Sunrise Box Set

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1It was serendipity. I hadn’t really been thinking seriously about leaving my job at the university, but when Randy and Carol Burns told me about the position at Stafford, I realized I had no reason to stay where I was. I’d liked the job at Clearfield well enough, but I’d really gone there because of Kyle. Now that he and I were finished, perhaps it was time to move on. And, though Stafford was at least back in the part of the country I hailed from, it wasn’t so close to home that I’d ever have to worry about bumping into my family.

I suppose I should explain about the Pells. They’ve been in this area since the eighteenth century, and they’ve managed not only to hang on to inherited wealth, but to make it grow. At least as far as my grandfather Carter Pell’s generation. The problem with the Pells is that they tend to equate individual worth with net worth. In short, they’re snobs. I won’t go into that any more than to say that my parents, Arleigh and Judith, weren’t at all happy to learn that their youngest son was gay. My majoring in art history at Duke didn’t make them any happier. They couldn’t see why a gentleman would major in something so frivolous as art. The pony tail was the last straw, as I’d more or less intended it to be. Now the senior Pells could dote on their grandchildren and meddle in the lives of my older brothers, Fenton and Collier, who were both lawyers, fathers, and respectable members of the community. That all suited me fine. Oh, I should also mention, perhaps, that thanks to Grandfather Carter, there was a nice trust fund I came into when I turned thirty. I hadn’t touched it while I was at Clearfield.

Kyle and I had a very hot relationship when it first started five years before my move to Stafford. He was stunning, God knows. Black Irish. You know, pale skin, black hair, green eyes, a cute cleft in his chin, lots of hair on his chest, arms, and legs. Very passionate. At first. When, just before I showed my stuff in Charlotte, Kyle told me he was being transferred to his company’s branch in England for two years, he assumed I wouldn’t come with him. We’d gotten comfortable together, but the intensity was gone from our relationship. I cared for Kyle, but I wasn’t about to give up my job and follow him to Manchester.

What worried me about the breakup was whether it meant that, as is proverbial with gay men, I wasn’t capable of sustaining a long-term relationship. I thought about that a lot over the next several months. I knew I wanted to find the one perfect man and live with him forever. I kept telling myself that I just hadn’t found him yet and that breaking up with Kyle made it possible for me to start looking again.

Although I was on track for tenure at Clearfield, I wasn’t tenured yet, so the university wasn’t upset with the relatively short notice I gave them. Face it, there are lots more people out there with degrees in art history than there are jobs. They did give me a good recommendation, apparently, for the folks on the Stafford Arts Alliance seemed eager to get me. It was my work as director of the university gallery that interested them, not my teaching. Oh, and apparently they were impressed with my glass, too.

Kyle and I were able to sell our house easily. We didn’t have much equity in it after only five years, so what was left after we split the proceeds wasn’t a lot. I thought I’d better rent for a while in Stafford unless I wanted to dip into the trust fund. My financial advisor talked me out of that plan, however. He said it was foolish to pay rent, and it was foolish to pay interest on a mortgage when I could afford to buy a house outright.

So, I took a three-month lease on an apartment in Stafford beginning in June when I was finished at Clearfield and was able to move. That would give me the summer to look for someplace to buy. I flew to Stafford in late May and found a small apartment. As soon as I finished grading finals and turned in my grades, I called a mover. Kyle had offered me his furniture, but I didn’t want it. I had only a few things I thought enough of to keep, so I had the mover take them and I gave the rest to the Goodwill.

And thus, in early June I arrived in Stafford. It was beautiful there at that time of the year. Where I’d been living, it’s cold through most of May, so the spring bulbs were just coming out. In Stafford, it looked like full summer. The hills were beautiful, and the gardens throughout the residential areas of the city were full of roses, phlox, day lilies, and other early summer blossoms. I moved into the apartment, having picked up some very cheap furniture to fill in the gaps after deciding to wait until I’d found a house to buy anything decent. And I plunged into my new job.

I was amazed at the number of volunteers at the Sunrise Center. They staffed the reception desk, stuffed envelopes, parked cars, helped with our various fund raising events. Volunteers ran the annual art show, which attracted a couple of hundred artists from all over the Southeast. They also planned and put on the annual formal gala. It was, moreover, Board members who were the gallery committee, the acquisitions committee, and so forth. I was happy to learn that the exhibitions in the main gallery were set through the coming year and that my predecessor had lined up all the performers for our music series for the year as well.

The biggest activity the Alliance sponsored during the summer was six weeks of art classes for school kids, all the way from primary to high school. We had a dozen or so teachers working in everything from watercolors, paints, and acrylics to ceramics and photography. It was wonderful having all those kids in the building all summer. There were even high schoolers who helped with the younger ones. That’s how I came to meet Louis. But I’ll get back to him later.

