
Look Away Silence
Edward C. Patterson
Dancaster Creative Writing
First Kindle Original Edition, July 2009
Copyright 2009 by Edward C. Patterson
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.
Other Works by Edward C. Patterson
(available in Paperback and Kindle Editions on Amazon.com)
No Irish Need Apply ISBN 1434893952
Cutting the Cheese ISBN 1434893847
Bobby's Trace ISBN 1434893960
The Closet Clandestine: a queer steps out ISBN 1438220502
Come, Wewoka & The Diary of Medicine Flower ISBN 1438227639
Surviving an American Gulag ISBN 1438247230
Turning Idolater ISBN 1440422109
Are You Still Submitting Your Work to a Traditional Publisher? ISBN 1441407383
The Academician - Southern Swallow Book I ISBN 144149975X
The Nan Tu -- Southern Swallow Book II
Swan Cloud -- Southern Swallow Book III
The House of Green Water --- Southern Swallow Book IV
Belmundus
The Road to Grafenwöhr
Green Folly
The Jade Owl Legacy
The Jade Owl ISBN 1440447977
The Third Peregrination ISBN 1441456724The Dragon's Pool ISBN 1442170999
The People's Treasure
In the Shadow of Her Hem
For further information contact edwpat@att.net
Dedicated to the Volunteers of
The Hyacinth AIDS Foundation,
The NAMES Project
and
To my own fallen angels
Contents
Chapter One: Folding
Chapter Two: Ties
Chapter Three: Old World Coffee
Chapter Four: Christmas in the Cavern
Chapter Five: Quiet Moments
Chapter Six: First Impressions
Chapter Seven: Gifts
Chapter Eight: Meeting the Kielers
Chapter Nine: Resolutions
Chapter Ten: A Matter of Space
Chapter Eleven: Bed & Breakfast
Chapter Twelve: The Pope's Nose
Chapter One: Westward Ho!
Chapter Two: A Proposition
Chapter Three: Remembrance
Chapter Four: Estes Park
Chapter Five: Pinnacle
Chapter Six: Not So Divine Retribution
Chapter Seven: When the Rockets Red Glare
Chapter Eight: Dawning Dusk
Chapter One: Learning the Ropes
Chapter Two: Perfect Stranger
Chapter Three: In Concert
Chapter Four: Blessings and Curses
Chapter Five: Christmas Again
Chapter Six: Episode Two
Chapter Seven: In the Land of Nod
Chapter Eight: Bringing in the Sheaves
Chapter Nine: The Best of Intentions
Chapter Ten: Holding On
Chapter Eleven: Letting Go
Chapter One: Folding Again
Chapter Two: Finding the Thread
Chapter Three: Ties and Rings
Epilog: The Vigil I Keep
The challenges of authoring this novel were many, because it encapsulates a period of my life and a subset of my experience that might be best tucked away and forgotten as all traumas should be. However, when I volunteered as a middle-aged gay man to lend a hand in my community with AIDS patients, I thought it was the noble thing to do. As I learned, it was not, unless debilitating disease and emotional upheaval can be considered noble. The history told here belongs to others, however. It may be cobbled from the many partners who lived with AIDS and those who helped ease the suffering, but it is a shared experience, and thus needs to be shared with you. Every American knows about AIDS now, and might even recall the period when it ravaged the gay community, stirring up new phobias and hysteria that might have been settled. However, the lessons should not be forgotten. With a new upsurge in cases within the gay community as a new wave of young men feel invincible as they dance with life, perhaps it's best to recall what can happen when the back is turned on the obvious
I want to thank all those over the years who mentored me in community service, in the GALA Chorus organization, including the New Jersey Gay Men's Chorus, the Hyacinth AIDS Foundation, AmFAR, the NAMES Project and many local churches, food banks, financial sources throughout the State of New Jersey and especially the volunteers who consistently participate in AIDS Walks throughout the country. A special thank you is given to my editor Margaret Stevens for the yeomen effort in getting this work into its sterling, publication condition. Also a thanks to Kindleboard.com and Michael R. Hick's author support group for being there nightly to encourage me to complete this work --- a difficult oar to pull over mostly emotional waters. As for my angels, I leave that thank you to Louise Kieler on the steps of the Washington Monument.
Edward C. Patterson
Part One
Over-the-Counter Encounter
Chapter One
Folding
1
I am a child of Christmas. Some people are Easter-kids. Others get fired up over the Fourth of July or wax poetic for Arbor Day. Not me. Christmas has always been the focus of my year, because everything that has been good in my life has come down from the sparkling Yule Fairy and wrapped up in bows and striped paper. As little children, we wish for many things at Christmas --- trains, bikes, Legos, baseball gloves and some, like me, asked Santa for an ironing board. Now that would bode well and never shock, except my name is Martin and not Martina, and . . . it quite put my Grandpa off his Monday Night Football. My mother was cool with it, otherwise she would have bought me a GI Joe and insisted I dig trenches and drop fake bombs over the chenille. However, I wouldn't have minded a GI Joe either, a fact my mother also sensed. So it was an ironing board for me. Vivian Powers' sissy boy was devoted to Christmas from that day forward. I knew there was a Santa Claus and his linen closet was impeccably arranged.
Across the folds of time and through the tumble-downs of Christmases over the years, I found all my requests fulfilled. When I was old enough to find true love (or so I thought it true love . . . I mean, every time it was true love), it was at Christmas. That was the year I had drunk too much eggnog and awoke in a stranger's bed --- a stranger who unwrapped me like a party favor and gave me the most wonderful Christmas gift of all. In hindsight, the ironing board was better.
Despite the exciting sensation of joining with another soul, I learned fast that such passion was like the sea at ebb tide. I know about the sea. I live by the sea, here in Long Branch where the tide comes in and then sucks out a bit of the Jersey shore, a bit like my first passionate experience. Metaphors are not my forte. I should stick to laundry. I saw then true love for what it was --- as false as Ru Paul's D-cup. It didn't last past New Years Day. And yes, my heart was broken. I cried and cried like a bride left at the altar. However, I was a lucky boy --- still am. I have a mother like no other. She sat me down, dried my tears and said, "Marty," (I hate being called Marty, but mothers can't be corrected --- at least not mine). "Marty, he was a stranger. Didn't know ya and didn't want to know ya."
Still, I loved what's his name (funny how I forgot his name . . . Frank. Frank . . . that's it. I remember his face, his hands and his hot breath in the night, but I still need to squeeze the corners of my mind for his name). My heart was shattered. No amount of Vivian Powers' insightful advice could bring me around. However, my mother is a straightjacket case at times. Nothing controls her. The few words of advice that she has given throughout my life have stayed with me. So I remember exactly what she said, because it echoes every time I fall in and out of love, whenever Christmas turns into Easter.
"Marty, he was a stranger. Didn't know ya and didn't want to know ya. Just like ya father. None of them are worth the spit they splatter. But always get at least one thing from each of them, and you'll have enough carfare for the Path line to the city, where you can find a better one. In your father's case, I got you, Shithead." (She's so endearing that way, but I'd rather be called Shithead than Marty).
Of course, Viv (I never called her Mom or Mama or Mother dearest --- her choice) was never a proper homemaker. She knew to buy me an ironing board, but only so I could do her ironing. My dad, the mysterious Mr. Powers, gave me my name, which I thought to change from Powers to Jones, because Jones fitted me better. He hadn't stayed around to top the tree with the fairy angel, but I never cared. In fact, Viv told me she wasn't sure who my father was as there were three candidates for the month. All the men in my life were defective, except one. They were all either druggies, old men, flaming queens, drunks, or just lumps on my pillow, except that one; and he . . . well, perhaps he was the most defective of all, because I've never really found my way out of Christmas with him, even though Good Friday has come and gone.
Perhaps I'm the defective one. Perhaps Viv was wrong and I'm the one not worth the splatter. I can't help it. I have standards. Men have taken a gander at me (not bad looking . . . me, that is. Not an ounce of fat, and that without a gym bunny schedule), and picture me in some interlude --- some Act One in their own play. Unfortunately, Act One is always followed by . . . well, you get the drift. Sometimes they hear me sing (and I'm a veritable Lorelei --- first tenor and soloist with the Jersey Gay Sparrow Chorus). Whatever it is, they end by worshipping at my shrine --- the well-pressed sheets from my sacred iron capped by perfectly fluffed pillows. Morning always brings a different light. At night, they are Tom Cruise. At dawn, they transform into the bell ringers of Notre Dame. The grand consolation is that every year brings another Christmas and another handy appliance --- Vive la Viv, my manicurist mother, who brought home lovelier men than I have ever nabbed --- and those without an iron board to entice them.
Despite my gifted voice and inclination for housework, I couldn't live my life under my mother's wing. She scarcely noticed me, her little shithead, who, as I got older, got under foot. I had to close my eyes more than once to her tumbling over the threshold with one or, dare I say, two male companions, who had likkered her up and thought they had her at a disadvantage. Little did they know. They may have had their frolic, but always get at least one thing from each of them, and you'll have enough carfare for the Path line to the city, where you can find a better one. I supposed some day that I would have a little brother or sister and learn to change diapers, scrub bassinets, and all the other happy chores that motherhood brings. But no. Viv just managed a collection of diamonds, pearls and emeralds. They were gaudy things, not to my tastes or I'd have pinched a few. However, as time went on, and I graduated from Red Bank High School, there were more than a few hints from the maternal maw that I should get to college, or a job and, by all means, into my own hermitage, such as it is. The suggestions were subtle in the mornings over coffee and English Muffins. "How's the job hunt coming, dear?" In the evenings --- those hazy evenings a la Viv, the point was sharper. "You're still here, Shithead?" In any case, college was out. Couldn't afford it and no one that I ever knew got a degree in laundry. I could have pursued my vocal training, but that would preclude that I had vocal training to begin with, which I hadn't. I was the youngest member of the Jersey Gay Sparrows, and while the Chicken Hawks often were on my tail, they were also jealous queens seeking to push me aside and away from the prime solos. So I did what any respectful young man that had more than a foot out of the closet would do. I went into retail.
2
Christmas and retail are friends, as close as Marley and Scrooge. In the sprawl of Eatontown Mall stood paradise --- a Christmas chaos called Abraham & Straus. I bought me a suit and got me an interview to swim in the rarified air of departmental retail duties. I saw myself as the perfect go-to person in the linen department. I could live my life in thread count and percale --- heaven on earth. There's nothing like the aroma of fresh linen --- clean and mountainy, with a promise to bless the chest, to caress the shoulders and snuggle the toes with its gentle static-free cling --- an adoration well beyond that of the Magi. However, to my disappointment, the management of the store saw me more as a behind-the-counter type in the men's department amidst a sea of ties and pants and shirts and sweaters. So instead of my Elysian Fields of Canon and Burlington Mills, I was lost to the Forest of Arden --- Men's wear.
Retail didn't pay much, but within six months, my mother awoke to an empty kitchen and asked her question no more. I found an apartment --- not very classy, but it had possibilities. It was a first floor back dealie with a rear entrance and a small courtyard. I couldn't see the ocean from my window, but I could smell the clams when they ripened --- not the most encouraging aroma, but it was my stink and it stunk just fine for me. It was private for when I had my little heartbreak evenings, when the stink was worse than rotting clams, but that too was my stink. I was also within walking distance of the nearest gay bar --- The Cavern, which would be a blessing if I didn't visit it so often, donating my meager income to the latest assortment of fruity refreshments of the adult kind. I was an adult now (barely), so what better way to exhibit that fact than to imbibe a bit, and more than a bit. After all, it was just a stagger across the street, through the alley, along the beach and into my courtyard palace.
So I thrived, after a fashion. Then came Arthur --- Arturo, a stunning man, who wandered home with me one night and never left. Well, Christmas be damned, he did leave, but not fast enough. He stayed for six months, two of which were quite nice actually. He didn't work, so I left my daily bed unmade; and he would be off spending my money at the Cavern by the time I arrived home. It was fine with me. I joined him, and then we'd laugh and play volleyball and run about naked on the beach (after dark, when neighbor eyes were dimmed to see us). However, Christmas came to a close after a sixty-day period, like an expired Library book that I forgot to return. Arturo had another little addiction other than Appletinis and beer. Meth. He was not a Methodist, would that he was, and I am not judgmental when it comes to another man's predilections. However, when the cost is visited upon my bank account and the benefits of the bed fade, I usually become as mad as Queen Mab. My scant income could not compete with his habit. Therefore, he augmented his income with a better-heeled married man who made him his little lunchtime tidbit. Dinners went to a leather daddy who lived in Asbury Park and would pick Arturo up on the corner and redeposit him back there like clockwork. My evenings were spent listening to snores. So we argued.
Arturo turned out to be a mean son-of-a-bitch. He trashed my place one evening, and when I threw him out into the courtyard, he howled like a cat --- my neighbors stirring to call the police, who showed up at my door wondering why a young swishy thing like me would even consider letting a bum like Arturo be my roommate. (We did the roommate thing on the police report). The next day, I took off from work and called my sister, Russ --- a fellow ironing board surfer, who was also a Gay Sparrow and worked in retail. Together, we packed Arturo up and showed him the door. He was more docile in the mornings --- pleading even, but Russ was born with a steel corset. He deposited Arturo on the sand without as much as a z-snap. I was glad to know this tough little baritone from the Tuxedo store --- fiery charm in the declarative and a fine connoisseur of dust ruffles and dainty hand towels. I decided to live alone from that day forward. After all, I'm my mother's son and had to do her proud. But then, Christmas came along and . . .
1
It was Christmas again and through the hallowed doors of Abraham & Straus, lady shoppers prodded and poked through the racks while bored husbands watched the unruly children or passers-by in skirts. I always found it difficult when children ran amuck beneath the forest of ready-to-wear. However, give me an army of the brats rather than the heaps of sweaters the lady shoppers managed to unseat from the counters. Folding. Refolding. No matter how many times I sorted the cashmere into size and color order, the rainbow would unfurl in the wake of the shopping herd.
I had become a master at sweater resettlement on the holiday display. I was also an expert at attacking the shirt table, the browsers unsorting the sizes. Fortunately, the plastic wrap and pins kept the folds intact, except when a particularly nasty specimen of shopper would open the wrap, unpin the shoulders and let the garment drape. There ought to be a law. It was enough to shake me out of my holiday mood, and that was a difficult feat. When I smelled the holly, I was filled with the gift of the ages --- the thoughts of a new vacuum broom and an assortment of attachments --- that is, if Viv read my hints correctly. It was on a day of such mixed feelings, in the wake of a shirt destroying Wildebeest, who frankly was larger than one, when I felt the prickle. Call it good will to men or Wildebeests, but I always knew when the world was sorting me by size and color. A holiday hunch. I twitched, disregarding the mess. I strutted to my counter --- a great glass and wood playpen festooned with tie racks and wallets and key chains. We even had a wide range of gloves --- from rabbit fur lined to Crocodile Dundee --- anything to warm your digits or tickle your fancy. However, I retreated to the counter, because I felt the prickle. I fiddled with my paperwork, not that it needed fiddling, but because I didn't want to appear too interested in anything except my work. I was being watched. The eyes darted from behind the jacket rack. They shifted occasionally to the pants and coats, but always back through the jackets and out to the counter. Watched --- or rather, cruised.
It was not an unusual circumstance. I mean, with my lovely form, many a hoohoo was caught in my fairy ring. The secret was not to acknowledge it too suddenly or too auspiciously. There are rules to this courtship of eyes --- rules that a gay boy learns in the schoolyard and on the fields of Venus. The shopper pretended to be checking out jackets, but he was really checking me out, fishing for a reason to come forward and state his case --- a wink perhaps, or a subtle stroke near the crotch. I was flattered. He wasn't bad looking, although a bit gruffer than my usual type. He had a five-o'clock shadow and it was scarcely three. He wore a strange thing for New Jersey --- a straw cowboy hat --- a bit too small for his head, but with all the rhinestone cowboys on the Jersey shore, why not a buckaroo shopper grazing in the jacket rack.
I kept to my paperwork, but peeked to see his progress. I had nothing planned tonight. Well, nothing special. I meant to head to the Cavern with Russ and lift the eggnog in song with a rag-tag collection of Jersey Gay Swallows. However, art never belayed a rugged cowboy in the jacket thickets. I couldn't stretch the paper game for too much longer. The stacks would be a mess soon, and if you get too far behind, the place would look like Filenes' basement instead of A&S' finest. I remember that the prickle suddenly ceased. I darted about and the eyes were gone. Shoot! I then remember spotting the ugliest tie I had ever seen in my cravat forest --- a neon purple thing with a subtle charcoal fleck through the fabric. Yuck. That will never sell. I stole another glance toward the jackets, but my cruiser was gone.
"I hate Christmas," came a voice, which didn't startled me, because I knew it well.
It was Russ. I just ignored him and stroked the ugly purple tie.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard you. You hate Christmas, although any sissy worth his salt wouldn't brag about it. Watch out or I'll cut up your gay membership card."
Russ leaned on the glass top.
