Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

Pedro needn't have worried. The Titus he'd fallen in love with may have been withdrawn and reclusive, but the man he awakened that summer of 1995 was the one the townsfolk of Spoon remembered–headstrong, dedicated, and innovative. In fact, while Pedro recuperated from the trauma of his contrived incarceration–cooking with Roz, playing with Tucker and Shelly in the pool, and continuing with projects he'd begun in the backyard–Titus was a busy little bee.

He'd met with Barb and Roz separately and together, signing loans and completing details for Roz's Little Rascals Daycare , as well as assisting Barb with insurance and opening an equity line for a separate rental business under the umbrella of Hawthorne House, Inc.

Alden and he met for lunch at the Dairy Dream on Tuesday, weighing the pros and cons to various startups as a replacement to the printing business they were selling, brainstorming potential client bases and equipment costs for each.

Wheels were turning, and Titus felt renewed energy being at the center of various orbiting prospects. He had yet to commit to his father's ultimate request, but he promised Truman that he would have an answer for him by the weekend.

Now, driving through town, Titus stopped at Spoon's one traffic light, wondering for the millionth time if it was possible in the current age of Don't Ask, Don't Tell for an openly gay man to be elected mayor of a small Georgia town. There was Pedro to consider, too. Was it fair to ask him to follow one major commitment with another? Moving in with your boyfriend was a big step. Add to that a potential political campaign and their being outed as a couple—it might be a little too much to ask.

Shit , Titus thought. Not a little. It's a lot .

Pedro was the reason for it all, though. Had he not opened Titus's gate–both literally and metaphorically–who knew whether the motivation would have been as strong?

Nope. I'd still be wasting away by the pool or on the sofa .

He knew this for sure, and for that reason alone, he would never run for mayor without Pedro's consent. No matter how much he loved his daddy, he planned to spend the rest of his life with P. He would never let anything or anyone prevent that.

The light changed from red to green and he eased off of the brake pedal, rolling through the intersection.

He had almost convinced himself that his outing this morning was for Pedro as well. Tuttle had strictly forbidden him to make any contact with Silas. Let the law handle it, he'd said. You need to just wash your hands of him, son.

But Titus couldn't let Silas get away with hurting someone a second time. The image of little Timmy Peterman had haunted him, walking HOCO's halls with black eyes and a swollen lip, bruised and defeated. And for what? Sport? Bragging rights? Titus couldn't comprehend it.

How on earth could a human being take satisfaction in exploiting the vulnerability of another?

And here Silas was, doing it again with Pedro, Carlos, and probably countless others.

History repeats .

It violated every principle of Titus's being. He'd let Silas slide with it back then, turning a blind eye for the sake of his own secret and fear of being exposed. Youth had a strange way of obscuring the things that matter. Maturity and self-acceptance had cleared the haze.

No more .

He turned right into the parking lot of Compton's Greenscapes, gravel crunching beneath the wheels of his truck. He'd come early, hoping to catch Silas alone. But there were two vehicles in the parking lot, Silas's truck and a white BMW.

Maybe it's another of his workers already out in the field.

That thought was gone as quick as it came. No one working for Silas could afford a car that nice. Could be Susie Flanagan, his receptionist, though.

At seven thirty in the morning?

Titus thought not. Businesses like this may start early on the back end but calls and bookkeeping wouldn't begin before nine.

Whoever this person was, they'd tossed a good-sized monkey wrench into his plans.

He closed his truck door quietly and crossed toward the smaller office building, stepping softly on the gravel. The glass entranceway was dark. Titus tried the door and found it unlocked. Quietly as he could, he opened it and stepped through.

It was darker inside, but he could see fine from the natural light spilling through the transparent door. Susie's desk was in front of him, surrounded by sparse furniture. Additional light and muffled voices were coming from down the hall. One he recognized as Silas, but the other he couldn't place.

Titus had planned to surprise Silas by confronting him on his own turf. He would warn him to steer clear of Pedro and inform him he was ending any contracts for future business with Compton's Greenscapes. That, of course, he would expect. What Silas wouldn't be expecting was the loss of several other accounts, including Truman Shepherd, Tuttle Barksdale, the Hawthorne House, the high school, and the City of Spoon. Titus knew the most effective way to take an opponent down was not with fists, but with his wallet. He had no intention of getting into a physical fight with Silas, but if the message conveyed resulted in one, so be it.

But who the hell is back there with him?

Once sure that no one had heard him enter, he tiptoed closer to the hallway. He reached a shelving unit next to the hall and stopped, leaning against it. The voices were much clearer here, and this is what he heard:

"Yeah," Silas said. "Big Britches fucked everything up. I had the little fucker locked up and ready to go, but he and Tuttle convinced Junior that they had a witness, and that they would bust him for entrapment. So, Junior let him go."

