Chapter Five: The Queen in Colonial Park

CHAPTER FIVE

The Queen in Colonial Park

When they left the CVS—not having encountered a single spook or goblin—Bias offered to take the bag of kitty litter and the box, and Brad carried the bag of dry cat food. As they turned off State Street, walking across Oglethorpe Square to head back down Abercorn, Brad said, “You’ve asked lots of questions about me, but I feel like I barely know anything about you.”

“I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”

“Well, I can tell from your accent that you’re a damn Yankee, but where are you from exactly?”

“New Jersey, but don’t hold that against me. We’re not all Guidos and Guidettes, despite what MTV would have you think.”

“I stopped believing anything MTV had to tell me when the ‘M’ in their acronym became obsolete.”

Bias laughed, cutting a comical salute at the statue of James Edward Oglethorpe that stood at the center of the square. “It wasn’t a bad place to grow up. My mother routinely took us kids into New York to see Broadway plays. I mean, I saw the original cast of Rent when I was, like, 4 years old.”

“Wow, pretty impressive.”

“Yeah, my parents are both big supporters of the arts. When I told them I wanted to be a painter, they didn’t blink an eye. However, when my older sister announced she wanted to go to law school, I think they died a little on the inside.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“An older sister and two younger brothers.”

Brad whistled. “As an only child, that sounds like quite the full house.”

“There was a lot of bickering and squabbling going on growing up, but we all really love each other and are pretty tight. Hardest thing about moving down to Savannah was leaving them. I get home for every major holiday.”

“So what brought you down to the south?”

“SCAD. It has the reputation as one of the best art colleges in the nation, and I knew that was where I wanted to be. So here I am. I fell in love with Savannah right away. Honestly, for the entire first year I was here, I felt like I was on vacation.”

“I know what you mean. How much longer do you have in school?”

“Graduate this spring.”

“What are your plans after that? Heading back up north?”

“Honestly, I haven’t decided yet. I know my family expects me to come back home, and a part of me definitely wants that.”

“But the other part?” Brad asked, hoping he wasn’t prying.

“The other part has got the South in his blood and isn’t sure he can shake it.”

“You make being southern sound like a virus.”

“Maybe it is, and I’ve definitely caught it.”

“So what is it you want to do with your life?”

“Make art,” Bias answered without hesitation.

“And get paid for it, of course.”

“Well, I guess I would need to so I don’t end up living in a cardboard box and eating out of dumpsters, but that is really secondary. Mostly, I just want to make art. Isn’t that the way it is for you with your writing?”

Brad considered this, and almost gave Bias his standard ‘interview’ answer, but then he thought better of it and decided to tell the young man the unfiltered truth. “I used to feel that way, that the writing itself was the most important part and everything else was gravy, and some days I still do feel that.”

“But . . . ?” Bias needled, apparently not sharing Brad’s fear of prying.

“But since I hit it big, there’s a lot more pressure. I don’t mean to sound like I’m whining. I realize how lucky I am, and I’m very grateful for all the blessings in my life, but when I’m working now, while I still enjoy it, I‘m also worried about what the publisher’s going to think, or how my audience will respond to certain aspects of the story. It can be a bit overwhelming at times.”

Bias was silent, but then nodded. “I can understand that. But you always have to find the fun, find your passion. Ultimately, you should write for yourself. I mean, I’m not a literary critic or anything, but what has really resonated with me in the stuff I’ve read of yours is that I do get a sense of your joy in storytelling. I think that’s probably what draws readers, so if you lose that, you’ll lose them.”

Brad looked over at the young man and smiled. “That was quite the pep talk.”

Another faint blush crept into Bias’s cheeks. “Sorry, I do get carried away sometimes.”

“No, I liked it. It’s what I needed to hear.”

“In that case, maybe I could be your Personal Pep-Talker. If the position is open?”

“It may be.”

Bias laughed then tilted his chin to point across the street; they were approaching Colonial Park Cemetery once again. “Pop in there with me for a minute. I want to show you something.”

Brad glanced down at the cat food he carried. “We really should get this stuff back to the house.”

“I promise, if the kitty has pooped anywhere, I’ll help you clean it up. This will only take a minute.”