"I just polished that," I complained. I really hadn't, but the nerve of the man. He should know better. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"I'm on break, hon," Russ announced. "And did I mention? I hate Christmas."
I had had this conversation about Christmas with Russ for every Christmas since ninth grade. Still, I had to say it. "Best time of the year for retail. Fresh merchandise. Lot's of hungry shoppers. Plenty of fabric in hand, and sales, sales, sales."
"Not to mention, no rest for the weary," Russ said.
"Well, rest ye Merry Mary men, dearie, but not on my glass counter."
Russ pouted. "This girl's feet are in the Pearl Bailey zone."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch. I wish I had a boss like yours in that fucking shoebox you work in. If I walked away from my counter as many times as you walked out of Tux and Ties, I'd be shit-canned."
Russ stifled a yawn. I ignored it. He was always trying to get my goat.
"Formal wear," he said, with his usual condescending campy air. "Formal wear just doesn't sell like this crap from Santa's elves." He brushed his hand through the ties --- my ties --- even that ugly purple tie that you couldn't give away at a tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. "Besides, when you work in retail, never work big and schlock. Work exclusive. Work for perks."
Suddenly, he grasped my arm and I felt the prickle again. I knew that prickle didn't come from Russ. We were too much the sisters to generate any steam. His head lowered and his voice dropped.
"Honey, honey, honey," he mumbled. "Look at that perk in the jacket racks. Maybe I should start working in schlock retail."
My cruiser was back --- eyes, hat and five o-clock shadow.
"Don't be so obvious, Russ. He's been checking me out for the last half-hour. But you know how it goes. They come in, look at this pretty ass, wink and wait, and then they open their mouths. And there it ends."
"Give it a chance, hon."
"They're all strangers. Don't know me and don't want to know me."
I gave a start. It was as if Viv stood beside me, her stringy raven hair kissing her shoulders --- her Estee Lauder aroma dripping over the glass. I was my mother's son. Shithead. Russ conveyed a stern look of gay wisdom. He had been around the block more than I had --- danced more, screwed more, and was beat up more. In many ways, just like Viv, only with more verve than the manicurist's hippie heritage. Less flower power. More Scarlet O'Hara.
"I know these over-the-counter encounters," Russ said. He fanned himself with his hand. "Who knows? Perhaps a little Christmas cheer would do us all some good. You know, a little pick-me-up." He glanced toward the racks. "He doesn't look so little to me, hon. There might be a stallion under that cowboy lid."
"Don't encourage me," I said. And I was encouraged. After all, it was Christmas, the time of the year I would pick up the matching gift to go with the vacuum broom. "That's what I love about you, Russ. You're so practical. You're encouraging me to pick up a man while I'm on the clock. Do you want me to lose my job?"
"Not much of a job, you know. Still, it pays the electric bill in that little shanty you maintain, I suppose; especially now that Mr. Meth is gone."
That pissed me off. I ran my hands forcefully through the ties, spinning them in their carousel. I wished Russ would toddle back to that fru fru mall shop that employed him --- employed him to take a break every hour. Russ bowed, not in forgiveness, but because it annoyed me.
"Sorry," he said. "Perhaps, that one over there's a millionaire on the prowl. A Texas oil man."
"A millionaire who shops at A&S. Give me a fucking break. And, speaking about breaks, isn't yours up?"
Russ careened on the counter despite my admonishing against his fingerprints on my well-polished counter top.
"Listen to your Auntie Russ. Never pass up an opportunity to take what is rightfully somebody else's."
"Listen to your Sister Martin. That's the fastest ticket to hell. I know."
"Hell, girl. According to the Pope, you and I are going to hell --- table for two reserved on the aisles. Best seats in the house, waiting for the devil's striptease."
"Shoo. Back to work."
A lady shopper appeared at the sweater stacks and looked like she needed help.
"Shouldn't you be helping her?" Russ said, winking. "Some retailer you are."
I turned my attention to the shopper, while Russ scooted over to the jacket rack, probably to get a better look at the mystery man. Russ was such a bitch at times. I guess if I wasn't interested in my stalker, Russ wanted a gander. He took table scraps if offered --- hell, even if not offered. I don't know why we became such friends. Maybe it was the Viv in him I loved. He had the same daring fuck the world, I don't want to get off attitude. It was like having a portable mother and one that probably cared for me more. After all, I was Mrs. Powers' little accident, not that she neglected her maternal duties. However, I was always that complication in her life that didn't fit well into the rest of the puzzlement that life really is.
"Can I help you?" I asked the shopper, but really had my eyes averted to the jacket rack.
The shopper smiled dimly, her yellow teeth flashing a wanton smile.
"Can I show you something?" I insisted.
She ignored me. She was wasting my time. Why did they always think their time was more valuable than mine? By the time she moved away, the cruiser was gone, probably fleeing at Russ' approach. Russ returned, like snagglepuss.
"He wasn't that good looking," he announced. "Good ass, medium hands and about a nine and a half shoe."
"You scared him off. Where did he go?"
"Well, you know your chances of . . ."
Suddenly, he was back. He emerged from behind the leather jackets and approached the counter. I slipped back behind the glass, pushing Russ away.
"Okay, girlfriend, your break's up. Disappear."
Russ didn't budge.
"Leave," I whispered. I introduced a sinister malevolence into my voice, a demonic grunting that Russ could not interpret any other way than get out of here now or I'll kill you with a clean heart. Russell snarled like a cat, but flitted away. And he's at least a size eleven shoe, I remembered thinking.
2
The man stopped just short of the counter. He wasn't as rugged as I first thought. He had a lovely face and a slight mustache, which blended into his shadowy beard intentionally to increase my prickle. He was also shorter than I expected. Distance is a hard judge of these particulars, and I was just peeking after all. Staring gets you nowhere. I busied myself with the ties. Still, the man made no move toward his business. I knew I would need to help this along. He didn't look like a shy guy, but what does a shy guy look like? Nothing ventured, so I stopped my tie fiddling and assumed my best retail pose.
"Did you want me to match something up?" I asked, punctuated with a pixie smile. That always worked to get them off a dime.
Then he fixed me with his eyes --- frosty blue. I trembled. It wiped my pixie smile away. I had never seen such a gracious look in all my days on this here Jersey shore. Sea blue eyes --- Caribbean seas reflecting pink sands.
"I was thinking," he said. He had a distinct drawl --- something past Louisiana, perhaps down El Paso way. "I was thinking of a tie to go with . . ."
"To go with . . ." I asked, heading him off at the pass, Amigo. "To go with a particular shirt? I can match one up for you, if you pick out the shirt."
He came closer, shifting from one foot to the other. I remember wanting to steady him with my hand. Stop bobbing, man. You're making me seasick.
"Well, actually, it's a gift," he drawled.
A gift. Father or lover? I thought.
"Great," I snapped, suddenly less pixie and more employee of the month. "Then, you don't need to match it to anything but a personality. Is he a relative?"
"No. Not really."
"Well, does he like silk? Designer names?" I frittered through the tie racks, my hands sweeping dangerously close to that ugly, purple tie. I stopped at the French stuff. "These paisleys are all the rage."
"Do you like them?" he asked.
I winced. Why should that matter? You've spent all this time cruising me from the jacket rack, only to ask me if I like the paisleys. Better to talk about the weather.
"No. Not really. Too busy. They clash with stripes. I think they'll be out of fashion as fast as they came in."
The man swallowed, casting his eyes toward the tie spindle.
"Well, if you were picking something out for . . . for a special friend, what would you pick out?"
Special friend? I was crestfallen. Another waste of my time. My eye swept across the tie display now resting, as vengeance dictated, on the one tie that was beyond human nature to wear --- the ugly, neon purple tie. Hideous. I plucked it off the rack with considerable élan.
"This one," I said, trying not to laugh.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He snatched at it as if it was a raw piece of liver. "The color is a bit . . . well, very hard to match with anything. I don't know." He peeked at the price tag. "Wow," he said. "Well, I'll be guided by your judgment. It's a special gift. I'll take it."
"Great," I said. I regretted it. It was a rough joke to play on such a cute man. He was a bit rough around the edges --- square jawed and stocky shouldered. "Do you need a box?"
"Yep."
"Gift wrap? We offer free gift-wrap. Just go up the escalator to the right."
"No . . . ah . . . um . . . no gift wrap."
I folded the tie over my hand. Hideous, but expensive. It almost bit me. I thought to pull it back and tell him my tastes were as peculiar as a pimple on the Pope, but, what the hell, I was too embarrassed to fess up.
"You can't go wrong with Givenchy, sir," I said instead. "Good choice." The customer is always right, even if the customer was shopping for some unsuspecting friend who will open the box and probably puke.
"A bit eye opening," he said.
"Breaks the ice at parties."
"Yep. Breaks the ice."
"Credit card?"
"Yep, A&S."
"Good. That'll be $36.99."
I rang up the sale while the man still fidgeted. Then, he tapped on the glass. I noticed fingerprints on the glass top, damn that Russ.
"I was . . ."
"Yes?"
"I was also wondering . . ."
"Did you need shirts or socks . . . socks for those . . . big . . . well, underwear maybe?"
"No, thanks."
"Then, Merry Christmas," I said, handing him the bag.
"Thank you. You too."
The man turned quickly, but then hesitated again. He turned back.
"Did you forget something?" I asked, hoping. Second thoughts on the color. "Did I forget to return your credit card?"
"Well, no," he said. He gazed to the ceiling. He really appeared shaken. Finally, he cropped his elbows on the counter and met my eyes squarely --- Caribbean blue meets Carrara black marble. "You know, I've never did anything like this before," he stammered. "If I'm out of line or offend you, please . . ."
I leaned in now. This one needed the full bull pull. I whispered in his ear.
"I'll save you the time. I'm family also and . . . I've been watching you too."
"Oh, thank God," he declared. He closed his eyes as if he were in church set to shout his hallelujahs. "That's such a relief, I can't tell you."
"We're everywhere, you know. But you wanted to ask me something."
"Yes. I was wondering if you'd like to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee or something?"
Ah, the coffee ceremonial, I thought. At last.
"And what kind of something did you have in mind?" I remember laughing. He sighed, his eyes darting toward the floor. This was a tender flower --- a gentle cornflower eyed gentleman. I had to be careful not to crush him with my raging sunflower flare. I reached across the counter. "I thought you'd never ask."
He brightened.
"Then, that's a yes?"
"That's a yes," I said. "I'm off in an hour. There's a coffee shop by the Tux and Tie rental shop. Old World Coffee. Do you know where?"
"On the first floor. Yep."
Suddenly, I spied the woman, who probably decided she wanted one of those damn expensive sweaters. Now that the deed was done, I had to get back to work, although the prickling was incessant now.
"I'll see you there, then. By the way, I'm Martin."
"Matthew." He offered me his hand. A gentleman, are we? I gave it a shake. "My friend's call me Matt." How original. "In an hour. I'll be there."
Matt walked off forgetting the package. Suddenly, remembering it, he returned and snatched it off the counter.
"In an hour. I'll be there."
What a rube, I thought as I watched Matthew disappear into the mall. I twitched. The prickle was gone. Strange how that feeling came and went with this guy. Strange? There was something in the air --- other than Christmas carols and retail and shoppers and ugly, neon purple ties. I felt a spark of eventuality --- those instances in life when fate transcends the folding of sweaters and games in the jacket rack. I am a child of Christmas, ever since I opened that long ago long-box with the ironing board and thanked flaky Viv for the best gift in the whole wide world. However, with the departure of the prickle, time seemed to fold on me --- something kindling, echoing over the counter, trailing like fishing line to some indiscernible point at sea. I still wasn't certain whether this over-the-counter encounter was a gift from Santa. The ironing board still might have been better, but the sea ebbs and flows, and I was drifting. If I was a child of Christmas, then why did it feel like the Fourth of July?
I was not generally a clock-watcher, but I was that day. I shuffled through seven or eight more sales, and then decided that my shift was up. My relief had shown up early and I took advantage of him. He came to sort out the register and when he turned around, I was gone --- not as much as a Christmas card. If there were adjustments to be made, we'd do it on that madness called "the day-after Christmas sales bonanza." Whatever. I grabbed my coat and kit and scurried out into the bright neon of Eatontown Mall. Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind. What if this urban cowboy was just pulling my chain? It had happened before. I'd be pissed. But why? The world didn't turn on his balmy eyes. Yet, it had been some time since I had dumped Arturo and, being wary of the next crop of pick-ups from The Cavern, it had been a dry spell. It was Christmas, after all. I saw the Ties and Tux shop on the right hand rise. Old World Coffee would be coming up soon.
Old World Coffee was a sweet affair with a European-style bistro jutting out into the mall --- a perfect place for sitting alone and watching the countenances of those about us. Alone was sometimes good. I liked my space, but Old World Coffee was also a great place for cruising men or whatever floats your boat. In the cowboy's case, it was a place to fidget and pace. I saw him at once --- his distress and impatience. He fumbled with an iced coffee as he watched every person that passed by. I was relieved. He was anxious to find me. I bet he saw a dozen possibilities, but there was just no one like me in this mall or any other. I'm not vain, but I have a particular presence that takes the stage. Whenever I managed to land a solo with the Jersey Gay Sparrows, the audience was entranced long before I opened my mouth and treated them to my glorious tenor voice. No, not vain at all.
"Thank God," he stammered.
I swung into the bistro and took my place with my usual presence and flare.
"I'm right on time."
"You didn't really say, what time."
He sat, his head bowed, but his eyes peering up --- an odd position giving him the glam of servitude. I wasn't sure I liked that. It might have served Uriah Heep well, but it was all too fussy for the coffee ceremonial.
"I said, in an hour."
"You did, but . . . my watch stopped."
Now that seemed like a lie, or an excuse for starting on a bad foot.
"Well, I'm here now. I had a big sale at the end of my shift." Since we were lying, what the hell.
"Another purple tie?" Matt asked.
"No," I said. "Yours was my biggest sale of the day. Are you finished your coffee, already?"
Matt sipped through the straw.
"Actually," he drawled. "I've had two cups and one of these icy things."
"You'll be pissing razor blades. I've had my quota of coffee for the day, so I'm going to get one of those big fucking chocolate chip cookies."
Matt hesitated, and then hopped over to the counter. This gave me a chance to size him up from the back, something I really didn't get a chance to do earlier. I liked what I saw. I just wished he wasn't so fidgety. He tapped on the cookie counter, and rocked on his feet. I felt like getting up and anchoring him. I didn't understand why he was so nervous. Surely, this wasn't his first time fishing in the mall for a beautiful trout like me. I mean, this sort of thing is Gay Pick-up 1.1, taught in Miss Pearly Bottoms fifth grade faggot class. I sighed thinking that I might have picked up another loser. The fidgeting could be more than just the coffee. I watched carefully to see if he scratched --- a sure sign of a heroin addict. I wasn't going to hang around a druggie tonight, especially at Christmas when the only dust should be Tinkerbelle's.
He returned, cookie in hand, held out to me like a votive candle. He smiled nervously. I grasped the chocolate chip host and took it between my fingers. He stared at me, never blinking. It made me nervous, so I broke the cookie and offered him half, which he took, gobbling it in two bites. Hungry dude, and now with an additional caffeine jolt, he might just bounce around the mall. I ate my half more lady-like, not as Viv taught me, but as Miss Julie Andrews would.
Where to begin? We just couldn't sit there over the empty iced coffee cup and crumbs, and make google eyes at each other. I reached into my conversation log, and not far from the surface, mind you.
"Matt," I said, with a Cheshire grin, not beguiling, but certainly breaking the ice. "Do you cruise the Mall often?"
"Cruise?"
"You know, search for human companionship."
"Never," he said. "What kind of person do you think I am? I'm not some easy guy starving for something better than a cookie."
He sounded offended, but the truth was the truth. If he weren't cruising, then just what definition would he place upon his conduct? It was cruising by every definition I knew, Miss Pearly Bottoms and all that. I tried to rescue the comment.
"Well, maybe you're not easy. But you cruised me for at least a half-hour, with all the skill of seasoned hunter. Then, you came and babbled all that crap about never having done this before."
"Well, I haven't. I come to the Mall to shop."
"I bet you do."
"No, really," he protested. "I've seen good looking men in the mall before, but I never had an interest, or at least the courage to further an acquaintance."
"Further an acquaintance?" I said. "I like that. I really like the way you talk. What do you do? Are you into the writing arts?"
"No. Computers."
"Computers? Really?"
I had little interest in computers. They were just a toy you played Pac Man on, and I hadn't the inclination. However, I knew a money job when I heard one. They don't want to know ya, but take something away. How mercenary Viv had inclined me. I shook my head hoping that her near-cat house morals would flee to the parking lot.
"I work at Axum Labs," Matt continued. "I'm a researcher. I also write code for PCs."
"PCs. I'd like to get one of those," I lied. Where would I put it? All those fucking wires would need dusting. "They're hot. My friend Russ has a Commodore. He's got this flight simulator game, he plays for hours." When he wasn't playing with himself, that is.
"I don't write game code," Matt said, as if I was really carrying on an earnest conversation. "I'm mostly into network research. You know --- connectivity and packets."
