A Fountain Filled With Blood

and stitched together. His hair was a stubble of new growth around pink lines of scars, and the left side of his face wasn’t quite symmetrical with the right—his eye didn’t open as wide and his smile didn’t reach as far. But as he told them stories about his hospital stay, he spoke clearly, displaying an acerbic humor that she liked right away.

The conversation turned to health care, with Margy Van Alstyne telling them the trials of life under Medicare and Hugh weighing in on the British National Health system. Clare let the talk flow around her while she sipped her icy sangria. It wasn’t until she accepted Paul’s offer of a second glass that Russ spoke to her.

“You’re not going to want to break into their bedroom and climb out the bathroom window if you have that, are you?”

She snorted. The other four looked at her with polite incomprehension. “Just…it’s a long story,” she said. “I was trying to find out more about Malcolm Wintour.”

“I trust they’re going to put him away for a long time,” Hugh said.

“The victim’s advocate interviewed me,” Emil said. “She told me Wintour’s going to plead guilty to possession and dealing but is trying to duck the murder charges.”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “The DA thinks she won’t have much of a problem hanging Chris Dessaint’s death on him, but conspiracy’s difficult to prove, and we haven’t been able to give her much evidence.” He looked at Clare. “From what we can tell, Peggy was giving orders to her nephew, who, in turn, was giving orders to Chris Dessaint, who was bringing in Colvin and McKinley.”

Clare’s shoulders twitched. “It’s like puppets playing puppets.”

“Yeah. But there’s not much of a paper trail, other than a few phone calls from Wintour’s cell phone to Dessaint. And with Peggy and Dessaint both dead, there isn’t much hope of ever getting all the details. I tell you what really bugs me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We still don’t know how Peggy hooked up with Chris Dessaint.”

“I thought Malcolm was the one giving him orders,” Clare said.

“He was. But Wintour didn’t know him before. He claims his aunt fingered Dessaint, gave him his name and phone number.” He made a noise of frustration. “You can imagine how hard it’s going to be to get the conspiracy charge to stick.” He glanced around at the others, as if recalling that he wasn’t in a private conversation. “But to get back to Mr. Parteger’s statement…You can rest assured that the three surviving stooges will be going away for a long, long time.”

Emil smiled slightly. “You know, I don’t really care. Nearly dying has a way of giving you perspective.” He looked at his partner, the strained lines of his square face softening. “We all have only so much time. I don’t want to waste what’s left to me on things that aren’t important.”

Paul smiled back. “And that makes me think,” he said. “Clare, how did your candlelight vigil go?”

“Huh? Oh, it was great. More people than I expected.” Thanks to Todd MacPherson’s new friends from the Adirondack Pride team, she said to herself. She had spent much of the evening dodging their attempts to interview her. She wanted to do the work she needed to do, but she wasn’t interested in becoming their poster priest.

“What did your congregation think of it?”

“I think it boosted attendance the next Sunday. I actually had forty people in the pews.” She decided not to mention that half of them had wanted a “little word” with her about her activism.

“Good,” Paul said. He took his partner’s hand and breathed deeply. “Because Emil and I would like to ask you to marry us.”

Clare blinked.

“Well, I guess that calls for congratulations,” Margy said stoutly. Hugh and Russ glanced at each other. Hugh cleared his throat.

“Yes, congrats and best wishes,” he said.

Everyone looked at Clare. In the meadow beyond the overgrown lawn, cicadas were chirping their end-of- August call. The thick wineglass suddenly felt heavy in her hand. “New York State doesn’t recognize same-sex marriages,” she said, throwing out the first thing she could think of. “No ceremony is legally valid, no matter who officiates.”

“We know,” Paul said. “We can call it a commitment ceremony or a celebration of union. The important thing is, we want to stand up together and make promises in front of our friends and family. We want to say we’ll be together until we die.”

“The church I was raised in can’t do this for us,” Emil said. “But I have…reconnected to the fact that my belief in God is part of my life. I know that the Episcopal church is more liberal about these issues.”

“The church is in conflict about these issues,” Clare said, stressing the word conflict. “Some dioceses allow commitment ceremonies, or at least look the other way while individual priests perform them. But the bishop of Albany—my bishop—is a traditionalist.” Not wanting the bishop to come across as some sort of hide-bound old crank, she added, “I mean, he’s very much in favor of civil rights for gays and for including them— you—in the church community. Just…not…”

“Just not giving the stamp of approval to them actually living together,” Russ said.

She shot him a look. He should talk, Mr. I’m Uncomfortable Around Them. “Please try to understand,” she said. “I don’t have the authority to decide policy on my own. I’m part of a hierarchy, under the direction of my bishop, who’s under the direction of the General Convention. It’s not that I’m against it, but I…”

They were all watching her dig her own grave. Paul looked as if she had gotten up and kicked Bob and Gal. Emil’s face was sinking into lines of resignation. And Russ looked…disappointed in her.

You like to live on the edge, don’t you, Fergusson?

Make whole that which is broken.

“But I have to live as I believe Christ leads me. If that doesn’t sound too pompous.” She laid one hand on Paul’s arm and one on Emil’s. “Yes. Okay. I will celebrate your union.”

Dinner was a much more festive affair after that, although Clare had to work at ignoring what might happen to