"Of course they did," the mystery voice said. "Beavis and Butthead foiled again."

Titus grinned.

"I was doing it for you." Silas said.

"Bullshit. You've been crushing the dreams of motivated Mexicans long before Big Britches took a fancy to one."

"Thank Christ I hadn't called INS yet. I could be in hot water."

"You still are. Tuttle Barksdale bleeds blue, you know? No doubt he's working hard to stir something up. Best you get organized. This place is a wreck."

Silas sighed, long and loud. "Goddamn. I'm fucked."

"Relax. I'll talk to Daddy. He'll make some calls, pull some strings."

"I swear to God, Mason, I'll do whatever you want. I'll cut your grass for -free, for -ever… your Daddy's grass, and all of Morehead, too."

Mason Barksdale. Son of a bitch .

"No need," Mason said. "Elijah Fowler already does that for all of us. I don't share the same aversion to skin color as you, my friend. When I asked you to squash this little love affair, I meant for you to break them up, not remove one of them from the goddamned country. It hurts far more when the one you love is near, yet unattainable."

Son of a bitch .

Titus squeezed the edge of the shelving unit nearly tight enough to splinter it.

"I suggest you dismantle this little import/deport racket you're running pronto." Mason continued, a tad more forcefully. "I mean it, Silas. Clean up this mess now. Spoon's future planning committee head can't afford to be connected to such shady goings on. If you're serious about the position, you'll do as I say."

Titus knew his father was a smart man. But it never failed to astonish him just how insightful Truman was.

"I'm not exactly sure how to make this problem go away," Silas said.

"It's easy. Offer him his job back. Tell him he can keep his green card, as long as he stops this business with Titus. He's scared. I'm sure he'll comply."

"Well," Silas said. He held the syllable long, his inflection climbing in pitch. "It's not that easy."

Mason's voice went cold and direct. "Yes it, Silas. I need you to put this racist bullshit in a box and store it away. Maybe you can take it back out one day when you're old and no one gives a shit. But right now, you need this– we need this –to go away."

"Please don't be mad, Mason, but I might have–"

Titus tensed. His rigid hold on the shelving unit was now coursing through his entire body, turning him to stone, stiff and unyielding.

"Silas Compton–do not tell me you got violent with that man."

"I was trying to provoke him. I needed leverage."

"What exactly did you do?"

Silas exhaled, exasperated. "I tried forcing him into physical contact. I might have told him he could keep his job for either a blow job or a fist fight–his choice."

"Jesus Christ."

Titus had heard enough. "SILAS," he shouted, pausing as if entering the building. "Silas Compton!"

Silence.

Titus stormed down the hallway. When he reached the light, he turned, his frame filling the doorway of the small office. Silas was there, seated behind a desk cluttered with piles of papers. Mason was in a chair to the right. Both were clearly surprised.

Mason recovered quicker. " Big Britches ," he said, standing and extending his hand with a smile. "It's been a long time."

"Save it. I'm not here for you." He pointed at Silas. "I'm here to talk to this asshole."

"Talk?" Mason asked. "From the looks of it, I'd say you're here to do more than talk. Your face is so red, Titus–scarlet, really. My guess is you're either gonna kill him or have a stroke."

"Now, hold on," Silas said, rising.

"I see through you, Mason. Actually, I see through both of you. There's not much difference at all."

"That so?" Mason said, provoked. He approached Titus unafraid, his eyes narrowing to cold little slits. "And what, may I ask, is that? What is it that me and my good friend, Silas, here have in common?"

"You use people. You take advantage of those less fortunate for your own personal gain." Titus gestured to Silas. "Or those too stupid to know it."

"Now, hold on–" Silas said, but Mason silenced him with a hand.

"Those are mighty strong accusations, Titus. On what grounds do you base them?"

"I'm not here to answer you, Mason."

"Then I'll answer for you. Silas fired your friend–Pedro, is it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "–because he violated worker-client relations. Seems reasonable to me. Can't have the workforce out there balling the clientele. Bad for business, you know?"

"If that were true, we would have accepted it and moved on. But no–" Titus said, confused as to why he was suddenly justifying himself to Mason. He pointed at Silas. "Dickhead here decided he was going to frame P and get him deported. Something he's apparently been doing to others for quite some time."

"I see. You're upset because you feel Silas used your friend. That's funny. Ironic too, when word around town is you're the one who's using him."

Titus's train of thought derailed. "Wait. What?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, you wouldn't have heard that, being holed-up out there on Sun Hill Road. I've thought it myself a few times, too–that maybe you've been taking advantage of that poor boy for your own gratification, promising him the moon if he does your bidding."

"Bullshit."