"Packets? Sounds like interesting work. Have you done it long?"
"Since April. My folks moved up from Texas. My Dad's a civilian expert for the Air Force at Maguire."
"Military brat?"
"Something like that. He's been here a while. I stayed back, finished my schooling and lived like any homeboy should."
"Homeboy?"
"Houston."
"I knew you were an urban cowboy. Do you ride those mechanical bulls?"
He swiped his hat off and laughed. I finally saw his hair --- a bit mussed from the cap, but jet-black, a mass of sexy curls, a perfect accompaniment to his eyes. I decided then, he could be mainlining silly putty, he would be my date for the night.
"Shoot! I'm no cowboy. I'm a homeboy, from the Melrose."
"I thought you said, Houston."
"Melrose is in Houston. It's the gay homeboy's real estate."
"The ghetto."
"You can call it that, if you want. Yes, call it that." He smiled. My heart dropped. He was speaking now, and it was like listening to a sparkling quartet by Mozart.
"So your dad got transferred to Jersey and you followed."
"No. I stayed in Melrose for some time after he left, but there was an opportunity to work at Axum Labs, so I came up here. Work's good --- have my own place here, in town, and the folks are close by --- Mom, Dad and sister Mary."
Sounded like the holy family to me, especially sister Mary. He had a full set and all I had was a manicurist version of Cher, who called me shithead and was glad I wasn't under foot. I had heard enough. Any more information and I'd puke. I wasn't about to divulge my life history. He already knew what I did for a living and where. 'nuff said. However, I ventured one additional query --- just out of curiosity.
"So you're out to your family."
"Out?" He gave me a quizzical look as if I had been speaking Turkish instead of Faggolish. "You mean, do they know I'm a gay guy?"
He said this with such bravado and so loudly, I winced. I was out and about, but I didn't want the whole State of New Jersey to know it. One of these sweet shoppers might be carrying a baseball bat or a Lugar. The days of I believe in fairies hadn't dawned yet, even in the great liberal Northeast.
"Shhh. Yes. No need to go on Public Radio about it."
He lowered his head and his voice, almost to a whisper.
"They've known for an age, and they are mighty fine with it."
Mighty fine? Wasn't that a pudding?
"Even sister Mary?"
"Especially my sister. You see, if a homeboy doesn't have his family, he's got nothing. When daddy moved away, I was lost."
"You didn't have a boyfriend?"
Matt looked askance. I had hit a nerve. Didn't mean to do it, but he could have just as well asked if I had one, a boyfriend that is, not a nerve. That wouldn't have even broken a nail.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't men to pry."
"That's okay. I'm not just ready to talk about it."
"So don't." I finished my cookie, and then farted about looking for the next words out of Dodge. "So, what does a homeboy do for fun on a cold, wintry night in New Jersey?"
"Actually," he said. "I haven't had too much fun since I've been here."
"How depressing. So you came to the mall looking for an expert in matching ties to customer's tastes and fancy."
"To a career boy," Matt remarked.
"Now, Mr. PC programmer, don't you mock retail." I tried to mime his drawl. It sounded a bit like a Brooklyn knock-off of Mae West. "Where else can you fart and fuss over Yves St Laurent without having to buy him? The clientele can be real frustrating and the management a sack of shit, but every once in a while an angel face comes along and invites me . . . to have a cup of coffee."
"But you're not even drinking the coffee," Matt said, not unkindly.
"No, we're shopping. I'm in the market for eyes today." He stared at me again and I was pinned like a butterfly. "And . . . that's what I got. A pair of eyes in a size ten shoe."
"Twelve."
My young heart went Titanic.
"Oh, honey," I said. "Go to twelve and a half and I'll forget the eyes altogether and well be in the market for BVDs. So, you are in retail, after all."
He chuckled. It was a sonorous chuckle --- drawled even. Nice match for my Ave Maria voice.
"You're funny," he said. "You make me laugh. I need to laugh."
"At Christmas time, we all need to laugh. What we need is a visit to my friend Russell."
"Russell?"
I pointed to Tux and Ties.
"In there, the queenliest queen you've ever met. Makes me look like Joe Namath. A real hoot, and . . . my best friend. C'mon."
"Well, I don't know. I was thinking just you and me could . . ."
"Of course. But we need a venue. Nothing's done in a vacuum, except the carpeting. Let's see what Russ' got planned for tonight."
Matt slid into gloom.
"Now, you don't need to do anything you don't want to do."
"Oh, I want to go have some fun. I like fun, but . . . I mean . . . I don't even know your last name. I know nothing about you."
"What's there to know? Are you writing my autobiography or are you spinning me around your size twelve shoes? If we like each other then, I'll tell you everything from my cradle roots to the time I sold you that purple tie."
Suddenly, my heart hitched. He had bought that tie for a special friend. Now perhaps that was the rub, but I didn't want to know. I pulled him up from the table.
"So what'll it be?"
He sighed, but then smiled, his hat re-registered over his raven curls.
"Tux and Ties," he said. "Lead on."
"This time only," I said. "I generally don't lead."
We scooted out of the bistro, the ceremonial concluded. We were on to the more developed portion of the dance card. Suddenly, I turned to him.
"Powers," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"My last name. It's Powers."
He laughed.
"Kieler," he barked, his hand outstretched for a good ole homeboy shake.
I grasped it, although upon hearing his last name, I could only think one thing: Ruby.
1
Tux and Ties proved to be a quiet cove, since few weddings and proms take place at Christmas. However, I knew that next week would bustle as New Year's proved to be a better stimulus for formal wear. Still, Russ found something to keep him busy; a customer with a size thirteen shoe, Holy Mother of God. I dragged Matt in through the casements and called for assistance. The place appeared abandoned, but I knew better. I spied four legs behind the curtain to the dressing room. Russ was taking measurements as only he could. I cleared my throat, but to no avail. Matt appeared embarrassed, but did chuckle. He slouched on the glass case, constantly gazing back out to the mall.
Finally, I announced in a loud voice, "Anyone see a fruitcake? I've seemed to have lost my fruitcake."
The curtain swished open, the customer adjusting his pants and my friend Russ pouting like Butterfly McQueen.
"Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Fancy dress ball?" I asked.
"No," said the customer. He was a looker, every bit his shoe size. He had soft tawny curls and was a head taller than Russ. "A little private party."
"So I see."
"No, you don't," Russ snapped, striding toward the counter. "But who have we here? The man from the jacket racks."
Matt fidgeted, blinking his gorgeous eyes. I wanted to smack Russ, but we had come to his haven for the evening's itinerary, after all. So I accepted a little pay back.
"Russ, this is Matt."
Russ smiled, and then touched Matt's hat brim.
"Ride 'em, cowboy." He turned to the customer. "And this is . . . what's your name?"
"Chris," said the giant --- a gentle enough looking giant. He'd be a great bookmark in the club later.
I reached for Chris' hand --- a massive hand, and as I did Russ winked.
"I'm Martin."
"Good name," Chris said. I blinked.
"So," I said, resolved that introductions were complete. "Are we off to The Cavern, or is your private party drifting into the back room?"
"Don't be silly," Russ snapped. "Business is business. I'll just finish these measurements and I'll meet you there in an hour." He glanced at Chris, who grinned. "Maybe two."
Matt was halfway to the door. I didn't think he cared too much for Russ. My flighty sister was an acquired taste, after all. To know him was to love him . . . simple soul that . . . well, there has only been one Russ amongst us, thank God. Where would we find another?
I didn't want to lose Matt's interest, so I bid Russ and Mr. Thirteen-inch shoe a farewell, and then headed for the parking lot. Matt drove a Ford Cherokee (go figure) and he followed my piece of shit Honda Civic to Long Branch. My little heart went pittipat, but I was trying to keep myself in gear. Every time I peeked through the rear view mirror, I expected to see something other than a blue Cherokee and a cowboy hat. However, he stayed the course.
Dusk closed in, and even more so. It felt like snow. I didn't mind. It had been a mild winter so far --- cold, but nothing more than rain. I loved a white Christmas, especially if I was getting a Christmas present --- a vacuum broom. What did you think I meant? Still, I kept myself in rein. We'd park the cars near my apartment and go directly to The Cavern. If my cowboy --- from Houston --- why no, ma'am; from Melrose --- the queers and steers ghetto --- if he wandered off with another filly or proved to be a bad drunk, I'd save myself a holiday headache, although I had plenty of Motrin. Who knows? Perhaps he could sing. I would soon find out as the Jersey Gay Sparrows would be roosting at The Cavern tonight to warble a pink version of an ersatz Christmas concert --- a few carols and a Chanukah melody. I had a solo.
I parked in my usual spot facing toward the beach, and then immediately directed Matt to the visitor's lot across the street. It's funny how we do things by rote, so much so they become lost in a haze of more important memories. However, I recall the precise logistics of that first date, for that was what this was. First dates were always awkward. Did he adjust his hair and hat before turning off the engine? Did he lock the doors? Did he hesitate before crossing the street? And, most important, did he take my hand or did he shuffle beside me down the street? In fact, Matthew Kieler didn't hesitate, nor did he straighten his hair and hat or lock the truck door. He just strode to my side, and then rocked awaiting my directions. So I hooked myself on his arm and moved him along the street to The Cavern's entrance. He only said one thing as we moseyed along. I'll never forget it.
"This place must be pretty in summer."
And I thought, do you mean to stay around and find out?
2
The Cavern usually didn't awake until eleven or nearer to midnight, but it was Christmas, so the regulars were already there and in a festive mood. Extra activities tonight --- a leather Santa and a subset of us Jersey Sparrows and the Monmouth contingency of the Errata Erastes Choir, our local Lesbian warblers (or grunters --- whatever your perspective). So The Cavern percolated early that evening. I remember it well --- Teddy Fitz manning the bar, his rippling muscles shining under the flashing Budweiser sign, and Gus the Bouncer, not collecting the cover charge yet, which didn't kick in until eight o'clock. He was a burly bear, but as tender as a teddy, but not like Teddy Fitz, who was everyone's sweetheart --- the bearer of the sweet liquid ambrosia a la tap and shaker. The cute busboy Nick was on duty and that hotty --- what's his name . . . Scott or . . . Steve --- something with an S. He was sizzling, but quiet --- a memorable sight nonetheless. I can still see him in my mind's eye, even though he's passed beyond the shadow. Then there was Bobby, the waiter --- eyes filled with magnetic trouble, everyone caught in his trace.
The bar was bellied with the beach bums --- Sam, Kurt and Mother. They weren't really bums, but they always seemed to be at the bar from the time I entered to the time I left --- never failing. Mother was the oldest specimen of drag queen to my acquaintance. He must have been seventy and I would love to spin his story, if it were known. However, it was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Mother, with his sagging falsies, shabby feather boa and askew lipstick was a fixture at The Cavern --- as ubiquitous as the barstools.
The Cavern was unique. Thinking about it, years before the fire that razed it to rubble, the place had three huge rooms --- a front bar, a dance floor (actually two dance floors) and a back bar. The back bar opened onto a volleyball court, where in summer we could watch the players volley in their all-together. In winter, the court was a vacancy between the back bar and the shack. The shack had yet another bar --- more intimate and the place for pick-ups.
The Cavern was just that. The walls and ceiling were tan stucco, sculptured into stalagmites. The floor, except the dance areas, was uneven and gravelly. Bruce Q., the owner and a real queer StarWars geek, was inspired by the outpost bar on Mos Eisley. I often imagined Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo drifting in from the beach in search of the Millennium Falcon. The room was hung with a variety of rubbery and plastic cave creatures. The most fascinating was a thing Bruce Q. called the Zippilin, a cross between a bat and a cat. He had it rigged on a cable and, every once in a while, the thing would go sailing over the dance floor and yap like a Zippilin, however a Zippilin yapped. Scared the crap out of new visitors. The veterans just howled.
When I pulled Matt into The Cavern, no one was dancing. No one dared, even though Carlos, the DJ, spun platters. No one dared trip over the dance floor before the bewitching hour, when Donna Summer blared over the two eight foot speakers. I waved to Teddy Fitz and to Sam and Kurt, and then presented Matt to Mother. Matt was withdrawn, but that didn't discourage me. As the Christmas elves spread the spirit, I believed he would come to life. He was a product of a gay ghetto after all --- Melrose.
"Mother," I said. "May I introduce you to my friend, Matt?"
Mother's face broke into a clownish smile. She raised her tattered begloved hand for my caress. Matt looked away --- nerves bubbling. Drag queens might have been his discomfort zone --- at least seventy-year-old chicken-boned crones like Mother. I learned that some gay men shunned drag queens, perhaps sensing their own inner Ethel Merman wanting to pop out and sing That's Entertainment. This reaction was not unique.
"Matt?" I nudged.
"Glad to meet you, Miss."
"It's Mother," croaked The Cavern's icon. "Make yourself at home. Mi casa is su casa."
Mother had somehow made the place her own over the years, the poor dear. I knew she would launch into a history of Long Branch and the good old days when the boardwalk stood proud over the gay community, who frolicked under it. However, Matt already drifting away. I nodded to Mother, and then nudged Matt along the bar.
"What'll you have?" I asked.
"Corona with lime," Matt said. "And I'm paying."
I grinned. Was this to be my Sugar Daddy for the evening --- Computer Programmer cash? Merry Christmas, Martin.
"Teddy, a Corona with lime and my usual."
My usual changed from season to season, but it was, if I recall at the time, a thing called a Suffering Bastard --- a double rum and Curacao concoction with more fruit juice than a gay orgy.
The drinks were duly prepared and served on holiday napkins.
"Where's your elves hat?" I asked Teddy.
He laughed, and then plundered the bar for a pink stocking hat. On him it looked like a head condom. Matt laughed, and it was about time.
3
It seemed like an eternity before The Cavern filled up. We drank in near silence except for the occasional comment on the decorations, but how long can you talk about balls --- well, the glass kind, at least? I now thought that Matt's shyness would dampen the evening, but every time I thought to steer us around and exit past Gus the Bouncer, another acquaintance would pop through the vestibule and under the stalagmites. Things became lively when the Leather Santa arrived --- ho ho ho. He was in red-coated leather from top to waist, and then wore lacey leggings with his ass hanging out the back, as any appropriate Leather Santa should. His beard was not the fake department store variety. It was real and as white as . . . well you get the idea. When he bounced through the foyer, his pack of porn calendars on his back, the place exploded in laughter. Christmas was here at last. Even Matt roared at the sight. Although, how much was soulful glee and how much Corona with lime, I couldn't fathom.
"C'mon," I said, pulling Matt off his too permanent stool.
"What? Where?"
"The back bar. Santa wants to take a picture of us."
"I don't photograph well."
"Hell. We all look like shit when sitting on Leather Santa's lap."
A queue had already formed and the music had changed to Deck the Hall with Balls of Folly.
"And what should Santa bring you, little boy?"
I giggled, Santa's bony knee up my ass, and Matt blushing on the other knee.
"A vacuum broom. And it better have all the attachments."
Flash.
"Oh, attachments," Santa roared. "And what might you be doing with those attachments?"
"Never you mind," I said, standing abruptly --- so abruptly, Santa's other knee gave way, Matt sliding to the floor, his cowboy hat flying off. Mother retrieved it. She donned it and on her, it was the stuff of nightmares.
"Did you lose this?" she asked.
Matt's good spirits fled. He snapped it off Mother's head, brushed it off (the hat, not the head) and rushed back to the front bar. I shrugged, and then followed.
I fully expected that he would be gone. Why do I pick these guys? Where did they come from? I gather them like moss on a log.
I got to the edge of the empty dance floor, and then halted. My flighty Texan hadn't fled. In fact, he seemed as companionable as ever at the bar and with . . . Russ, who flitted in the shadow of Customer Chris, who from a distance bookmarked the stalagmites.
"Is that your date du jour?" came a voice, a rather masculine voice. I knew it couldn't be one of my fairy companions.
"Of course that's our Martin's latest squeeze," came a silkier voice.
I turned. It was my favorite ladies, if ladies you could call them --- Ginger and Leslie. We hugged. Ginger, she of the deep voice and butch hair and beer belly, was less a hug than a tackle. However, Leslie's stylish coif tickled my nose. I had known these two forever --- or at least it seemed so. They both sang in the Errata Erastes Choir --- Leslie a soprano --- Ginger, bass.
"Which one?" Ginger asked. "The tall drink of water or the cowboy?"
"That's no question," Leslie said. "The cowboy. We didn't bring our Martin up to use a stepladder in bed. Besides, he's more Russ' type. Right?"
"Correct, you are," I chirped.
"Well, he's cute," Ginger said.
"Like you would know," Leslie chimed in. "If he had tits, you might dance a hoe down there, but he's definitely mucho macho, with that shadowy chin and those . . ."
"Dreamy eyes," I said. "But I'm afraid he's broken."
Ginger tugged my waist, nearly breaking my back.
"They're all defective."
"At least, the ones you've picked up."
"Standard fare for you, Martin dear."
"Why should you be surprised?"
I pulled away.
"Stop it. It's Christmas and I won't be denied my New Year's broken heart."
"So you're getting all the way to New Years?" Ginger asked.
"Shush, Ginger," Leslie said. "He's been known to get as far as Three King's Day."
They roared, but went suddenly demure, gathering me close.
"Queens at ten o'clock," Ginger said.
I followed her finger, and sure as hell, in came three of the most obnoxious members of the Jersey Sparrows --- from their Pennsylvania nest. Todd Moorehouse, a professional type and snob, his anti-Christ side kick, Padgett Anderson, a hair-dresser of tri-state renown, and Mortimer Levine, an unproduced playwright, although you'd think he was Edward Albee, if you believed what he told you. They strutted into The Cavern as if they were bats and owned the crevices. Guano, I thought. They immediately pranced toward Matt with all the élan of Eleanor Roosevelt in New Guinea.
