like it’s just me sometimes.”

Clay considered the guy’s answer. He’d felt the same way more than once.

“Why don’t you join the GSA?” Clay asked.

“Those phonies?” Carl said, snorting. “Kenny is a wimp. D is a little bitch. Judd is so fake and only pretends to like you when no one else is around. Cristof isn’t so bad, until he’s with the others.”

“I know what you mean,” Clay said, sipping from his pop. “I took them out for ice cream and they weren’t very grateful. Or nice.”

Carl snorted derisively. “They’re fake, phony posers.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Besides, I already went out with all of them and it’s a little uncomfortable now. They all fight over me.” His blue eyes twinkled at Clay.

Clay laughed out loud. “Did you really?”

Carl shook his head and chuckled as well. “No, only Judd. He got the GSA, and I got labeled the ex. I’m, um, I try to be respectful.”

“That’s cool,” Clay said. He thought about what he said to Carl earlier, and his conscience gnawed at him a bit. “Carl, I wasn’t really honest with you earlier.”

“About what?”

Clay looked Carl in the eye. The smaller teen had a look of faith plastered on his face. For some reason, Clay felt he could trust the other boy.

“I’m not looking for a date-date. I’m not ready for that. I didn’t mean to mislead you.” Clay heard the hitch in his voice as he finished.

“I don’t think we’re compatible, not like that anyway.” Carl was looking down at his drink, and then looked up, resigned.

Clay’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“No, you’re really cute and stuff, but I think we’re probably more like friends. I get that impression from you.” Carl reached over and patted the other teen’s hand. “Is that okay?”

Clay breathed out, relieved. “Yes. That sounds good. I’m not ready for dating or anything stressful like that.”

“Good.”

There was a comfortable silence between them.

“You live with your mom?” Clay asked.

“Yeah. My dad was never really in the picture. He left when I was pretty little, so I’m used to it being just mom and me. What about you?”

Clay hesitated for only a moment. “My mom didn’t handle my situation well. She’s pretty freaked out still. My dad left a while ago too, though I was about twelve when he took off.”

“You live with your mom too?”

“No,” Clay said. “I have a foster family I live with.”

“Oh,” Carl said. “That sounds hard.”

“Oh, it’s not. Rush and Ben are awesome to me.”

“Two dads?” Carl asked, his brows arching magnificently. “Wow. That must be different.”

“It is, but it’s also really cool. Rush is like a counselor to me, and Ben is really loving, like a parent.”

“That’s cool.”

Clay thought it was, especially since now he had a friend. It surprised him to think something like that. He hadn’t had a friend for some time.

***

Ben hung up the phone. Hammond was trying to meet with Rush again. More evidence had surfaced at Wylie’s studio space, and it was rather strange.

The studio space had dust which was consistent with potter’s clay, so that wasn’t strange. What was odd were the missing fingerprints on the door plates and lock, the light switch, the shelving unit, and even the door frame. These were all metal surfaces which should have had fingerprints, or at least the remnants of them, perhaps degraded. Instead all these surfaces were clear.

Who’d cleaned the place?

Wylie had been murdered and put somewhere, but according to Hammond, there were no signs of blood or anything except a few random fibers and hairs in the studio. Most of them matched Wylie. A few were unknown, but there wasn’t much, according to the police detective.

The deceased’s place had been sparkling clean, forensically speaking.

The paralegal opened up an accordion file, pulled out the correspondence folder, and placed his notes inside. Replacing the folder, he scanned the other folders in the redrope. There were police reports, witness interview notes, and the medical examiner’s report, along with the autopsy, and the social media folder. He’d almost forgotten he’d done an extensive search, and he pulled out the folder.

It was slim with only a few printed findings for Steven Wylie. Ben extracted the three-page memo and reviewed it quickly. As he recalled, there wasn’t much to analyze.

Wylie had a Facebook page with two photos. One was a three-year-old picture of him standing outside a house somewhere grinning. There was a likeable mischievous glint in the man’s eye. The other was an older photo of a dog lying on a carpet with Christmas wrapping paper strewn about.

The young man had an Instagram account and a Twitter feed but neither had much except a couple of photos of oddly shaped and colored pots, presumably thrown by him. Ben had printed the photos, but they didn’t mean much, not that he could tell.

The paralegal had found an old high school mention of Wylie from a Plymouth high school about an art competition and his winning a prize, but that was at least ten years ago. There wasn’t even a photo of Wylie. The group photo contained a caption that noted Wylie wasn’t pictured. He’d won a third-place ribbon at an art festival sponsored by a local foundation for high school kids.

The last mention in his memo were the press accounts of Wylie’s death.

Ben hadn’t written much about these news stories, so he grabbed the printouts and started looking through them. There were printed copies from the Star Tribune, Pioneer Press, and screen shots of television reports. He’d found a couple of blogs reporting the death most referring to other news outlets.

One was unique, Ben saw. There was one from Ham Lake in the northern exurbs that reported witnessing the finding of Wylie’s body in south Minneapolis. The writer had titled the piece, “Young Gay Man Bashed and Stashed in Cement Bunker in Park,” and the blog piece was dated on the same day Wylie was found.

Ben felt a prickle of apprehension, and he shuffled through the printed pages once again. His memory wasn’t tricking him.

Another news story by the same reporter ran a couple of weeks later. The reporter, for a neighborhood blog twenty-six miles north of Minneapolis, was named Nigella Flecks and seemed very informed. Ben continued reading the second story. He found the last part intriguing.

“Steven Wylie, another gay man found murdered, reportedly has ties to Jacob Ogden. They were regulars at a local bar, Gallivants. Gallivants manager and owner both refuse to comment, though they admit to being questioned by the police.

“However, an anonymous source who works at the establishment has said that Jake Ogden and Steve Wylie were occasional sex partners, though not dating. Neither Ogden or Wylie had significant others, according to this source, so it could possibly be a hate crime. Killing someone because they’re gay certainly falls within that classification.”

Ben thought about this. He put the social media folder to one side with the second story on top of it. He reached into the redrope and pulled out the correspondence folder. Rifling through, he found a note from Hammond from only a couple of weeks ago, long after the date on the news story. Rush had jotted down the police detective discovered Wylie’s connection to a place called Gallivant’s, and it was after the news report. That was the vital connection between Wylie and Ogden, but the news story mentioned it so casually. And long before the police made that connection. Ben wondered.

Had the police pursued this line of questioning? What did this reporter know and when? How was she reporting the incident from the scene at Minnehaha Parkway on the day Wylie was found?

How did she know Wylie was gay? Or might be? Hell, she’d put the damn thing in the headline.

Ben opened up his email program, and started keying in some of these questions. As he continued thinking about it, he paused. Maybe he could look into this. Rush was busy with Hammond and following other lines of inquiry.

Ben felt like this was something he could investigate. The anticipation was building, and so he sent an email to Flecks at this Ham Lake neighborhood blog asking for an interview.

He was answered immediately.