Then, without waiting for a response, Bias checked the traffic and headed across the street. Feeling bemused but oddly elated, Brad followed.

The cemetery was full of people, a few tours but mostly individual groups wandering around on their own, snapping photos of the old tombstones and above-ground crypts. This place was not nearly as grand or picturesque as the larger Bonaventure on the outskirts of the city, but Brad had to admit there was something hauntingly beautiful about graveyards, especially old ones like this.

Bias led them on a winding path around the graves, heading for the crumbling brick wall at the back end of the property. “During the Civil War, the Yankee soldiers camped out in Colonial Park,” he said, using a formal tone Brad imagined he utilized for his tours. “They did a lot of damage, destroying grave-markers and desecrating some of the burial plots. Many records were destroyed, so when the dust settled and they gathered up the markers that had been knocked over, they no could longer be sure which graves they belonged to.”

Brad had heard all this before. He knew the dislocated tombstones had been lined up along the back wall, a rather bizarre and sad monument to those forgotten by time. They approached the wall now, stretching on for several yards in each direction. Bias seemed to be looking for a specific marker.

“Here it is,” he said. “My favorite tombstone in the place.”

“You have a favorite tombstone? You really are an odd duck, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. Who wants to be a boring old regular duck?”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“So what do you think?” Bias asked, indicating the stone before them.

“Well . . . it’s very nice, but I don’t really see what sets it apart from any of the others.”

“That’s because you’re not really looking at it.”

To humor the young man, Brad turned his attention back to the worn and faded marker. It was in memory of someone named Sophia, wife of Charles Gildon. Brad shook his head, thinking this really summed up how women were viewed in the past, as nothing more than extensions of their husbands. The marker also identified Sophia as a native of Canaan, Connecticut, and said she died on September 5th, 1827, at the age of—

“Wait,” Brad said as what he read really sunk in. “That can’t be right.”

Bias smiled and nudged him with a shoulder. “Crazy shit, right?”

“Died at age 11 years and 9 months,” Brad read. “And already married?”

“Talk about a child bride, and we don’t even know how long she was married before she died or how old her husband was. I’m guessing he was more, shall we say, mature.”

“Wow. From my research for the new novel, I know things were different in Colonial times, and people came of age younger than we think of these days, but 11 years old and already a wife. It’s mind-boggling.”

“I had probably walked down this wall a hundred times before I ever noticed this,” Bias said. “Discoveries like this are why I love old cemeteries so much.”

“What do you mean?”

Bias shrugged. “I don’t know how to express it, I’m not a wordsmith like you, but people walk through cemeteries all the time and see the monuments and gravestones, but don’t really stop to think that each one represents a life, a real person who once walked the earth. What was life like for young Sophia? How did she die? Was she mourned? I like to think about these things sometimes, take a moment to pick out a marker and really contemplate who the person was. May be the first time anyone has thought of these people in hundreds of years. Wherever they are now, maybe they hear my thoughts and it gives them some comfort.”

At first Brad didn’t speak, merely stood staring at Bias. The young man started shifting from one foot to the other, as if uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Finally Brad said, “And you say you aren’t a wordsmith.”

“I’m just an odd duck, remember.”

“I think you’re pretty amazing,” Brad said, instantly wondering if he’d said too much.

Bias smiled, winked, then held up the bags in his hands. “Let’s get this stuff to your little Phantom.”

They started back across the cemetery at a diagonal, not talking but both glancing at the graves they passed. Bias had given Brad a new appreciation for them, and he found himself spinning yarns in his mind about the lives of those that had died so very long ago.

“Well, cover me in kisses and call me Hershey’s, fancy meeting you here!”

Brad looked up at the sound of the effeminate voice and saw a short, stocky guy approaching with small, mincing steps. He wore platform sandals, loose-fitting slacks, and an oversized shirt with a floral pattern that could only be described as a blouse. He had a large carry-all thrown over his shoulder like a purse, and dangly earrings swayed from his lobes. Where could this character possibly think he knew Brad from? Could be a fan, but this wasn’t usually his demographic.

Then Bias let out a sigh and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Just enjoying the day, same as you. You going to introduce me to your friend?”