"You should save him," Ginger said.
"If Todd gets his ear, he won't be able to hold up that cowboy hat."
I didn't need to be told twice. The other chorus members were closing in also. They must have come in a choral caravan. They traipsed across the threshold in duos and trios, all sizes, shapes and degrees of camp. However, my concern was my date. I wouldn't mind Matt joining the chorus, if he could sing, but Todd, Padgett and Mortimer were a troika from the Otterson clan, a rich New Birch entrepreneur, who, in my personal opinion, should stay in Oz and await a house to fall on him. I had my experiences with that coven. I got to the bar just as Todd opened his chubby mouth.
"Todd," I said.
Padgett flanked me, and then reached behind toward Matt.
"Who do we have here?" Paddy asked.
Matt was talking about life in Melrose with Chris the Customer, but Padgett interrupted him mid-sentence. Matt stammered.
"Christmas," Mortimer said. "Bah, humbug."
"Just because we only sang one Chanukah carol at the concert, you've become a bitter queen."
"Become?" Paddy echoed.
"And I was going to buy you a drink," Mort said.
"That would be the day," came a rugged voice. Ginger.
"Ah, the bulldogs are here."
Ginger growled, while Leslie chuckled.
"But no one answered my question?" Paddy complained.
"Why we only sang one Chanukah song? They're not called carols."
"No." Padgett turned again toward Matt, but Russ stepped into the fray.
"Which one of you knows the line-up?" he asked.
"That would be me," Todd said.
"Don't believe him. The only line-up he knows was after that raid in Baghdad."
"Now, don't knock it," Todd said. "Iraq had its moments."
"Well, if you two don't know," Russ said.
Todd and Padgett gave each other their usual withering glance. I never understood them. They were like oil and water, but were inseparable, always feeding off their essential differences. I guess they were a microcosm of the world, and thus we orbit. In either event, they marched to the small dance floor, calling the rest of the choir to attention.
"They're sure jittery," Matt said.
"That they are, love."
I remembered that he smiled, a foam mustache hugging his bristling upper lip. I wanted to lick that foam away. Here was a stranger. They don't know ya. They don't wanna know ya. In fact, he was stranger than other strangers that I had met --- an out of towner. A professional man. A cowboy and as skittish as a pancake on a grill. Still, I was a sucker for his lips, although we hadn't locked them together yet. A thought crossed my mind --- dump the chorus tonight. They don't really need my solo. Russ could sing it or Jasper. Jasper was just itching for it.
"Martin," Padgett called. "Are you a part of this chorus or not?"
Not. But, yeah. And who died and left Padgett director. The director hadn't arrived, and probably wouldn't. He often let us sail without him at impromptu gigs.
"I guess you've got to line up," Matt said.
"Do you sing?"
"Like a frog."
"A bass. Come join us."
"You'd be sorry. And if I do, not tonight."
I gazed at the double line that mottled across the dance floor. There they were --- Padgett, Todd, Mortimer, John (in full drag), Jasper (hoping, no doubt, that I had a sore throat), Rob and Ron and Ron and Ron (three of them --- three too many), Russ and Harry, and Henry, and Brian . . . and Leslie and Ginger. I guessed they were the only Errata Erastes' here tonight.
"Go," Matt said, and then he kissed me. It wasn't much of a kiss and it stunk of Corona with lime, but it gave me hope that I might get as far as Three King's Day.
1
The first two numbers were a bit off key, but I attributed it to the alcohol and the lack of a director. However, the Silent Night, to which I sang the middle verse, scintillated. Smoke be damned, I still managed to caress each note like an angel come to earth. I closed my eyes during the first measure --- no director to watch and the choir would need to follow me with their hum-hummy accompaniment. I knew Jasper wanted to push the background up and thus drown me out, but somehow the other first tenors held him in check. My voice soared, and just as I reached my highest note, I opened my eyes and, through the tobacco haze, I saw him --- Matt the cowboy, his eyes hung on my every tone. I even thought he sighed --- a true fan, won fair and square.
Suddenly, the crowds disappeared, only he and I, alone and suspended in the midst of this Christmas carol, my voice leading him to a pre-passionate state. I'm not sure whether I could still end the number and return to The Cavern's cabaret mirth. Still, no song goes on forever. It either finds its cadence or perhaps its coda, but never lingers beyond the last note. As I folded my hands in my ultimate Sleep in Heavenly Peace, I somehow knew there would be a last note. I looked forward to the coda.
We ended with a rousing Chanukah number with Leather Santa prancing at the dance floor's margin and Mother managing something like a hora. Christmas became a Jewish wedding. On the last chord, which might have been the Lost Chord for the Lost Tribe, the Zippilin was let loose across the stage, cawing a strange Bruce Q. Merry Christmas. The DJ struck up Everybody Dance Now and five angels in jock straps hopped forward --- three waiters, a bus boy and some new cutie, who I knew not. A general cheer went up as both dance floors were jammed with gyrating merriment.
I waved to Matt to join me. He hesitated, but finally moseyed to the margins, where I picked him off like a carousel ring, pulling him onto the dance floor. Russ and Chris the Customer joined us for a foursome. I was always amused at how gay dancers congeal into this modern version of a reel --- sort of a square dance at King Henry's court, where no one touched, but everyone danced around everyone else. Even Ginger and Leslie vied to make it a sextet crashing through our central core, wiggling their asses with lesbian aplomb.
The set was endless --- one of those Black Box numbers designed to burn calories at the gym. The disco ball glittered and the lasers flashed, and all the while, the Zippilin barked or meowed or cawed. Finally, the dance slowed. I got to try my sultry steps out on my cowboy. He wasn't sultry at all --- in fact, he shuffled about like a klutz. But his eyes were glued to me, and that's all that mattered. So I wiggled my tush and flashed my eyes. We were all smiles, until my friend John cut in.
John was a sweetheart --- a petite drag queen, who did shows at The Cavern and other venues. He was a weekend queen, never dressing up for work or at home. He was barely nineteen. So, with his baby face, in drag he was a butter pat on an English muffin --- all nooks and crannies. Bring the Strawberry jam in, please. When John slipped between us, Matt shuddered. I had a feeling that the drag queen phobia might erupt, and I wasn't far from wrong. I mean, Matt didn't throw up or anything, but his shuffle became a syncopated walk. His hands went crabby and he glanced at the bar as if the Coronas were calling him to shore.
Finally, John began to brush against me and then Matt. I should have known better and discouraged it, but I'm a natural flirt. I increased my swish and soon John and I were in full swagger --- girls on the patio sort of thing. Matt stopped still, his face drawn --- deep disappointment. Then he fled, but not as I supposed to the bar, but to the back room.
"What's with him?" John asked. "Jealousy bone?"
"I don't know, hon. I don't think so."
John grabbed me about the waist, and then grinded.
"He should lighten up."
"I think he has a problem with hot mamas, like you."
John released me and stopped his routine.
"He's from out of town," I explained.
"From Mars, maybe."
"Now, Johnny, be good. He's my try-out Christmas model."
John raised his hands high as if to serve the cheese or the Baptist's head.
"You'd do better with anyone else here, sweet Martin."
I looked about the dance floor. These were my sisters, not my lovers. True I had been frisky with many of them, but then they were stuffed back in the pack and drawn out only for color and snappy conversation. I spied that boor, Todd Moorehouse, and shuddered. Now this would be the only new frontier, and I'd rather slit my wrists than be intimate with any of the Roy Otterson crowd. No, my sisters were my friends, not my lovers.
"I suppose I should see where he's off to," I said, shrugging.
"If you must," John said. "But if he's fallen down a sewer drain, I'll be here waiting."
"You never wait long, Sis," I said, and then darted toward the back bar.
2
The boom-boom-boom of the dance floor fell into the background as I explored the back bar. I knew everyone there, so it was difficult to maneuver through the holiday greetings, as slurred as they were. The jock strapped angels were flirting about, serving their drinks, and I believe a bit more, especially that Bobby, who managed to balance his tray despite the many crotch grabs he was enjoying. Working for tips could be rewarding, I thought. The other cutie was also doing well, managing the camera for the Leather Santa crowd. I guess his name was Branch, because there were plenty of Branch, get this shot, and Branch, bend over and shoot this one between your legs. Still, I didn't see a cowboy hat in the crowd.
"Russ." He was easy to find, given the bookmark Customer Chris, whose head scraped the stalagmites. "Have you seen . . ."
"The Midnight Cowboy?"
He cocked his head toward the volleyball court. I sighed. It was friggin' cold outside, but I didn't want to get my coat. Still, I was obliged to look.
The volleyball court was strange that night --- empty and a baffle for the music. The jollity from the shack echoed across the hollow of this solitary spot. Crouched on the sidelines was my cowboy, his head between his legs, eyes racked on folded arms. For the life of me, I couldn't figure this man out. No amount of phobia could produce such a reaction, unless he was on something and I hadn't detected the dosage.
I sauntered over, towering above him. He didn't move, so I hunkered down, and whispered in his ears.
"Noise too much for you?"
He shook his head, never raising it. This was going to be fun. Merry Christmas, Martin.
"Well, too much beer in your tummy then, I supposed."
He sniffed, raising his head. Those sea-blue eyes were cushioned in vermilion.
"I'm sorry," he said with his soft drawl. "I guess I'm not ready for fun and games."
"Not ready?"
He grasped my shoulders, and then hugged me.
"Hold me, will ya."
Since he was holding me, I guess I had no choice. Still, I felt his heart beating on my chest.
"What wrong?" I muttered. "What's upset you? Was it John?"
"Yes, actually."
"He didn't mean anything, you know. He's always flirting with me. We're just sisters."
"No," Matt said. "That's not it. It's that he reminds me of . . . someone."
News at eleven. There was someone else --- someone gone or left behind.
"That's okay," I said. "You don't need to tell me."
I really didn't want to know, but it looked like the time was ripe, or at least the Coronas primed to the appropriate level.
"You should know," Matt said.
He stood, helping me to my feet. He seemed better, but marginally so. It was cold and my hands were like ice blocks. I blew on them, but Matt took them into his, warming them, and then guided them into his pocket. That was sweet and provocative, but he wasn't flirting or easing towards foreplay. He was just keeping my hands warm so he could unburden his heart.
"His name was Luis."
Was. Past tense.
"Let me guess," I said. "He was a drag queen."
"The most beautiful drag queen you could ever set eyes on. He performed at la Chiquita Club in the Melrose, and the boys loved him. But he was mine."
He sniffed again, and then clenched my hands closer.
"He was soft like . . . like you sorta and had a considerable following. He sang like an angel."
Like me, sorta. I had a sinking feeling.
"Is that what you're after," I said. I collected my hands and did my own warming. "I'm no one's stand in, you know."
"No, no," he said. "That's not it. I know that people are different and when something is over, it's over. But Luis was never over in the sense that we broke up."
"Then he's waiting for you in the Lone Star State."
Matt choked.
"I wish he was. Not that I can't be with anyone else, but Luis is . . . well, he's . . ."
He couldn't say it, and he didn't need to, because I wouldn't let him.
"Killed him, they did. Bastards."
"No, no, Matt. It's okay. You don't need to go through it. You don't."
He bawled, his head buried in my shoulder, his warm tears freezing on my shirt.
"He was such a little performer, he was. He didn't mean any harm, but he sometimes got into trouble with some of the rougher trade. They'd call him names and he'd toss it right back at them. But that night, they waited for him. They waited and . . ."
"No," I said. "You'll not do this to yourself. You're here with me and on Christmas. I'm the ghost of Christmas Present, and the ghost of Christmas Past needs to stay in the past or you'll never be free of it."
"It's not that easy," he said. "But . . ."
"Try."
He sighed. His eyes were cast down onto the court. The thumpa-thumpa-boom-boom of the dance floor rumbled in the night. The laughter from the shack was in a different world. Suddenly, Matt gazed up at me. I think it was in that moment --- you know the moment. Rare as it is, sometimes the fates conspire to snare the soul and the heart into a universal song, one without ending . . . never ending --- never ended. Never. It was then that I knew that this Christmas gift was more precious than a vacuum broom. I scratched my head with my frozen mitts.
"I'm cold," he said.
"I'm warmer." The stars above were beckoning me home. "But we'd be warmer in bed, don't you think?"
"Do you have one of those down comforters?"
"Genuine Eider," I said. "An Icelandic beauty."
"Thank you for your generous offer."
"It stands only if you can leave Luis . . . outside."
He shuffled.
"That'll be hard. Very hard. But, you know, the best part of Luis is inside me. He'd make a great acquaintance, if you let him. He sang like an angel --- just like you."
I grasped his hand. Cold hands in the dark.
"Well, it's Christmas," I said. "I guess we can let an angel watch over us."
Suddenly, an angel appeared at the door. I shuddered, and then laughed. It was a smoking angel in a jock strap --- one of The Cavern's crew --- the waiter --- Bobby.
1
There's nothing like a staggering stroll in winter with precipitation in the air and a drunk on your arm. I think if we had let each other go, we both would have landed in the garbage bins. Still Matt --- my luscious and melancholy cowboy, needed to get his kit from the Cherokee. I didn't mind. It meant I landed a hygienic one. I guided him to the visitor's parking, and then held onto the fence while he staggered to his vehicle and finally (hallelujah), after gathering his stuff, locked up. There had been a rash of car thefts this month --- Christmas shopping, I guess, but I now had peace of mind that this John (well, he was a Matt, but until they last beyond a week, Russ would call them a John) would find his truck in the morning.
"Woohoo," Matt shouted at the invisible ocean as we rounded the corner to the apartment's rear.
I had a front entrance, but rarely used it. My courtyard and hidden nook was as snug as anything from Beatrix Potter. It was littered with the trashcans and was barren in winter, but there was always the kiss of summer around its edges as long as the sea songs trumped the gulls.
"Nice place," Matt muttered.
He surveyed the wreckage of patio furniture that I meant to replace this year. I had limited storage and left it out to winter over. It was the previous tenant's and serviceable when I first schlepped in, but now it was among the priority replacements on my wish list.
"Don't mind this shit," I said, searching for my keys. "It's going to the bins on April Fool's day."
Matt just staggered and began to hum Dixie. It was sweet and in tune. My, my, my. Of course, I didn't need to apologize for my neat little apartment. Small, true, but well kept and lavendered, now topped by pine aromas from my little Christmas tree. It was a miniature, but real. I flipped the lights on, and the tree was lit also. Matt smiled.
"Quaint."
"Quaint? I bet you have the Taj Mahal on your Axum salary. So I warn you, if there's anything I'm touchy about, it's my apartment. You can call me anything you want, but don't you dare . . ."
"No. I wouldn't think of it. I wouldn't . . ."
I shut him up before he ruined everything. I pulled him to me and planted a sentence-breaking kiss smack on his gob. I was a brazen hussy, I know, but it seemed like the thing to do. If my cowboy decided it was too high handed --- well, he could turn and flee over the shitty patio furniture and stagger back to his truck. But no, he reciprocated. And how. Jackets, hats, gloves, and his kit went to the floor. Hell, I'd pick them up later. He pushed me toward the couch, but I tagged him like a calf and dragged him past the Tannenbaum and over the bedroom threshold. It was chilly in there, because I had hadn't closed the window, which overlooked the patio. It's stupid, but I don't like closed places. Always needed an open window.
I flipped the light switch on, but Matt flipped it off again. Shirts peeled. Trousers dropped. I clutched him, a flop and a crawl back onto the bed. No time to dislodge shoes and socks before the first earnest probing began.
2
Excuse my pause. I need it, but there was no such thought on the first day, when the world was green and Adam had yet not seen Eve, content with the pleasure of his own body. Indeed, when kissing is intense and touching reciprocal, the world comes apart, reassembling on this side of memory. But this was Adam and Steve, wasn't it? Isn't that what the Anita Bryants of this world shouted at us over the citrus groves of Christian dogma? Adam and Steve, Abomination. But let me say this about that (sorry to be so presidential). When I first tasted Matthew Kieler on that nativity night in the chilly room, where the curtains blew free over the headboard, I found my home, a home that Viv had denied me and all the fleet of empty souls that trampled through my life had stolen. Passion was life. Holding and hugging was home. Touching and feeling, wisdom. All that lovers seek and rarely find showed up like unexpected rain or unrelenting snow, to melt in the hearth of our creation. Breathing was music. His gentle caress was a landfall for my long voyage through the silent years.
"Soft, sweet music," I said, interlacing my fingers in his. "Maybe a Christmas carol. Do you know any Christmas carols?" I sat up. "Come, serenade me."
"No," Matt said. "My voice is like a razor blade."
"Well, if you're going to romance me, you better be able to carry a tune. Maybe you can even be a Jersey Sparrow."
He sat up now, his hair shimmering in the muddled moonlight that filtered through the curtains.
"A Jersey Sparrow? I'm a Texas Bullfrog."
"I heard you humming in tune. I heard you." It was a bit like a bullfrog, but it was in tune.
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did. And I can name that tune in three notes. It was Dixie."
"Shoot. I was just buzzing around. It wasn't anything musical."
I shook him. He laughed, and then stood over me, his nakedness swept by the breeze.
"Sing it, cowboy," I shouted, with little care about my neighbors . . . then.
"Well, you asked for it." He cleared his throat and closed his eyes as if he needed darkness to recall the words.