"Maybe." Mason's lips curled into a grin with enough malevolence to rival a Disney villain. "But perception is reality… isn't that what they say?"

Titus glared. It was the first time he'd seen Mason since they'd graduated five years earlier. Physically, he was the same, maybe a little heavier. However, looking into his eyes now, Titus recalled how adept Mason was at manipulation. Violet had only gone out with him twice. Her burgeoning romance with Titus had overlapped, eclipsing Mason entirely. She'd felt horribly guilty about it. When she confessed her love for Titus to Mason, he took it well and they'd agreed to remain friends. Soon after, though, he began stirring notions of doubt, weaving casual insinuations of Titus's loyalty into their conversations. After two futile confrontations, Titus and she deduced the actual truth–that Mason was sewing seeds of uncertainty in Violet like an evil botanist. They immediately dropped him from their lives, never looking back.

"And isn't it worse to be using someone personally that way?" Mason continued. "I mean, Silas is simply employing Pedro, paying him an honest wage to do a job. But you're fucking him, aren't you? Big, rich, white man, screwing his poor little Mexican gardener."

Titus's fists clenched. His face was on fire. Voices filled his head–Pedro, Tuttle, Barb, Roz, but mostly it was Violet–warning him not to give in to the taunts. The urge was there, though, superseding all else–a beast relentlessly thrashing at his back, breathing moist heat down his neck, roaring for release.

"Or maybe it's the other way around," Mason said, eyes growing wide with mock-speculation. "Maybe Pedro's using you. Ever thought about that? Maybe he's tired of working so hard. Securing a sugar daddy would be an easy fix to all his problems. Of course, a woman–someone he could marry–would've made that a helluva lot easier but details. "

Titus was shaking now. He bent over, hugging himself tight, his large frame trembling. Mason watched him intently, both curious and apprehensive—uncertain whether violence or unconsciousness would follow.

"Jesus Christ," Silas said, standing. "I think he's having a heart attack."

But then they heard the chuckles, light at first, melodic, followed soon by deeper, bellowing chortles. Titus's wide frame was not trembling so much as bouncing rhythmically, quaking with growing guffaws.

"Bitch is laughing at you."

"Shut up. Silas."

Titus rose, bright eyes lasering Mason. His grin was equally brilliant. "You're slick. You almost had me there."

Mason's brow furrowed with inquiry. "It was that last part, wasn't it? Sometimes I don't know when to stop. Mama says it's a weakness of mine, that I talk too much."

"You're good at it, regardless. I've questioned, even doubted myself, a lot since Violet's passing. But if there's one thing I do know, it's Pedro. And the man you're describing is not him."

"Doesn't mean you're not guilty, Titus."

"Nope. Not working anymore. Like Elvis, plausibility has left the building. Besides, I'm not here for your mind games, Mason. I'm here for one–" Titus hesitated. "No. Make that two reasons."

He faced Silas. Silas's eyes were enormous, frightened. "I knew I should have locked that door," he said.

"Don't sweat it, Silas. As tempting as it is, I'm not here to beat you."

Silas collapsed back into his chair behind the desk. It squeaked and made a farting sound. "Thank Christ."

"Yeah. You probably should rest, though. You're gonna be mowing yards yourself soon. When I get done with you, the only client you'll have left is your bankruptcy attorney."

Silas stood again. "Now, hold on a minute, Big Britches. You can't do that. You can't take a man's livelihood away. That's illegal ." He looked at Mason. "That is illegal, isn't it?"

Mason didn't answer. His expression wasn't encouraging, though.

"Businesses poach customers every day, Silas. It's why I'm selling my printing company to a larger competitor. Better that than they come to town and put me out of business. Truth is–I don't like you. Never have. Taking you down a notch will be a pleasure. After all, I have the resources and a decent reputation. What have you got?"

"I ain't got a man's cock in my mouth. That's what I ain't got."

"Maybe you should try it. Might ease some of that tension. Racism is hard work, you know?"

"Reputation?!" Silas scoffed. "We'll see how long that lasts, once word gets out."

"It's already out and you know it. This is Spoon, remember? Gossip central. However, once word gets out that you tried to force an employee to blow you for his job…"

Titus trailed off, letting the weight of his words hover in the air.

Silas's face flushed with a mixture of discomfort and anger. Titus took a step closer to the desk, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not going to say a word about it, though. No, sir. I'd rather you disappear quietly in the night like the rodent you are. I was gonna list all the accounts you've lost, both residential and commercial, but I'm pretty sure you can figure it out."

Silas slumped back into his chair, defeated.

"Don't fret," Mason said. "You'll get them back soon enough. The commercial ones, at least. I'll see to it."

