But he couldn’t give up now—could he? With so much at stake, both personally and beyond. He was the first-ever openly gay American nominated to the Supreme Court. He stood for something. If he went down, he had to go down fighting. He couldn’t afford to appear the “pansy.” That would be giving them what they wanted, playing to the stereotype. Besides, there was a lot of good he could do on that court. He was still young. He might be on the bench for thirty, forty years. He could change the course of the nation.
He would lose Ray.
And there was still a chance that his other secret would be revealed.
Was there a chance that Ray would tell, if they questioned him hard enough? That he might crack under the strain? Or worse—do it for vengeance? He seemed mad enough, just now, on the stairs. He seemed mad enough to do anything.
No. Roush refused to believe it possible. Ray was angry, sure. Maybe their relationship had come to an end. But he couldn’t believe Ray would betray him. Not like that. If word got out, it would have to come from someone else. And if it did…
He would deal with that when the time came. If he had to. Right now, it looked as if they wouldn’t need that to bury him anyway.
What did it say in the Gospel of Matthew? For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Worse yet to lose the world, and also lose the man who had been his soul mate for the best years of his life.
What should he do?
That night, before he attempted unsuccessfully to sleep, he prayed for guidance. But in the morning, as he prepared for another grueling day before the Inquisition, no guidance had come.
29
Loving swallowed hard. “P-p-poem?”
“Yes, of course,” the moderator said. He was wearing a collarless cambric shirt, a beltless pair of khakis, and loafers without socks. “You’re next, aren’t you? Why else would you be backstage?”
In the rear, on the other side of the stage, Loving saw two burly men in tank tops take a tentative step forward. He made them for bouncers—poetry bouncers?—just from the way they swaggered while they stood still. He knew he could take them, but that wouldn’t get him any closer to Trudy. After he’d practically gotten himself killed getting here, he wasn’t going to give up so easily.
“So…the cover charge to get in is…I gotta recite a poem?”
The moderator looked only mildly puzzled; his brow line soon gave way to a smile. “This is part of your persona, isn’t it? The Accidental Poet. I get it. Not bad. I think you can make it work. You don’t really look much like a poet.”
Loving considered: he was wearing jeans with a hole in each knee, a sweat-soaked white T-shirt, and a buzz cut. Didn’t look like a poet? The moderator was a master of understatement.
“You’re in the Independent division, right?” the moderator continued.
“I…suppose?”
“Thought so. I would’ve recognized you if you’d come from one of the ’burb teams. And you definitely don’t seem like the Georgetown type.” Out in the auditorium, they both heard the roar of the crowd intensifying. “Look, I’ve got to get this show rolling again. What’s your name?”
“Uhh…Loving.”
The moderator grinned broadly. “Loving. Oh, that’s just so…so…perfect. How did you ever come up with it?” He placed his cheek against Loving’s and whispered, “I think the judges are going to go for you in a big way.”
Loving watched as the slight man walked back onstage to thunderous applause and foot stomping.
Judges?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the moderator said. The microphone squeaked with reverb at the sudden increase in volume. Everyone squealed and covered their ears until the pain subsided. “I’m pleased to introduce the next entry in the D.C. division qualifier for the National Poetry Slam. In the division for independent nonoriginal poetry interp, I give you—Loving!”
He extended his arm, cuing Loving to enter.
Here goes nothing.
Loving shambled onto the stage. The lights were so bright he could barely see faces past the second row. After that, it was all shadows—but so many shadows! It was a large auditorium, packed to the brim. He wasn’t sure there’d been this many people in the audience the last time he saw John Prine in concert. And all these people came to hear poetry?
The moderator stepped away from the microphone and Loving took his place. His mouth went dry. All those eyes were staring at him, expecting him to say something. What? He didn’t know anything about poetry—he’d never even finished high school. Ben’s friend Mike was always spouting off little bits of poetry, which Loving found keenly annoying. He never understood a word of it.
Another amplified voice emerged from the gallery. “You must begin within thirty seconds or you will be disqualified.”
And booted out the back door? Far away from Trudy? He tried to speak, but no words came. Earlier he’d been facing two thugs and a sniper, but he’d managed to keep his head together. Now he was being taken apart by a bunch of poetry freaks.
“Ten seconds remaining.”
His jaw worked like rusty hinges on a graveyard gate. “I—I—I—”
“Please speak up!” the same voice commanded. “Five seconds remaining.”
Loving cleared his throat. “I—I never saw…a purple cow…”
He paused, catching his breath. He could see the heads in the audience turning, looking blankly from one to another.
“And…And I never hope to see one.”
In the front row, on the faces of the three people with pencils and clipboards who he now realized must be judges, he saw eyes narrowing. One of them smiled a little. From the rear of the theater, someone laughed out loud.
“But I can tell you anyhow…”
More laughter. The judges leaned back, one pondering, one scrutinizing, one drumming the eraser of her pencil.
Loving took a deep breath and finished. “I’d rather see than be one!”
The laughter intensified till it filled the auditorium. Loving wasn’t sure what they were laughing at—the poem wasn’t that funny—but the merriment only intensified. The female judge grinned, as if resigning to it against her will, then finally broke out in full-fledged laughter. The other two judges followed. Thunderous applause burst out. Loving bowed solemnly, and the room was filled with cheers.
Oookay, he thought—what do I do now? He started back the way he came, but the moderator raced onstage and took his arm, restraining him.
“Just a minute, Loving. This is a poetry slam, not a reading. Now we have to hear what the judges think of your performance. Terrence?”
The man sitting at the far left of the judges’ table, the youngest of the three, removed his reading glasses and laid them on the table. “Well, I must admit—he had me going at first. I mean the whole package—the trailer trash outfit, the redneck haircut, the feigned awkwardness. I knew he was shamming, but he did it so well, I just couldn’t be sure. And then he added the stuttered delivery of quite possibly the most trite bit of doggerel ever written—well, it was perfect. It exceeded the parameters of a poetry slam. It was more like performance art.”
The female judge on the other end concurred. “I thought it was brilliant, too, Terrence. But did you hear the way he recited the poem? The way he manipulated the presentation of the syllables? It reminded me of nothing so much as Borges—do you know the story ‘Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote?’ The fictional critic and autodiagenetic narrator considers an author who has copied Cervantes’s work, and because it comes from a new source, it takes on new meaning, new irony. I believe that’s what Loving was doing with Burgess’s ‘Purple Cow.’ ”