"I wish I were in the lan' o' cotton,


Ol' times there are soon forgotten,


Look away,


Look away,


Look away . . ."

Silence.
Suddenly, his eyes opened. I thought maybe he had a bad memory --- a vibration of Luis, but he was suddenly animated.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I almost forgot," he said. "I got you a Christmas present."
"A Christmas present?" I grasped at his legs. He had already given me a Christmas present and I could have used a second helping. He jumped off the bed. "How the fuck could you get me a present?"
He disappeared into the living room, returning immediately with an A&S bag. He fished around inside, popping out the tie box.
"Sorry, I didn't get it wrapped. The guy who sold it to me said I could get it gift wrapped."
I roared. The joke was on me. However, I decided to play it through. The man had planned this while stalking me over-the-counter from the jacket rack. I owed him that much.
"You fucker," I said. I opened the box. There it was --- that the ugly, purple tie. That awful shackle of my life wrapped in tissue paper by my own hand. Joke or noose, not sure which . . . now. But there it was.
"But you picked it out," he said, laughing.
"You said it was for a special friend."
He kissed me on the forehead, the sweetest kiss I ever had --- the kiss of friendship and benediction.
"And it is," he said.
"But I was jealous of that special friend," I said, chattering. "I figured this shit tie would be what he deserved."
"And so he does."
I stood and let Matt come behind me, knotting that shackle cloth around my neck. It was done with great tenderness. I can still feel his touch on my shoulder and the tip of his fingers as he slipped the knot up to my throat, the silk tickling my bare chest. I turned and kissed him, and not on the forehead. Suddenly, he was animated --- a real jitterbug.
"Holy shit," he said.
"What?"
"It's snowing! Snowing!"
It had been snowing while we whiled away the time in each other's arms. I had felt an occasional flake pout though the window and pucker on my forehead. Evidently, Matt hadn't noticed until now. He shot to the window, his head pushing out into the frigid air. His eyes seemed twice as blue, his smile wider than Kansas.
"Oh, my," he sighed.
There was at least three inches in the courtyard already, enough to make the crap patio furniture glisten with fairy magic.
"It's wonderful," he said, and then turning to me, he beamed. "How did you know this is what I wanted for Christmas?"
"Snow?" I said. "It's just the weather. No one has control of . . ."
"I've never seen it before."
"Never?" I pulled him back into the room, because he was nearly through the window, bare ass to the world. "Who's never seen snow before?"
"Me. That's who."
He darted for his socks and shoes, which he had managed to shuck after the passion. Mine were lost somewhere under the sheets.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's frolic. I want to feel it." He pulled me to his side. "I want to feel it in my hair and on my lips."
"You're going out? Now?"
"Why not?"
He stood erect, footwear only, still pulling me toward the living room door. I remember having mixed feelings about this. I was drunk enough to roll about in the snow naked, but sober enough to know I'd regret it in the morning, with frost bitten balls and a need to survive the scandalous looks from the neighbors. I was sure that Mrs. Sanmartini (second floor front) kept vigil over the courtyard at all hours of the day and night.
"No way," I said. "I've seen the stuff since I was a babe. I'm not getting a cold making fucking snow angels in the middle of the night with a crazy . . . Texan."
"I'm nuts," he said, laughing. "It's new to me. I've seen it in pictures, sure; and we once had an ice storm, which was none so pretty. C'mon."
I was adamant. I swooped up his jacket.
"At least put this on. I have neighbors."
Matt snapped it up, wrapping it around his shoulders. Scarcely an improvement as it only came to his waist. He did a little dance --- a sort of inebriated hoedown, and then unlatched the door. He was gone. Not far --- just over the threshold, his snappy laugh betrayed with cold.
"Close the door," I yelled. "It's cold." However, he was beyond hearing, doing his hoedown through the accumulation. It was the weirdest shaker ball I had ever seen --- this cowboy, without his hat, but with the brightest of blue eyes, humming his song and dancing through the drifts as naked as a chicken, only a half-wrapped chicken in danger of falling on its ass. I watched as the lights in Mrs. Sanmartini's apartment flipped on. I knew I would see her scrawny face poking out her window. She might even call the cops. Then I realized that I was on the threshold and wore less than my cowboy wore. He began to warble a la bullfrog.

"I wish I were in the lan' o' cotton,


Ol' times there are soon forgotten,


Look away,


Look away,

Look away . . ."
"Matt," I called, in a semi whisper. "Matt, better get in now. We'll do something tomorrow. Build a snowman, or something."
He ignored me, so I moved onto the patio. Brrrr. The snow covered my toes. Was anyone worth this? Suddenly, a snowball whizzed passed me, hitting the door lintel.
"Damn," I squealed.
A barrage of snowballs whooshed, one hitting me in the belly. It didn't hurt. I was that drunk, but I knew it would leave a mark. I slipped, nearly falling. That was it. I marched inside, hovering on the threshold. I hoped that Sanmartini hadn't called the cops. That's all I needed. Another snowball whizzed by, this time landing near the Christmas tree. I closed my eyes. The images, however, persisted. The man --- the beautiful man, with the precious, tender heart --- a fragile heart, dancing like a child in a new element, defying the cold and the world of prying eyes.
O, my God. The man's mad.
I glanced out again, knowing that Matthew Kieler would be embracing the snow, because the missiles had stopped. He was on his knees, catching the new flakes in his mouth, licking the melt from his chin. His eyebrows were crusted white, his hair matted. Mrs. Sanmartini extinguished her lamp. I closed my eyes again.
God, let this one be a keeper. Please, oh God. Please.
I raised the ugly, purple tie to my nose, inhaling Matt's gift, as much as he drank down mine.
Please, please, let this one be a keeper!