"Your Mama's right." Titus grinned. "You do talk too much. I know you got eyes set on becoming mayor of Spoon. But it ain't happening."

"What makes you so sure? People are tired of your Daddy, T. Bringing all that new business in. Forcing people to–"

"Adapt?" Titus interrupted. "Grow? To not sit stagnant and waste away?"

"People don't want change. You know that. They want things they're familiar with."

"This is about Violet, isn't it? You're doing this to get back at me. Well, it's not gonna work. Violet didn't love you, Mason. She never did."

"She didn't love you either. You knocked her up. Everyone knows. She married her queer friend to save face. To save both your faces."

"Maybe. I wish it was that black and white, but it's not. Love is complicated."

"Love?" Mason said, incredulously. "I loved her. You don't know anything about love."

"Wrong again. I know more about love now than I've ever known. Violet opened the door for me."

"Yeah? Well, it put her in her grave."

"You haven't changed at all. Still delusional."

Mason grinned at the accusation. "From what I hear, it's going to put your daddy there, too. In his grave, that is."

Titus wanted so badly to nip at the bait. He could feel the heat rising again, his muscles tensing. But thoughts of Pedro intervened, and he suppressed the urge. "So you do know," he said.

"I know he's sick enough not to be running again next time. That leaves it wide open for me."

"And you're building that big house in city limits, just in time to establish residency."

"I see you've been paying attention."

"I have. But who's paying for that house, Mason?"

"None of your goddamn business."

"That question was rhetorical. But how about this? Why does your Daddy want you to be mayor so bad? Has that thought ever crossed your mind?"

Mason's eyes flickered with uncertainty.

"I mean," Titus continued. "You're practically a preacher, right? What else can you do with that degree of yours? Teach maybe, over at the college in Milledgeville? Unless, of course, Milton wants you to be mayor of Spoon."

"Leave my daddy out of it."

Did Mason know? Could he? Titus wondered, then thought– Wait. Are you gonna tell him?

As Mason glared at him with angry, vengeful eyes, Titus knew he'd reached a crossroads. Mason wore his guilt like a badge of honor, prideful of the havoc he was wreaking on Titus's life. Hell, not only his, but, if they succeeded with their plans, the lives of those he loved and all of Spoon. Silas, already defeated, sat dazed at his desk. Mason waited, though, as if expecting Titus to lash out and strike him down. Again. After all, he'd lost to Titus before, hadn't he? And something primal in Titus wanted to do just that. Why not? If he couldn't lash out physically, why couldn't he simply strike the blow by outing Milton Barksdale to his son? The effect would be the same as a gut punch. He was certain. He could do it, too. It would be so easy. But–

No .

It was Pedro's voice in his head this time. Just one syllable, but enough.

Titus didn't know Milton Barksdale, but he knew about being in the closet. He'd lived the lie himself, fearful of what people would think if they discovered the truth. He may have loved Violet, but she had also been his shield. And even after she was gone, he'd still cowered another five years, substituting Tucker as his defense.

Now he was free. He'd opened the door, was stepping through, and there was no looking back. He was young and had a lifetime of truth and happiness with Pedro before him. Milton Barksdale, however, had remained behind. Whatever reasons he had–they were his own. It was his decision, and not Titus's, to make.

"Go on," Mason prodded. "What are you waiting for?"

Titus eyed him, lip curling into a slight grin. "Nope," he said. "I've said what I came to say. I'm done."

Titus turned to go, and Mason's words stopped him. "Enjoy it while you can, Big Britches. When I'm mayor of Spoon, things are gonna change."

Titus turned back. "Don't get your hopes up. You'll be running against me."

Mason's grin wavered. The color drained from his face.

"That's right," Titus continued. "That's the second thing I mentioned. I was gonna let it go. But since you can't seem to shut up, now you know. There's something else I want to tell you. I've detested that nickname, Big Britches, for a long time. I did everything I could to prove I was worthy despite the Shepherd name or the family money. And those two words served as my primary motivation for self-sufficiency. I even allowed those I love to continue with the label as a reminder of what people like you always believed, that I'm nothing more than an heir. Well, today's your lucky day, Mason. You too, Silas. Because what you've always believed has finally come true. I am Big Britches, and I'm embracing it. I have friends and family that love me regardless of what people like you think. That's all I need. But guess what? I have more. I do have the Shepherd name, and I do have lots of money. And when I'm mayor of Spoon, I'm gonna do everything I can to reverse the evil doings of crooks like you two. I'm gonna diversify this town so much your head will spin, Silas. And I'm gonna nurture it, Mason, and it's gonna grow and thrive, just like it always has. So, don't be practicing your victory speech too soon. Big Britches is officially in the house… and you know what? He's gonna crush you."

Titus turned to go.

This time, Mason didn't stop him.