At first it seemed Bias was not, but then he said, “Harold, this is Brad. Brad, Harold.”

“Harold Ballantyne,” the man said, holding out a hand as if waiting for it to be kissed. “I’m Bias’ roommate.”

“No, you are a squatter is what you are. Roommates pay rent and split the bills.”

“Now, don’t be rude,” Harold said, swatting Bias on the shoulder.

Turning toward Brad, Bias explained, “About six months ago, Harold showed up on my doorstep with his luggage, giving me a sob story about being kicked out of his apartment. I told him he could crash at my place temporarily until he found somewhere else. I haven’t been able to get rid of him yet.”

“I declare, you talk about me like I’m a cockroach infestation. It’s hard to find a decent, cheap apartment in this city.”

“Yeah, especially when you aren’t really looking. You told me this morning you were going to spend all day apartment hunting.”

“I am.”

“Really?” Bias said, looking around at their surroundings. “Colonial Park is a lovely place, but I doubt it’s the kind of real estate you’re looking for.”

“Just taking a shortcut through the cemetery on my way to look at a place on Habersham.”

“How do you two know one another?” Brad asked, feeling left out of the conversation.

“I met the lovely Bias here at work,” Harold said.

“Oh, are you a tour guide as well?”

Harold laughed raucously. “Not I. I am the great Titty-Titty Gangbang.”

Brad could only respond with a frown. He had understood all the words, but they made absolutely no sense in the order Harold had used them.

“He’s a drag queen,” Bias said.

Harold swatted his roommate again. “Female impersonator sounds more professional. Titty-Titty Gangbang is my stage name. I am the top performer at Club One.”

“I’ve heard of that place,” Brad said. “The club where the Lady Chablis performs, right?”

Bias whistled softly, and Harold’s face pinched into a grimace of rage that would have seemed comical if it wasn’t so frightening. “I’m going to give you a pass since you’re Bias’ friend, but let’s be clear, the Lady is worn out. They let her perform at the club about once a month because they feel sorry for her. No, dear, I’m the big draw.”

“You go there a lot?” Brad asked Bias.

“Not really.”

Harold said, “I met Bias the night he was performing.”

Brad’s mouth dropped open. “Bias, you do drag?”

“No, a year and a half ago I took part in this amateur drag show for Halloween, that’s all. It was just a lark.”

“And what was your stage name?”

“It was so long ago, I don’t even remember.”

“I do,” Harold said immediately. “It was Constance Whorebreath.”

Brad sputtered a laugh. “That’s quite a moniker.”

Bias shot his roommate a poisonous glare, the very embodiment of if looks could kill. “Shouldn’t you be getting on with your apartment hunting so you can finally get your ass off my sofa?”

“See how he treats me,” Harold said to Brad. “Melinda is nicer to me, and that bitch is dead.”

“Yet the ghost feels like less of a nuisance.”

“Just for that, I’m not going to make you dinner tonight,” Harold said, placing his hands on his hips in a move that reminded Brad of sassy black women in 70s sitcoms. Helen Willis or Willona Woods maybe.

“You’re living at my place rent-free, the least you can do is make me dinner.”

Harold contemplated Bias’ words, then finally sighed and said, “Fine, but I do so of my own free will. Slavery has been abolished, you know.”

“Absolutely, you have your freedom papers.”

Turning back to Brad, Harold patted him on the cheek. “Bias and I do go on, but it’s only because we love each other. It’s our shtick.”

With a dramatic flourish, Harold blew them a kiss, exclaimed “You boys be good”, then continued across the cemetery.

“Well, he certainly seems . . . interesting,” Brad said.

“An odd duck will have odd duck friends.”

“I think even odd ducks would find him a bit odd.”

“He’s a drama queen of the highest sort and can grate on my nerves like you wouldn’t believe—or having met him, you probably would—but on the upside, he does keep me laughing.”

“With all that bickering, you two seemed almost like the quintessential old married couple.”

“Bite your tongue,” Bias said. “There’s nothing remotely romantic between me and Titty. I don’t date women.”

Both of them laughing, Brad and Bias left Colonial Park and headed back toward the house.