"I wish I were in the lan' o' cotton,


Ol' times there are soon forgotten,


Look away,


Look away,

Look away . . ."
Silence.
1
I'm not one for sleeping in late, even on the weekends and even when hung over. However, that Christmas morning, with my cowboy wrapped in my arms and the wintry light pouring through the window across the snowy sill was too rich to waste with stirring. I wondered if I could stay here all day --- no visitations or afternoon holiday cheers at The Cavern. Suddenly, Matt stirred. He swung out of bed, quite destroying the mood.
"Must we get up?"
"Got to pee," he said, standing and then stretching. He was as delicious in sunlight as he was in moonlight.
"Do you know where it is?"
His hands went to his crotch.
"I should hope so."
"I mean the bathroom, you twit."
"I think I know one when I see one."
He chuckled, moseying over the threshold, hanging a right. I guess he did know, because a left would get him to the closet and kitchen. I settled back deciding that if I stayed in bed, Matt would return here --- an arrow to my gracious and not too subtle target. Unfortunately, while my computer programmer was taking his morning aim, I heard a key rattling my front door. Now that door never rattled except when I went to get the mail and . . . well, I knew why it rattled now.
"Shit." I sat up. "Viv."
The locks snapped. Knob turned, and then the clunk of boots and the rustling of paper --- shopping bags. You don't work in retail and not know the sound of shopping bags.
"Hey, shithead," she bellowed. "Merry Christmas!"
I reached for my robe and nearly fell out of bed. In fact, I did a little twisty dance trying to keep my balance, but it was too late. Viv had settled in.
"I'll be there in a minute."
"Take your time, Shithead. I gotta pee."
Nice. As surely as you could count to ten between the flash of the lightning and the rattle of the thunder, there came a gasp from the bathroom. I was into the living room faster than that lightning. There she stood in all her wintry glory. Pot hatted. Drawn face overly rouged. Straight black hair down to her waist. Leather jacket, fringe and boots that would make Ru Paul jealous. Behind her stood a somewhat dazed and totally naked Matt. He sought a towel, but I guess my pretty lace hand linens would have been insufficient to cover . . . well, to make a difference. Viv turned about, her hands poised in a hallelujah.
"Quite an upgrade from the last one." She reverted to Matt. "Nice to meet you. I'm Martin's mother."
"Hi, Martin's mother," Matt stammered --- funny thing when a drawl is stammered.
"You can call me Viv. Shit, did I scare you?"
Matt didn't looked scared, just puzzled. I guessed that his family life was a bit different from mine. I scanned the shopping bags looking for something long. It didn't look promising.
"You should have called first," I said.
"If you want me to call, don't give me a key. And if you take away my key, I'll leave you as fast as that motherfucker who fathered you, my little queen."
She gave me one of her Viv embraces --- a tacky clasp followed by a head rub. Then, she pinched my nose.
"What's that for?" I said.
"That's for holding me up from peeing." She turned to Martin, who was stifling a laugh. "You find it funny . . ."
"Matt."
"I hope not. My little shithead is usually the doormat for half the Jersey shore. I brought him up right. If you're finished, I still need . . ."
Matt stepped aside.
"I hope you sprayed, 'cause I don't smell the queen's best in there."
"I didn't do . . . I mean . . ."
"You didn't give a shit." She roared, and then jigged. In she went, leather coat, fringe and all. "I like your new shower curtain, shithead," she caroled.
I sighed, rolled my eyes, pulled Matt away and probably exhibited body language for ten to expunge the scene from my cowboy's bright blue eyes. He didn't buy it.
"It's Christmas," he said. "She's your family. I probably should leave."
"Nonsense."
He tagged back to the bedroom, gathering his shoes, shirt, and BVDs.
"Well, you need to visit with your Mom," he said. "I see she's brought gifts. It would be a bit awkward."
I stopped him mid-tuck, taking him into my arms, seeking those lips and that five o'clock shadow that was now well past nine. Our foreheads met.
"You stay put."
"But I have family too, you know. They'll be looking for me."
I kissed him again. Of course, he was a family guy. He would want to spend Christmas with his military Dad and his homespun Mom and Mary . . . let's not forget sister Mary.
"I'm being selfish," I said. "I want you all to myself today."
"But you know that's not going to happen."
I pushed him a little. It wasn't a nasty push, but he pushed back. So I gave him a friskier shove until he let me have it full force pinning me to the bed.
"Looks serious," came a voice.
Viv slouched on the threshold.
"Shit, Viv. You're like a cat."
I pushed her into the living room like any son would. Well, I guess most sons don't push their mothers, but I've toted her across thresholds while she hung on to the empty hooch bottle, so pushing her was so much kinder.
"You're always sneaking around," I scolded.
"Matt," she said. "Do I look like I could sneak around?" Matt was dazed. He continued dressing as he followed us into the living room. "Listen, I got work today, so let's do this present shit and be done with it."
"Work?" Matt asked. "But it's Christmas. Who works on Christmas?"
She flashed her beautifully sculpted fingernails.
"She does nails," I said.
"And it's just for the morning. Old customers in need. Paying customers. I'm off tonight, but you won't find me here, I'll tell ya that."
"Does nails?"
"Not just does nails, smart ass," she said. She grabbed Matt's hand and presented her work for show as if they were her calling card, and, I guess, they were. "Do these look like just any nails you've ever seen? I'm an artiste. In demand. My clientele keep me hopping, even on Christmas day." She turned to me, a general, mustering my time. "Since tonight's out, I brought your crap over this morning. You can open them or not. I don't care."
It was Christmas and it was always about presents. My mood changed as I scouted the shopping bag again.
"Enough drama," I said. "Give them here."
Viv plunked the shopping bag in front of me, tipping it, packages spreading across the floor, ill assorted. She wrapped them herself --- a minute spent on each. Square things looked round. Round things square. Viv lacked a penchant for detail.
I was disappointed. There wasn't a long one in the mess. I poked around randomly, opened one and was not surprised. A shirt --- black with little pink hearts on the pocket.
"You don't like it," she declared.
"I love it," I said, passing it to Matt, who smiled dimly at it, and then set it aside.
There was also a pen, which when turned upside down contained a naked California surfer. I appreciated that one better. Then, there was a brass talisman with a peculiar symbol on it, half satyr, half centaur --- a remnant of Viv's hippie days and a clear index to her hippie tastes. In fact, the rest of the packages were much the same --- three packages of incense, which would go with last year's three packages of incense in the back of the kitchen utility drawer; a crystal smoke rock, which was good for God knows what, but Viv proclaimed it to be lucky; and finally, an assortment of press-on tattoos. Those got Matt laughing.
"So, shithead," Viv snapped. "Where's mine?"
I sighed. No vacuum broom.
"Well, if I knew you were coming?"
"You mean . . ."
"No." I tickled her. She loved to be tickled. "I have it. But it's not wrapped yet, and you know I don't give unwrapped gifts, like some people I know."
"Well, wrap the fucker and give it here," she said.
I retreated to the kitchen, where I had my store of wrapping paper and bows. As I farted around with tape and scissors, I listened first to the silence in the living room and then to ---
"So, Matt, how long have you been fucking my son?"
I hastened the operation. I hoped that Matt would be there when I returned.
"I don't kiss and tell, Mrs. Powers," I heard him say, always the gentleman.
"Viv. Call me Viv or don't speak to me at all. Lemme hear you!"
"Aw . . . Viv."
"That's right. Viv, and nothing else. Now, I'm telling you, so hear me straight. If this is just a jabberhoo fuckeroo any man I see I screw, let him know now. My shithead tends to fall in love; and I don't have time to put the pieces back together again But if you intend to stay a while, or longer, you have a mighty big obligation, buster."
I almost stopped wrapping to intercede here. Some mothers embarrass their children by toting out the naked baby pictures. Mine just revealed the warts of my soul. The package was wrapped, but I hesitated to interrupt. I know it wasn't fair, but I was interested in what Matt would say beyond my earshot and with the toughest inquisitor he'd ever have on my behalf. It might well ruin my Christmas, but it might just save my New Year's Eve.
"I don't follow," Matt said.
"Yes, you do," she said. "No man puts his shoes under anyone's bed without considering the big obligation, buster. So don't screw with me. Screw him. That's fine. That's what you guys were born to do. But don't screw with me, unless you're . . . bi. You're not bi are you?"
"No chance," Matt said. I heard a nervous laugh. Well, not so nervous now. Did the elegant Mr. Kieler suddenly warm up to the blunt Mrs. Powers?
It was time for me to return with a perfectly gift wrapped present --- a small box with a larger than life bow. I was always good with the ribbons. It was a shame it would stay in place for just a moment.
"Merry Christmas, Viv," I said.
She raised it to her eye, and then gulped.
"Shit. All that time to wrap such a little fucker."
She ripped the bow off, and then slaughtered the paper. Her eyes beamed. A tarot deck. She was genuinely moved. I could tell real from faux. I had hit the spot. Zing.
"The Aquarian Deck," she said, the tears running down her eyes. "You know I've wanted this deck for . . . how long? Give me a big hug and kiss, shithead."
She wrapped herself around me, losing me in her fringe.
"Well," she said, recovering as fast as she emoted. "Gotta go! Glad to meet you, Matt. Hope to see you again."
"My pleasure . . . Viv."
"There you go!"
Since she never decloaked (I think she peed with her coat on), she gathered her loot and headed for the door. Another Christmas completed --- like clockwork. Tick tock. She opened the door and took a step over the threshold. Suddenly, she stopped.
"What's this?"
She bent over a long unwrapped box. My heart jumped.
"Will you take this thing," she said. "It's unwrapped, but I guess Santa's elves had too much moonshine to get their arms around it."
I ran to her and planted a big kiss on her kabuki face. She came through and I had my long, luxurious vacuum broom with all the attachments.
"Hasta la Vista, sissies," she said, her voice trailing down the hallway.
2
After Viv disappeared through the door, waving goodbye with the back of her hand, her long nails pointing to the heavens, and after Matt helped me open the box and examine my Bissell 1046A Featherweight broom, I tried to apologize for my mother's behavior. There was no need, because Viv was Viv and if Matt was to be seeing me, he had to know. However, she had come upon him like a midnight clear, and that did deserve a footnote.
"Sorry I didn't warn you about her," I said.
"She's something, isn't she," Matt said. "Liberated, I mean."
"Some say crude. You can say it. She's an old hippie. But don't ever call her old. I lie about my age when I'm around her. Frankly, when they mistake us for brother and sister, she comes alive and is even sassier."
"She's pretty frank, I'll say that for her." Matt was trying to read the instructions that came with the broom. I had a ginger thought. Here I was on Christmas morning with the most gorgeous man of my acquaintance and we sat with a vacuum broom betwixt us, discussing my mother.
"Frank is an understatement."
"It's funny," Matt said.
I snapped the instruction manual away and tossed it aside.
"What's funny?"
"You don't call her Mom. I could never think of calling my mother anything but Mom."
I had never thought of this. It was a fact of my life. My mother had a name and it was Viv.
"Everyone calls her Viv."
I sidled beside him, pinching his arm.
"I bet she gave you a little warning when I was out of the room."
"How did you know? Were you listening?"
"Maybe a bit. But even if I didn't, I know the script. Viv's a buttinsky. She'd stay and critique our sex if we gave her the chance."
Matt giggled.
"Now that would be different, and I'd be out of here before she got to first base. And why does she call you shithead?"
I went back to the instructions.
"That's as close as she can come to I love you. I should have warned you."
"No, I had to meet her some time."
"Really?" I said.
That was magic. No one night stand, this.
"Does this mean that we're engaged?"
"Well," Matt said. "It could. Bear in mind that I do believe in premarital sex."
"Too late for that warning."
"And my Mom and Dad call me hon."
I kissed him.
"And what do I call your mother?"
"Mrs. Kieler, of course."
I laughed. I knew that if I pressed Matt too quickly I would make short work of this fantasy that I had a boyfriend. I liked the sound of that already. But it was too soon. Just words now and perhaps the promise of getting to Easter unscathed. That would be worth a vacuum broom. Was God really giving me the one thing I lacked --- a steady Freddie rather than a jabberhoo fuckeroo any man I see I screw?
So my little blue-eyed flower went home to his parents (who called him hon) with the promise to return to me that evening and the next and the next . . . and a faint hint that New Years Eve would be cloaked beneath the Kieler banner, even beside his sister Mary. It was a new road for me to tread --- a familiar one, but with new gardens beside the path and new vistas beyond the hillock. It perhaps promised to save me from my lust for major appliances and their inevitable attachments.
1
I have spent every New Years since age ten around revelers of various kinds, and in my case, either solidly drunk or hauling those who were back to their home fires. Viv comes to mind. I even went to Times Square one year to watch that gaudy crystal ball slide down the flagpole and burst into a nasty reminder that we had killed another year and had another on tap to slaughter and slay. Funny thing. I never did see the ball come down that year. The guy I went with, Paulie . . . I think that was his name . . . whatever. He pulled me across the police lines and into some dark alley behind the Shubert Theater and there we . . . well, let's just say, I never saw the ball slide down, or at least the crystal one.
It was a tradition with me. I spent the week between Christmas and New Years working the post Holiday rush and shopping for my own bargains. Then I would find a date or, in recent years, gather lackluster with the New Jersey Gay Sparrows at The Cavern. It was generally on New Year's Eve that my life came apart, realizing that my date was a shallow dipstick just, waiting to plummet the oilcans of others. New Years day was a ritual of hangover and depression. I shunned the world, except for Viv, who would seek me out for her own sob story only to comfort me with mine. I had concluded that if I maintained this pattern that my last New Year would be less than a decade away. Fortunately, I met Matt and the cycle was broken --- split right down the middle like an uncanny spare.
I did my post-Christmas sales hitch at A&S. It was required. Then, instead of seeking out Russell and making the rounds at the other stores, I hurried home and waited for my cowboy. He came every night and it was more than just passion. He brought me little gifts --- a holly wreath (from a post-Christmas sale, no doubt) and a little angel figurine. I guess he was working himself up to the toaster oven. No more ugly purple ties, thank God. He also did something that most of my former beaus did not. He talked. He chatted about cars and planes and sunsets over Houston, and he was clean too. Always showered before bed --- brushed his teeth even, which surprised me. The closest anyone did that before was this guy named Fred, who carried around a spritz of Binaca. Then after three days, I was invited to his place.
Matt Kieler lived in a garden apartment in Eatontown called Wisteria Terrace, second floor, and neat as an ice cube. I could imagine the summer blooms even in the dead of winter. He had a porch and four rooms --- large rooms. They were sparse compared with my fru fru place. I wouldn't call them sterile, but unfortunately, I implied that when I first came across the threshold.
"I'll have to lend you a picture or two," I said.
He had nothing on the walls, which for a queen was punishable by excommunication, but his couch was velveteen and green. His kitchen was modern, with a small dining room --- uncluttered table, just a simple white tablecloth and an artificial bucket of roses center stage.
"Stark, I know," he said. "I haven't been in here that long to make it a home yet."
He turned to me, his blue eyes pleading for decorating tips.
"Well," I said flipping my hand across the roses." These need to go. It's Christmas time and they're out of season."
"They never wilt."
"You may not think so," I said. "But you should surround yourself with the seasons. The place should reflect your soul."
He frowned.
"Then I'm a sorry lot, then."
"No," I said. I never meant it as such. "I have seen your soul, Mr. Kieler, and it has decorated me already. This place just needs a little . . . a lot more of . . . you."
He wrapped himself around my waist.
"Or you, Pumpkin."
"Pumpkin? Wrong season again." I kissed him.
I then got the privilege of seeing and trying out the bedroom, which was even starker and more cluttered --- sharing residency with a cache of computer equipment and manuals. I felt their cold breath on my back as if they were alive and spying on us. I remember recovering in bed, both of us awake in the aftermath.
"So am I the first man you've had in this bed?" I asked, fresh smart-ass that I am.
"In fact, yes."
I raised myself on my elbows.
"I don't believe you."
"Believe me. It's a new bed. Now if this were Houston and the Melrose . . . "
"I don't want to know."
I really didn't want to know, because the ghost of Luis and his feather boas and falsies would soon loom over us, and it was bad enough that he was always only an arms-length away . . . or so I supposed. It's funny how the shades of old love never fade. They leave a trace in their wake. I wondered if ghosts lingered and watched, like the computer equipment. Whether they became jealous and extracted a revenge on new lovers. Well, I guess that's a question for another place and another time.
"It's a Sealy," he said.
I laughed. It was the first time a partner ever told me the brand of the mattress. I wondered whether we'd commit the most immoral and illegal act of all --- tearing off the label and hiding it in the cellar.
"It's a good brand," Matt said, sincerely protesting.
"I know. I have no idea what brand mine is."
"You don't?"
"It's a hand me down from Viv."
"Do you mean . . ."
"Yesiree Bob. We had gay sex on a previously straight launching pad."
He tickled me. I loved that, and I am very ticklish. I rolled around on that Sealy until I flopped on the floor. He piled on top of me and, after I was lassoed and hog-tied (not really; I'm not into that), he popped the question.
"I want you to meet my folks."
That put some starch in the rodeo.
"When?"
"New Years Day."
I wiggled out from under him.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "They're quite tame and nice and generally cotton to the men I bring home."
"Well, Viv's just as accommodating, but I didn't see you jump for joy."
"Your mother's quite a personality . . . in a nice way."
"You could say that again, but don't you dare."
He looked crushed, as if I had drawn a line in our relationship, and perhaps I had. It wasn't that I didn't want to meet his parents. I was the one who wanted this relationship to bloom like the flowers in spring --- wisteria, and all that. No. It was the timing. New Years Day came after New Years Eve. I was never in any condition on New Years Day to do more than vomit and mop, and to swap torrid tales with Viv over the Kleenex.
"Don't get me wrong," I explained. "I want to meet your parents, but the timing is not . . ."
"You mean, New Years Day."
"Well, yes."
He took me in his arms, a disarming thing to do. I felt his heart beating strong. I just wished that the equipment wasn't listening.
"Easily solved, Pumpkin. You'll spend New Years Eve with us and meet them then. You can even stay over. They have a big house in Holmdel."
"Holmdel? House? New Years Eve? I always go to . . ."
"You go drinking with the gay song birds all the time," he said. "It doesn't make it a different or even a special night. You can do that most any time."
I sighed. The thought of all my friends carousing and dancing and flirting, flashed before my eyes --- a half-decade of debauchery wiggling through my synapse in a destructive tizzy. Sacrifice. However, I wouldn't really be a free agent, and if Matt spent New Years Eve at home in Holmdel, I would be alone and prone to my own devices, which sad to say, was not that appetizing without Matt.
"So," I said, finally. "If I'm not in Holmdel on New Years Eve, I won't see you."
He smiled --- a man playing chess. Checkmate.
2
Russ was pissed when I told him I would not be spending New Years Eve in the Cavern. If I had told him that I was spending a passionate night with Matt instead, he wouldn't have said boo. In fact, he might have bought a ticket to watch. However, when I told him I would be sitting in a cozy living room in Holmdel with the Kielers --- the picture of the Cleaver family, he went ballistic.
"You're breaking a tradition," he carped. "We're like Lucy and Ethel on New Years Eve, despite whatever crap we're dragging along stuck to our heels."
"I'm glad I'll be missed."
"It's not just me. Wait until Leslie and Ginger hears about this. And the Sparrows will want to know where they can fly over and peck your eyes out."
"Let them peck."
Russ had been leaning on my freshly polished counter and in his fury, I thought he'd crack the glass.
"No man's worth the sacrifice."
"Drama Queen."
He stuck his tongue out.
"It's not a tradition unless we do it for five years running, and from my calculations, it's only been four."
"Well, this would have been five."
There was no settling the matter and I held my ground. I would have been willing to make a concession, to meet Russ for a drink, with Matt of course, a few hours before I met the family. However, since Russ threw a hissy fit, he was shit out of luck. He pouted and scuffled, and I was glad to see his back. Although I admit, I would have sorely liked to be in The Cavern rather than the suburban cave. The thought of meeting some guy's family was terminal. Either they would love me and I would hate them, or they would be snooty Houstonians and I, a flat-ass ignorant Joisey shore fairy. Terminal.
Well, they certainly could have been snooty given the size and whiteness of their two story split-level house, complete with picket fence, picture window and portico. However, they did have tasteful Christmas lights and a gorgeous plastic angel on their snowy lawn, so how bad could they be. Matt was excited, which pleased me. No man to my recollection had regarded me as a trophy wife, and if nothing else, I wouldn't be ignored. I might even be the center of attraction, which would suit me fine. Still, as I huddled up the walk latched to Matt's arm, bottle of Bruit dangling from my glove, I finally warmed up to the idea.
The door opened before we climbed up on the portico. On the threshold stood a woman in a white flounced skirt and a simple red top. Her hair was lemony and done to a curl. Her smile was a beacon and I would have followed it anywhere. I realized where Matt had gotten his blue eyes.
"Mama," Matt said.
He fell into her arms. She embraced him as if he were the prodigal son, of which he might well have been, but by the aromas wafting across that threshold, the fatted calf was in full roast.
I nodded.
"Mrs. Kieler."
She extended her hand and cocked her head.
"You must be Martin. Welcome, Martin."
"Get in doors, mother," came a husky voice. Mr. Kieler appeared. "It's cold out there and we're not cavorting on the porch. You must be Marty."
I went to correct him, but his formidable paw latched onto mine, and I didn't have the heart. I hated being called Marty, but Mr. Kieler turned out to be one of only two people of my acquaintance that would ever call me that. No sense correcting him . . . not after all these years.
The Kieler residence was smartly decorated for Christmas --- holly, tree, a village, a manger and many angels. A fire roared in the chimneypiece and I can truly say I felt comfortable from the first moment I stepped foot over that threshold.
After shedding our outer skins, I remember Matt and I settled on the couch. It faced the picture window, and before Louise and Sammy (the Kielers) sat beside us in their appointed chairs, Matt turned and kissed me. I thought that would send this staid couple out to the kitchen, but I spied their smiles --- content at the act as if they equated it with their own experience. Now if this was Viv and her latest pick-up, I could well understand the thinking, but somehow the Kieler's settled countenance ennobled Matt's kiss.
"Matt," I chided. "Not in front of your parents."
"Shy one," Sam Kieler chomped.
"Hardly," I said. "But it doesn't seem the time and place."
"Where else would you suggest, Martin," Louise said. "Oh Mary . . ."
Matt was upstanding now as his sister swept into the room. She was a thinner version of her mother, only I detected a bit of the minx about her. She plopped on the couch beside Matt and he proceeded to tickle her, in much the same way he had tickled me.
"Stop it, Newt," she said.
Newt?
He didn't stop, until she threatened him with a balled fist.
"They'll never grow up," Louise said to me in an aside, only everyone could hear it.
"Grow up?" Matt said. "The hell with that."
"No one can accuse these two cradle mates of decorum," Sammy said.
This brought the siblings to a mock church stance, smiles leaking across to each other.
"So who's this one?" Mary said.
"Martin," I said.
"Newt has a Martin," she said. "Well, you're good looking at least. He'd better hold you close or I'll steal you away."
Martin gnashed his teeth and began his tickle again, but Mary flew off the couch, trotting off to . . . who knows where?
"No, you don't," Matt shouted.
He was in pursuit, leaving me alone with the parents --- and I felt a gentle inquisition afoot.
Silence prevailed. I just couldn't stand it. I heard brother and sister laughing in the other room, but all I heard where I sat was . . . breathing. Finally, I smiled and said what came naturally.
"Lovely place you have here, Mrs. Kieler . . . Mr. Kieler."
"Thank you, and it's Louise."
"And Sammy."
"It's not half the house we had in Houston, but we've tried to make it home."
"Real estate in New Jersey is stiff," Sammy said. "You get more house for the buck in Houston."
I smiled. The only thing I knew about real estate was my little four room flat and my slice of courtyard and patio furniture. I was cursing Matt under my breath for leaving me here alone. I thought of Russ and Ginger and Leslie and . . . well, the Cavern was probably filling up just about now --- Kurt and Sam would be bellying up to the bar and Mother would be greeting the guests. Bruce Q would be preparing for the flight of the Zippilin, and Carlos would be queuing up the first disco beats --- thumpa thumpa. Suddenly, Louise put he hand on my knee.
"There's no need to be nervous around us."
"No need," Sammy echoed.
"Our Matt has wonderful taste in men. Just be true to him if you're settling in for a while. A week isn't long, I know, but time somehow sings a soft song that stays the course."
"Stays the course," Sammy said.
I didn't know what to say. It was so similar to Viv's advice to Matt, although minus the ef words, that I was stunned.
Suddenly, Matt returned, Mary hovering.
"Newt caught me," she said.
"Matthew," Louise said. "You're neglecting your manners. You left Martin alone with the dragons."
"Dragons," Sammy echoed.
Louise stood, Sammy shadowing her every move. Echo and shadow.
"I must finish the garnish for the lamb chops. I hope you like lamb, Martin."
I shook my head. I felt like I would be the lamb tonight. They retreated into the kitchen (along with Mary), probably to judge me in ways far beyond my deserving. Matt just sat there staring through the picture window.
"Thanks for abandoning me," I said. "Your parents are very nice . . . cordial and all that, but they're . . . parents. You shouldn't have left me alone with them so soon."
Matt didn't answer. He just stared out the window.
"And why does your sister call you Newt?"
