The Granite Moth by Erica Wright

heartthrob knew.”
    I craned my neck over the rows to see if I could spot Martin again, but didn’t find his disheveled hair among the masses.He could have left without anyone noticing. I had never met Carlton, but a lot of violence has been committed in the name of love and even lust. He seemed genuinely broken up as he talked about meeting Bobbie for the first time, bonding over their mutual Paul Simon fandom. But I was well-aware that a seasoned performer could squeeze out a few crocodile tears in the line of duty.
    â€œSometimes when I was feeling low, he would call me Al,” Carlton paused. “It would make me smile every time.” Someone sang out a few lyrics from the song, and everyone murmured in approval. “So, Betty, if you can hear me, know that you’re missed.”
    Carlton blew a kiss toward the ceiling and returned to his seat, hugging the second eulogist before they switched places. It should have made my eyes water at least, but Carlton had gone from sympathy to suspect in two minutes flat. That was when the chanting started from outside.
    The noise was faint, but since Dolly and I were sitting near the exit, I could make out their awfulness. The picketers hadn’t been too vocal on our way in, waving their “America Is Doomed” signs. I guess they were waiting for the most inappropriate time to interrupt. As another performer, Aaron Kline, led those inside in an a cappella version of “Candle in the Wind,” shouts of “Better off dead, better off dead” echoed through the front lobby. Carlton slipped down my suspect list, and I scooted out of the pew and pushed past the reporters into the gray Saturday afternoon. The protesters had swelled in number, and I was shocked to see twenty or so people in matching “Better off dead” T-shirts shouting from Second Avenue. A spontaneous counter-protest was growing and would soon outnumber the organizers. I hustled down the stairs before the haters could be surrounded and disbanded by hot-tempered New Yorkers. I needed at least a few names.
    â€œExcuse me,”I shouted, elbowing past an imposing, bearded biker who was shaking his helmet and telling the protesters something that started with “You have no right—” and ended in imaginative expletives. He moved out of my way, and I found myself face to face with a fit thirty-something handing out anti-gay pamphlets. I took one and was welcomed to Mount Olympus Retreat, “Where Normal Is a Wish Away.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, holding out my hand. “Karen Connifer, New York Post .” I was improvising and crossing my fingers that he didn’t ask for any sort of credentials. A few real reporters had followed me out, and I hoped that the rest would stay inside until after the ceremony. I didn’t want my photo in the papers, especially not anywhere close to this group of nut jobs.
    â€œI sawww you go into that hellhole. You’re a sympathizerrr, as backward as the rest of them.”
    He spoke in a surprisingly clear, but slow manner as if searching for each word. The tone was as flat as any Midwestern dialect I’d ever heard, and I adjusted my own speed to match his. It seemed possible that he had a mental deficiency, which could explain how he got mixed up with this lot. Beaten up at school? I knew I was reaching, but I kept going anyway.
    â€œTrying to be fair and balanced. May I have your name?”
    He pointed to the back of his pamphlet, and I read “Leader Cronos Holt.” Leader? I couldn’t imagine this man leading so much as a shoe-tying mission. And, yet, here he was, surrounded by more than a dozen followers. Their shoes must all be velcro. Leader Holt was now lethargically shouting obscenities at the motorcycle man, enunciating each foul syllable, and the crowd began to push closer. I ducked down and off the sidewalk to avoid being caught in the inevitable brouhaha.
    I could creep back