Dedication
To my love and the one who always inspires me, Courtney.
To the very best Mom and Dad.
In memory of my friend, Dwight Berry.
1: The Guilty Man Shall Be Judged
Requiem. A mass for the dead. A time of mourning. And a fitting concerto for the days ahead.
The calm before an unprecedented storm neared its end. Little did Ben Bailey know, at this moment, just how near that particular end was. The days of normalcy, validated by this typical night at the local concert hall, were numbered.
The stage lights shone so brightly Ben could hardly see into the audience. He stood there alongside his fellow bass and baritone specialists, and realized that for some reason, he always tended to be positioned at the end of the bass section and directly beside the tenor section. He dreaded it; it proved torture for him. He simply had to belt out what he had learned from memorization, all the while battling the sounds of the tenor vocalists standing next to him who so starkly contrasted his part.
On this night, though, Ben sang his part and did it well. His vocal mentor thought he could read music, but Ben knew nothing about reading music. He simply listened to those around him, then caught on almost immediately. He was a quick study and a brilliant mind for sure, but if it were required for him to know how to properly read music to be on stage at that moment, he would instead have graced the audience with his presence as a fellow attendee.
A typical concert hall, there was nothing special about its appearance in comparison to other more prestigious venues in the state, yet it was legendary for this small town of about 9,500 people. The fact that a small, rural Southern town even had a successful concert hall still efficiently running was a testament to the people who cared for and nurtured it. Local community theaters were shutting their doors throughout the region, and other cultural spots like non-profit museums were struggling to stay afloat. This concert hall, though, regularly produced performances highlighting some of the greatest works of the finest classical musicians in history.
This was where the arts were on full display in an area that largely seemed to possess no appreciation for them. From the annex where the local arts council held its monthly art shows, to inside the hallowed walls of the concert hall, this venue was holy ground for the more affluent citizens in the nearby region. Every concert since 1988 had sold out.
The hall defied the odds of the arts having no chance for success in a predominately poorer town. It worked here, and it was because of one thing and one thing only: Dwight Kerry.
Few if any people worked harder for the benefit of this community than Dwight Kerry. Dwight was the face of the arts, and was widely-recognized in the community. A music teacher at the local high school, Dwight could be credited with offering a better raising to many of the community’s children than their own parents had afforded them. His care for his students was unmatched. He loved teaching and cherished the opportunity to inspire the next generation, but more than anything, he genuinely wanted every student to be a better person when they left his classroom.
Dwight was an accomplished musician; both as an organist/pianist and a director. He did not belong here. He should have been playing in Carnegie Hall on a regular basis, or teaching music at Saint Olaf’s, the academic home of some of the most talented musicians. He was that good. Yet, here he was, in the little town of Freeden, North Carolina, playing and directing at the local concert hall that was known statewide as the house Dwight built.
He had grown up here and elected to come back after college to care for his then ailing mother. After she died, he’d chosen to stay in the community. He loved the town, but sadly, he found that the majority of its members did not have such feelings toward him.
Dwight was gay. In the words of much of the local citizenry, he was queer as a three-dollar bill. His mannerisms were flamboyant and outlandish, and he wasn’t accepted with the town’s mostly fundamental, ultra-conservative population.
On this night, he directed the orchestra, that in which he could do just as well as he played the organ or piano. He stood in front of the orchestra and the choir, adorned with heavy eye liner on his eyebrows, combed-back, heavily-sprayed white hair, and a face made up with cosmetics and foundation laid on thick. His face was “pretty”, but his attire was deemed by locals as something a straight gentleman would wear. He donned a black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a gold-striped tie, and his coat pocket on the chest was accented with a gold handkerchief. His shirt sleeves were pinned together with gold cufflinks, each engraved with his initials, DK – a gift from a longtime friend who once sang in the community chorus but had passed, and in Dwight’s mind, gone on to be with the Lord.
Other than his hair and face, he looked like a genuine southern gentleman. But no real man, as the good ‘ole boys of Freeden would say, had a face that looked that pretty in this town. His mannerisms rarely mimicked his male counterparts in the town’s populous.
The wealthy folk in the one-hundred mile radius dominated the audience that night, as usual, to hear Dwight’s chorus and orchestra perform Mozart’s Requiem. Ben knew this was not the type of event most of the local folks found an interest in, but the few wealthy ones here adored the opportunity to play the part of possessing some culture when attending these local artsy events. Most of the audience, though, usually consisted of “out-of-towners” who came here specifically for the concerts. People from as far as the Triad, Raleigh-Durham, and even the Hampton Roads area of Virginia came to see Dwight’s concerts.
The upper echelon folks from Freeden always approached Dwight after his performances, complimenting him and seemingly taking pride in being a part of the arts community in front of their peers from the city. It frustrated Ben. In his mind, as soon as they returned to the normal routine of life, they etched themselves again in a way of life all too familiar in rural America, where those who are different are simply, and often silently, mocked and ridiculed.
No one around Freeden called Dwight names or treated him differently to his face; that wasn’t the way here. Southerners like the people in Freeden often criticized “Yankees” for being so direct and inappropriately forward, but in many cases they did the same, just behind one’s back. No one would approach Dwight at a restaurant and say, “You need to stop teaching because you’re gay and a bad influence,” but they would surely say it in private conversations with their friends.
There were people genuinely worried about Dwight because he was gay. They respected him for his talents and his commitment to the community; nonetheless, he was gay, which meant he was different. And Ben knew how things worked in Freeden. If you were different, you were dangerous and threatening.
Dwight, though, never changed his persona to adapt to anyone and was always the same regardless. Ben often wondered if Dwight was even aware of what was said about him in the community. Ben certainly thought he must, at least, suspect the heat directed toward his sexual identity; even still, Dwight remained true to his individuality and proudly maintained it in a silently critical populous.
Ben, on the other hand, wondered how the hell he did it. Ben was a straight man, but he could not fathom the life of a gay man in a town like Freeden. He had witnessed firsthand the mocking of Dwight behind his back. He recalled a time when he was invited to a local bar for drinks with some male acquaintances of his in the area who he was trying to befriend to fit in more, but he left early because he grew disgusted with the chatter about the man they repeatedly referred to that night as "Dwight the gay."