Jean, my executive assistant, bless her heart, made settling into the new job very easy. If she resented me after working for so long with George henry, my predecessor, she never let on. She seemed to know what I needed before I did. She was very patient about explaining to me how things worked, from our relations with the city council to operating the security system. If I had anything to complain about, it was her tendency to mother me. She wasn’t that much older than I am, but she tended to cluck if she thought I wasn’t eating right or getting enough sleep. I sometimes found that irritating, but then I reminded myself she had good intentions.

As for my being gay…I had told the search committee when I was there for my interview I was gay and asked if they had any problem with that. I do know this part of the country, and I wanted to be sure to get that out in the open before we got too far into discussing the job. The chairman of the committee looked around at her colleagues, as if taking a silent poll. She said, “No, Dr. Pell, that’s not an issue, so long as you display the kind of discretion we’d expect from a heterosexual man.” I couldn’t ask for more than that and said so.

After taking up the job, however, there were a few mild repercussions. I’m told that a few longstanding members with deep pockets said they weren’t going to renew their memberships in the Alliance come August, which is renewal time. Some of the members of the Board who dropped in during the summer were pretty cool, but Southern civility being what it is, no one made any unpleasant remarks. All in all, things went well on that score, I think.

One of the few things about my upbringing that I hadn’t rejected was my being an Episcopalian. I began attending Holy Trinity Episcopal Church in Stafford. The rector, Fr. Glenn, and his assistant, Fr. Gary, were both very friendly. I think Gary and I recognized each other immediately as family, and the rector picked up on it at once. They welcomed me to the community and the parish. Both were members of the Alliance and said they’d be glad to help Sunrise in any way they could. Glenn chuckled and added, “So long as it doesn’t involve much money, of course.”

It was also at Holy Trinity where I saw Louis. Again. About the third time I attended, he was the crucifer. Since I’d already met him at the center, I was pleased to see him at church. With his black skin, he looked splendid in his red cassock and white cotta.

* * * *

Several of the high school guys who helped with the Art Camp that summer were cute. There was Allen, who’d been in the program since he was in third grade and now was one of the high school students helping with the younger kids. He was a senior, but with his thin body, babyish face and long hair, he looked about fourteen. His friend Bo looked like a football player, but Jean said he was a talented pianist and a fair water colorist. She told me he and Allen had been buddies since Kindergarten.

And then there was Louis, who pronounced his name the French way, not as if it were spelled Lewis. He had very dark skin and black hair but rather delicate features. If his skin were lighter, he might have looked as French as his name, Louis LeFevre. He was a couple or three inches taller than me and very well built, athletic looking. I wondered if he played any sports in school. Louis smiled every time he saw me.

* * * *

One afternoon late in the summer, I looked up to see Louis standing there, giving me his brilliant smile.

“Hey, Louis. What’s up?”

“Got a minute, Dr. Pell?”

Waving him in, I said, “Come on, Louis. You know I’ve asked you to call me Whitney.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but it just goes against my upbringing to call a man your age by his first name, especially when he is a doctor.”

“Ouch! That’s cold. A man my age? Guess I’d better remember my cane tomorrow.”

The poor kid looked really embarrassed, and I felt bad.

“Louis, it’s cool. I’d like you to call me Whitney, but if that’s not comfortable for you, call me whatever you want. Now, as I asked before, what’s up?”

He laid a portfolio on my desk. “I, uh, I was wondering, uh, Dr. uh, Whitney, if you’d mind taking a look at these.”

I opened the portfolio to find a dozen black and white prints, all eight by tens.

“Are these yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked through them carefully. “Man, these are great. I’m impressed. You have a real eye. Did you develop them yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I love the way you’ve left them just a little dark. That gives them such a brooding atmosphere. Where’d you learn to do this?”

He grinned and the room grew brighter. “Mr. Blount, my art teacher, has helped me a lot.”

“I’d like to meet Mr. Blount. Is he the only art teacher at Stafford High?”

“No, it’s a big school and there are two others.”

“Have you displayed your work in the spring student art show here at Sunrise?”

“No, sir.”

“Why in hell not?”

“Well, it’s the art teachers from each school who decide what will be displayed here in the student show. Mr. Blount says the other two don’t think that photography is really art.”

“Bullshit!”

He grinned.

“I have to talk with Mr. Blount. It’s months yet before the student show, but if I can manage it, we’ll ask him to submit some of the best work of his best students, even if his colleagues don’t agree. It’s our show, after all.”

“Well, sir, I’d hate to get Mr. Blount in trouble.”

It was my turn to grin. “I’ll try very hard to see that doesn’t happen. But this is good work, and the public should see it. Are there other photographers at Stafford High as good as you?”

He looked down at his lap for a moment. And then he smiled up at me through his eyelashes. “There are a couple who are almost as good, Dr…uh, Whitney.”

I handed him the portfolio. “Louis, thanks for showing these to me. Do you expect to go on to study art in college?”

He positively beamed at me. “Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you had any suggestions where I should apply.”