No answer. Suddenly, he turned to me and smiled the broadest grin I had ever seen on a man.
"I love it when I'm home, especially now when I can see the snow through the window. Isn't it pretty?"
"You're changing the subject. Haven't you heard a word I said?"
"Yes. I like my parents too, and they adore me. And when I was three years old I used to run around bare assed naked. Mary would cry out, Mama, he's newt again, come see. He's newt. The name stuck."
I brought my head to his forehead.
"Newt. I've seen you Newt. I guess you don't outgrow some habits."
He kissed me, and then turned my attention to the window. A cardinal had landed on the sill, and if ever there was a scene etched in my mind from that night, it was our reflections in that picture window, with the snowy lawn and the picket fence. I was home and the Cavern was a distant, distant thought.
1
Once every four years, all the Gay and Lesbian Choruses around the country came together for a week long celebration called the GALA Festival, and I meant to attend the next one, which was only a year and a half away --- in July. I had my heart set on it. It would be in Denver --- imagine that. One hundred and three hoohoo choruses assembled in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. Fabulous. The New Jersey Gay Sparrows were already making plans. Now, the reason I mention this is that my New Years resolution was set in Formica --- to cut back on my spending and save up for my passage and board to Denver. GALA here I come. So the last thing I needed was to break that resolution and decorate Matt Kieler's apartment.
I became a fixture at Matt's. After three weeks, he gave me a key and I, like some girl playing house, a role I knew well, would arrive home from work, rush to his apartment, and then fuss over the stove before he arrived from work. I was a fair cook, and he never complained. He wouldn't dare, although he was more interested in desert than anything I charred on those damned electric burners. No microwave ovens then.
The first order of business was to hang a few pictures. I thought movie posters would do the trick. There was a place in the mall that stocked them and did a nice framing job. Fortunately, after the first one --- a stunning Wizard of Oz, complete with Margaret Hamilton and Toto, Matt gave me his credit card. Now if he did that with Russell, he'd be in a world of hurt. Russ would run the gamut of the mall and have the thing maxed out before the end of the week. However, I acted with restraint. I even asked Matt for a dollar range to do the job. He shrugged and said that I would know. I guess that meant that when he got the bill, if his hat hit the ceiling I would get a sense of where I stood. It actually only took four more posters to cover the living room walls. So much warmer --- and I replaced that bucket of roses with a bowl of wax fruit and wooden candelabras --- white. It was the kitchen after all. I couldn't do much with the bedroom. Every time I looked at the mass of cables and plugs, I imagined that some space alien had made its home under the carpeting. As for the walls, two mirrors did fine and were both on sale in A&S's clearance basement. When Matt came home that night, I was all a twitter at the bargain. He appreciated it. However, I remember that it was that night that he asked for the card back. Not unkindly or reproachfully, but simply, you've done me proud here. It's homey now. A place to live in. I'll need my card back tomorrow. He said no more, and I slipped the card back into his wallet while he slept that night.
It's strange to think on those early days. I wasn't sure whether I was delusional or just plain naïve. They don't know ya and don't wanna know ya, kept echoing in my jaded young soul. However, Viv never had formed a close relationship, not even with that wraith who was my father. Instead, my mind vibrated a new mantra. God, please let this one be the one. Matt seemed to be so. We never analyzed the situation. There was no extended conversation about fidelity or where's this thing going or what's the next step. I just sort of . . . moved in and after two months, I was spending more time in Matt's place than in mine, despite the draw of the vacuum broom.
At work, I would muse over the counter, Matt's image lingering even when Russ stopped by to bust my chops. Are you still with that cowboy? The gang in The Cavern misses you. Don't forget we have our first rehearsal next week or are you completely going gaga? I wouldn't miss the rehearsal. Singing was as much in my blood as Matt was. As for The Cavern . . . I did miss that, but fully expected to get back there . . . soon. For the most part, I had ignored Russ' queenie jealousy, because that's what it was. He never had anything as staid as a boyfriend.
I had never counted the minutes 'til closing before. I always liked to linger over the shirt counters and even brush by and visit with the linens, but now I was out of the mall like a bat. Some evenings I stopped off at my place for some clean clothes and the mail, but I needed to get to Matt's to exercise my key privilege. A key. Imagine that. Some guy had given me his key. And then, he would be there. Not the cowboy with the tight jeans and leather jacket, but the blue-eyed computer geek with the five o'clock shadow and the three piece suit and a different tie every day, and never that ugly purple tie. Although that was mine, I brought it over and hung it among the normal ones. I had suggested that he wear it occasionally to break the ice over the water cooler. You'd like that, wouldn't you, he would say, managing his vest and the double-breasted suit. I knew that suit. Many mornings I helped him dress, and finish him off with a knotted tie, a gentle slide and a kiss. Always be my pumpkin, he'd say. His pumpkin . . . he'd say that . . . he would.
Excuse me. Just a minute.
Yes, that's what he called me . . . his pumpkin.
2
I'm back.
Things were settling in, I'd say. However, our lives still needed the old oxygen. Matt needed his family --- every Sunday for dinner; and his work, which he brought home more nights than not. There were days I cursed both the Kielers and Axum Labs. Both took a slice of Matt away from me, but I guess that was just a measure of our progress. I didn't go to the family dinners with him --- at least not every Sunday. He never fought me on this, but there was always an invitation from mother Kieler and regret from sister Mary. I would have liked to get to know Mary better. As for Axum Labs, that was an invasion of the bedroom, where the monster equipment huddled in the corner --- a conspiracy, as it spied on us all night. Often I sat alone in the living room watching StarTrek reruns or Jeopardy while Matt pounded on the keyboard. I thought to take up knitting. I know if I were in my apartment, I would be sorting the kitchen drawers, but there was no help for it. When I complained, Matt just shrugged and said, it's work and it'll pay for another one of those pretty posters. I also knew that Matt needed time to himself. Sometimes I heard him gently weeping and I knew that memories of Luis hovered. I was not about to intrude on those. The fastest way for the new wife to become the new nag was to try to compete with or expunge the old wife. What was a girl to do?
So when the rehearsal season rolled in for the New Jersey Gay Sparrows, I was ready. I wanted Matt to join the group, but he declared that he was a better listener than a warbler. I was disappointed, because I wanted to share this experience with him. But there were borders we couldn't cross. He couldn't sing and I couldn't understand that damned computer. So I left him to his own devices on Wednesday nights, when I drove to Princeton for the thing I did best in this world --- do dire battle with a bunch of singing queens for the title best little warbler in the bird cage.
3
The Presbyterian Church on Nassau Street had been standing on the Princeton University campus for as long as that campus whispered across the mid-Jersey plains. Its tall white spire lorded over the campus, a campus that I loved. I could have never thrived there as a scholar in such rarified air. However, I'm no dope. I've always been an avid reader, but a student? I didn't have the chops. However, I'm an incurable romantic and Princeton, with its cerebral turrets and academic temples and scholastic lanes and gargoyles, was just the place for a romantic. I might not be able to conjugate Latin verbs or discover the formula for making pigs fly, but if I were ever turned inside out, Princeton would spring from my guts. There is nothing like early springtime in Princeton, when the men flock to the dorm houses, wearing less and less as the humidity heightened.
The New Jersey Gay Sparrows started out in a different location --- an old farm house in West Windsor, somewhere hidden from public view, because when one forms a gay chorus, no one comes unless they are assured anonymity. The original sixteen members, many gone now through attrition, political battles and illness, formed a sweet bunch of tweeters called the Central Jersey Men's Choir. The Jersey Sparrow thing didn't get going for a while, and until our audience decided that listening to an obviously gay chorus that hid behind a bland, closeted name was a sell-out. The Gay word was in and out depending on the concert and the venue, but by the time we began rehearsing at the White Church, it was in. I always thought it a hoot that the state's first GALA mens chorus would sprout up and take root in conservative Princeton. But there you are. We were stars to the Laura Ashley crowd, who'd line the pews flouting their newfound liberalism on their puffy blouses and Easter Parade hats. Of course, the audience was peppered with the gay community also --- a reserved pew for drag queens, a contingent of bikers and here and there a coterie of collegiate chaps fanning each other with the program and evaluating the ushers' butts.
I joined the group in full flight and claimed to be the youngest member, and indeed had the best voice. Gerry, our director, had recruited me in a bar --- I believe it was The Den on karaoke night. He asked me if I read music, to which I immediately lied and said, why yes. I do all right in that area . . . now, and I immediately inflamed the jealousies of the other tenors when Gerry gave me a solo on the first night. It was that old Scottish favorite, Loch Lomond, and hon, I took the high road. I will say I was nervous at our first concert and missed my cue, which delighted that prima donna Jasper, but the audience ate it up and the rest is Gay Jersey Sparrow history.
4
"Hi, all," I shouted coming over the threshold of the upstairs rehearsal hall. I fully expected a round of acclaim, but instead I was mauled by the Otterson crowd --- Padgett and Todd.
"Who is this masked stranger?" Padgett asked.
"I hear he's found himself a buckaroo," Todd chortled. "We were all deciding who would take your solos this season."
Jasper, who was always keen to that subject, nodded and sneered at me simultaneously.
"No chance of that," I said.
The rehearsal hall was a nice size, set with three rows of folding chairs arranged in four sections --- first tenor, second tenor, baritone and bass. Of course, first tenors and basses were the sparkle of the group. You had to have a fine voice to be in that league. Everything else fell in between, and sometimes baritones sang second tenor and second tenors sang baritone. How tasty pudding was that?
I espied Russ. He was a bass, which surprised everyone since his speaking voice was so Nelly.
"I'm mad at you," he snapped, and then turned to John (who was out of drag). Then Russ marched over to me. "I said, I'm mad at you."
"I heard you. I figured you'd be."
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
I noticed that Todd and Padgett were all ears, as was the three Rons, who farted around with their empty music folders. I nodded toward the window. The hall had a small low-rise stage at the far end stacked with instruments that the church choir used during their rehearsals. (This was Princeton after all). Russ proceeded to the low-rise, but as I followed him, the director emerged from behind the piano, where he was having a tête-à-tête with Tim, our tall-drink-of-water accompanist.
"Martin," he said. His voice was charming and his eyes sparkled.
"Gerry."
"I'm glad you're back. Some of the tweets said you were too busy this season to sing."
Russ was waiting, but I needed to quash this rumor.
"No, Gerry. If I were quitting, wouldn't I call you?"
"That's what I told them. Here. Look at this."
He flopped a piece of music into my hand. I glanced at Russ, who rolled his eyes. I perused the piece. Ave Verum Corpus by Mozart. It had a little solo in it, so I had to look. It was part of the classical portion of our program. We always did an assortment of church and classical works in the first half, a portion that we fondly called the Death Set. The second half were show tunes, campy numbers and GALA sanctioned pieces --- touchy, feely, activist and melancholy --- let my people go stuff.
"Consider the solo, will you?"
"That's up to you."
I could hear Jasper seething on the sidelines. However, I also espied Russ returning to John. He mouthed I'm mad at you.
"Excuse me, Gerry, I need to . . ."
"We're starting. Tim."
Tim smiled (he always smiled) and pounded three chords on the piano. The flock came to order --- all of them. The whole assortment. And we were a collection of mixed nuts. A few scrawny crows, a wallflower or two, a whole belly brigade (Ron was so fat, when he sang, his mouth disappeared into his chins). We had butch boys, and drag queens, the talented, the tone deaf and buff and the bodily odor challenged. We even had a manic-depressive music librarian --- Brian, and you hoped when he handed you your music that the medication had settled, otherwise you might get three sets of the same piece. Twenty-seven New Jersey Gay Sparrows, and here and there a chicken hawk. The only thing we were missing was a straight man. We did have one when we started out, they tell me. He hadn't realized that the Central Jersey Men's Choir was that way. He actually stuck it out to the first concert, they say, but I guess his girlfriend objected. Some people are so insecure.
"On your feet, ladies," Gerry said.
No speech. No welcome back or rules and regulations. He just pointed to Tim, and we naturally applauded the man for his thankless work.
"Hands at your sides and stretch. And stretch and stretch. Now to your right and to your left."
It was funny watching the belly brigade do these, but without the stretching, our diaphragms would be just so much dead skin in the lung vat. After the stretches, we went through a series of breathing exercises --- huffs and puffs, and lip farts and the ever-popular radiator shush. Then came humming and scales and harmonizing, and then a small lecture on enunciation.
"Remember your h's, ladies. It's when, not wen. A wen is . . ."
Gregg paused and pointed at us.
"A sebaceous cist," we caroled in unison.
"Exactly, and since we will have some Latin this season, its not eXcelsior, but eGGcelsior."
Finally, we sat and sight-read the entire program. It sounded like a gaggle of geese instead of a twittering of sparrows, but it was fine. It settled my heart. After hours of rehearsing there is nothing like the sound of a men's choir, fully balanced and blended. However, this first go-through was . . . was music to my ears. Other rehearsals would belabor every measure. We would need to stop and teach the second tenors their parts, pounding out the lines on the piano. Second tenors were . . . well, second tenors. But the first rehearsal was anything goes. We were divine individuals, each trying to embrace the music on our own terms. The concert would require us to sacrifice our souls to performance --- to the sacred blend of voices. But that first run-through was always the best.
5
At the break, which was always soda and cookies, I tried to buttonhole Russ, but he surrounded himself with Padgett and Todd, a sure deterrent to my company. Todd Moorehouse was a constant self-server and Padgett was his foil. Apart they gave me a headache. Together they gave me a migraine. I needed to wait until the rehearsal's end to lasso Russ, and even then, I had to catch up with him. I should have just let him go, but he wanted me to chase him. He was parading down the dark driveway toward Nassau Street, when he finally turned.
"I'm mad at you, you know."
"Could have fooled me, bitch," I said.
I was mad at him now. He was true to form, but what a pain in the ass.
"How's domestic life?"
"What the hell are talking about?"
"Your cowboy."
"He's not my cowboy. He's my . . . my lover . . . my companion."
"Excuse me. I thought that was one and the same."
I was furious now. Russ couldn't have been more vicious if he had bitten my hand.
"What's with you? I thought we were friends. I thought you'd be happy if I met someone."
"I would be, if you had."
"What d'ya mean by that?"
"I mean, he's your Christmas fuck. Somehow, he's stuck to your shoe, unlike the others. But he'll be scraped off sooner or later, and you'll be a mess. Just don't come crying to me."
I trembled. I pushed him into the hedges, and fortunately the rest of the Sparrows had flown or we'd be a gossip item from the Delaware to the Hudson. He recovered and flew at me, but I stepped aside. He tripped, falling flat on his nose. Gravel didn't suit him.
Suddenly, I regretted this. Friendships are not supposed to end with pushes and punches. I hunkered down.
"I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
"Go away."
"Russ. I don't know why you're acting like this. Matt is wonderful and I think I . . . I think I . . . I love him."
I was as stunned as Russ was. It was the first time I had said it aloud and it probably should have been said to Matt, but a try out wasn't a bad notion.
"Are you sure, hon?" Russ whimpered.
"I am."
Was I really, but it sounded so like a resolution, I said it again.
"I am."
Russ was on his knees now, hugging me, crying like the sissy he was, and not in his bass voice. It was good to have a friend. I wasn't ready for this friendship to end. However, I remember in the lamplight in the shadow of the White Church, the realization that I was actually in love and the world was as promising as singing the music for the first time.
1
Life was always about me, even when Viv tried to convince me that she was at the core. This happens when you fend for yourself. You get to think that other people are just accessories to the vacuum broom. However, now that I had made that pronouncement to Russ about my feelings for Matt, I felt more the satellite than the planet. It took me another two weeks to say as much to Matt. I had planned to murmur it in bed, post-passion or over a glass of wine and turkey chili, but as it turned out, it happened during our first argument. It was another Wednesday night and I took an hour off from work to get a pair of potpies going and a nice spinach salad. It was rushed, as it was rehearsal night. Matt was late, and not your ten minutes after five late, but your quarter after six late. He came in with little notion that he was nothing but on time.
"It's cold," I barked.
"It still smells nice, Pumpkin."
He went to kiss me, but I averted him.
"You're late, and you know that I have rehearsal tonight."
"Well, I got stuck."
I pouted and fretted. I was once again the planet and this moon was gibbous in my eyes now. I rattled the plate and dumped his potpie in the center. It stuck to the pie tin and clumped in a mess.
"It looks like shit," I snapped.
He hugged me, but I squirmed out.
"I can't help it when we're on a deadline," he explained, or tried to explain.
"You could have called."
"I didn't know that you were going to all the trouble of baking a frozen dinner."
Now I was miffed. Beyond miffed. He could whip up his own dinner and find dessert in the dark with his own manipulation. I grabbed my plate, which I had barely touched, but as I snapped it up, the remnants of my potpie slipped off onto the floor. In my effort to catch it, the plate went crashing.
"Shit!" I cried. "Now look what you made me do."
I bent down for the pieces and as I mushed my hand in congealed gravy and glass, I went to pieces.
"Leave it be, Pumpkin. I take care of it. You'll be late for rehearsal."
He lifted me into his arms. I was so mad I could spit, and yet I knew it wasn't his fault. Deep down the voices told me that I was slipping. My world was changing. He didn't need potpies, but I needed to make them . . . or at least bake the ones Clarence Birdseye prepared.
"You could have called," I murmured.
"I could have," he said. "But I didn't think to."
"You should have," I said. "I'm trying."
"I know. I appreciate it."
Then it came out.
"I love you, you know."
It sounded different from the resolution beneath the White Church's spire. It had a twinge of desperation in it. Still, it reached inside and turned me into a cringing child. Matt pressed me hard into his arms. I heard him weeping now. I supposed he had heard someone else tell him that they loved him, and that would be the ghost of Luis. Still, if my admission touched that specter, it was fine with me. Matt wasn't pushing me away.
I expected after that, we would have the long overdue next steps conversation --- the what does it all mean type of thing, but he just cleaned up the mess and I went to rehearsal --- reluctantly. It wasn't until later that night, when we shared the quiet twilight before sleep that he touched my hand, lacing his fingers in mine.
"Pumpkin," he said. "I loved you the minute I set eyes on you. I'm glad you've finally come around."
We became twin stars then, forever in each other's orbit.
2
I was spending so much time at Matt's place that I wondered why I rented my little hacienda by the sea. In fact, I could get a break and grow my little GALA Denver fund, if I had just moved in with him. I would pay my share of rent and expenses, but it would be far cheaper. I asked Russ about it, but he just gave me a raspberry and walked away. That was an answer --- a biased answer, but an answer nonetheless. I was on the fence and wanted to broach the issue with Matt. However, I knew he would just shrug and let me move in. In fact, he would insist on me living there free, and that would be unacceptable. No matter how many freeloaders I had had on my doorstep, I was not about to become one. Still, if I had a plan in place, something with a spreadsheet and a contract, I could hold my own. The thought of having a contract was too much like marriage for me, but after all, wasn't that the only purpose for marriage? If the State of New Jersey ever let gay folk marry, I think it would be all about contracts. But I wouldn't worry about that. This country would elect an African American President first before it ever considered gay marriage. A long shot at best.
Then my answer came from the least expected place. I shouldn't say the least, because deep in my soul --- where the voices lingered and harassed, I knew Viv would see the practicality of the matter. She had popped over unannounced one evening when I was home switching out clothes.
"You're home, shithead," she said.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"The last three times I dropped in, you weren't, but you wouldn't know that would you?"
"Sorry."
She was wearing a red sweater and the tightest pair of toreador pants I had ever seen. Thin as she was, I thought she'd split them wide open when she sat.
"I don't mind," she said. "I mean, I do come by to see you, but if you're gonna be out, at least keep the fridge stocked. The last time all you had was moldy yogurt and some leftover Chinx."
"Sorry."
I was only half listening to her. She could come and go as she pleased. She could even spend the night here --- entertain, if she promised to change the linen, but at that moment, I was picking through a week's worth of clothing. While I was bent over my line-up of shoes, Viv pinched my ass and giggled.
"Stop that," I said, not unkindly. She was playful and sober, a rare combination.
"So this thing with this guy . . . what's his name?"
"Matt."
"Matt. It's serious. Are you gonna have one of those gay beach celebrations this summer? I'll come. You know that if you're servin', I'm drinkin'."
"Yes," I sighed. "It's serious. But . . ."
"But what?"
She scrunched up on the couch, her chin on her knees. Those pants were destined to split. I was sure of it.
"Well, you see what I'm going through."
"You're packin'. Big deal."
"Yes, I pack every week. And I'm getting tired of it."
She sprang to life. The lights came over her eyes. Brilliant.
"You're thinkin' of moving in together."
I stopped my machinations and plopped beside her on the couch. She hit it squarely on the head, but I was hesitant to discuss it with her. Her wisdom was always so wise-ass. If she had found life's mysteries, I wouldn't even be here.
"I'm thinking about it, Viv. But here's the thing. The man is devoted to me. I've never had such attention."
"Not from me, you haven't."
"You're just my mother. You did your one act."
"It was painful."
"Get over it."
"Still, shithead, you mustn't lose sight of what I'm seeing. Hear ya tell me that he's attentive, but I see your ass scurrying through closet for a change of clothes. What's wrong with this place that he shouldn't move in with you?"
She had a point. Matt's place was bigger, but mine was . . . familiar to me. It had become . . . well, it was home. I sighed again.
"I was thinking of giving up this place altogether. Save money."
"Saving money's always a good plan, but . . ." She gave me a shove. "Don't be a little fool. There's no guarantee that anything lasts for more than a year. This is prime property, and besides I have a key."
"It's always about you."
"That's true. And it should always be about you. So you're packing your shit for a week's vacation at the boyfriend's place. So what. Until you tie the knot . . ."
"You know we can't . . . "
"You know what I mean. Whatever you sweetie-pies do to make it binding. Until then, keep a place of your own. You'll need a retreat. And as for saving money, cut out the smoking."
"I don't smoke."
"Good. Bad habit. And expensive. See, you've already saved money. Well, since you're not offering me a beer, a beer you don't have, I'll be going."
She kissed me, pinched my chin and glided to the door.
"Remember, shithead, it's all about you, until it's not."
She was gone, but her cheap perfume aroma lingered. As ditsy as she was, it was true. Why should I give up this place? Matt wasn't forcing me, and then there would be the merging and consolidation of stuff. Whose toaster would be tossed? Whose kitchen table would go in storage? Where would my little stash of books --- Dickens and Melville and Twain and the like, go? Beside his computer books? I don't think so. So I sighed for the twentieth time that day and resolved to leave things as they were. Although I took a resolution to insist that Matt stay at least one weekend a month at my place --- near The Cavern, and all that.
3
Spring brought the crocus, the lilacs and the big ass Spring Concert at Richardson Auditorium, which stood behind the White Church on campus. Richardson was an old rotunda with all the charm of the Bastille peppered with Tiffany windows. It was created with my voice in mind, an acoustical wonder that kissed any audience with rich tones and harmonies. I was destined to sing three soli in the concert --- the little one in Mozart's Ave Verum, a catchy one in Spring is Here, a medley of Rodgers and Hart and a pathetic tearjerker in When He Left My Arms, one of those AIDS anthems that every GALA chorus were required to sing --- like the obligatory red ribbon.
This concert was very special, because not only did I ace Jasper out for all three solos (Woohoo), but also Matt was bringing the Kielers to Richardson. Actually, it made me nervous, because they had never heard me sing before. I knew I'd be great, but it was like having an extra set of judges on the panel --- judges whose opinion actually mattered.
"You'll be just fine," Matt said as he helped me with my cummerbund. Lately I had forgotten how to dress myself. We had managed to dress each other so often, I thought I might forget how to tie my shoelaces. I took to wearing loafers.
"Do my tie," I asked.
He fumbled with it.
"You know I can't tie this thing for all the . . ."
I kissed him.
"I had a frog in my throat this morning."
"Only a frog?"
He laughed. I pushed him away.
"I'll get some one else to finish the tie. My throat's a little scratchy. I want the Ave Verum to be perfect for your Mom.
"She'll love it."
"As for your Dad, I hope he doesn't think I sing just soppy numbers."
"He'll understand."
"I mean that weepy last number."
"He's heard the weepy numbers before."
Odd. Had the Kielers been exposed to the morbid side of GALA already? Matt shrugged.
"My Dad likes snappier numbers, true, but if you see him nodding off during your last solo, just stop, come to the edge of the stage and sing:

If I were in the land o' cotton,


Ole times there are not forgotten."

I chased him around the living room table until we fell on the couch. He tickled me.
"Stop it. The cummerbund snapped off again."
"Don't eat so much."
I smothered him with kisses. It would be a good concert after all.
4
One nice touch to our concert was the guest appearance of the Erastes Errata choir, our Lesbian brothers in vocal virility. They pounded out the feminine sets like Rosie the Riveter in three-four time. I mention this because my friends, Leslie and Ginger, were there and after the concert, we all got together at Woolfies for some burgers and brewskies, as the straight set say. The Kielers took a shining to Ginger and Leslie, and my lesbo godmothers took a shining to sister Mary. Now, as far as I know, Mary Kieler was as straight as Meryl Streep, but with a few beers, Mary was flirting with the best of them. It raised curious possibilities in my mind. Still, when Sammy Kieler's silly jokes had subsided, the question of summer vacations went round robin.
Mary was visiting a school friend in San Francisco, a trip that excited her. It would excite me too. I'd kill to visit San Francisco and bounce around the Castro for a week. Sammy and Louise were touring the mid-New England sights in the Berkshires, which would have sent me for a snooze. I mean, Provincetown or Ogunquit was more my speed. It then dawned on me that Matt might be taking that tour. I mean, he did so many things with Mom and Dad, including the Sunday dinners and even the Presbyterian Church at least once a month. My heart hitched. Then the baton was passed to me. Everyone gazed awaiting the response.
"I really hadn't made plans for this year, especially with Denver coming up next year," I said with as much conviction as I could.
I turned to Matt anxiously passing that baton.
"We're probably going to relax at Long Branch," Matt said, much to my relief. "Pumpkin has that apartment, which hasn't had much use lately."
I beamed. Then, Leslie percolated.
"Why not spend a week with us in New Birch?"
"Yes," Ginger countered. "At the Lantanas."
"The Lantanas?" Matt asked.
I had forgotten that they owned and ran a bed and breakfast in New Birch. I'd been there once for a weekend and it was a wonderful place.
"Lez and Ginger have a B&B," I said.
"In New Birch," Ginger said.
The whole table was buzzing.
"Isn't that in Pennsylvania?" Louise asked. "I hear that it's quite the place for antiquing."
"And other things," Ginger barked.
"Just across the Delaware from Libertyville," Leslie added.
Matt's eyes drifted from Leslie to Ginger, and then to Mary.
"Sounds delightful," Mary said. "I've been to New Birch, Newt. It's just the place for you. Bit of nightlife, a slice of daylife and relaxation."
"Yes," I said, suddenly aware that this neutral ground --- the B&B, could be the very place to equalize the space issues. "Relaxation away from computers might be just the thing. How about it?"
"Well, we've never really discussed it, but it's a possibility."
"Bullshit," Ginger croaked. "Possibility, nothing. Come be our guests for a week. You'll love it."
"It's settled then," Leslie said.
It wasn't settled, but I could see the idea penetrating Matt's mind, and it was a favorable glow. Suddenly, the summer was no longer a challenge. It was just a matter of getting vacation time to coincide with Matt's. I could have kissed my lesbian godmothers. In fact, if I recall, I did, which must have sealed the pact, because we spoke no further about it until it became a fact.
1
New Birch, Pennsylvania was an old artist's village stretching for two miles on the banks of the Delaware River. It had all the tourist stuff, which I didn't mind, because I'm into tourist stuff. I mean, who can't live without a paper parasol with hand painted cranes on its hood? The shops were right up my alley, but I needed to exercise some control or next summer I'd be sitting in Long Branch while the tribe was off in the Rockies. There was a theater in New Birch that played Summer stock, although how many times can you see Catz? Crafts, homemade ice cream, glassware, tarot cards (left over from the hippie days) and restaurants by the mile. Best of all, most of the shops were gay-owned and operated. That always titillated me, because the surrounding township, Sipsboro, and the rest of the county were as conservative as Mormons. They regarded New Birch as the underbelly of their suburban Xanadu. Still, it drew the bridge and tunnel crowd, so the farmers-in-the-dell sold their corn and tomatoes and berries in season. The real estate agents had a heyday snaring the well heeled by the heel and selling them a prime piece of Pennsylvania for an inflated price.
Gay owned and operated meant that the surrounding hills on both sides of the river teamed with gay men and womyn. Many also owned a goodly slice of Libertyville, which thrived in the antiques trade. And in New Birch, left turn at the town canon, past the haunted house, a steep incline lead to the gay ghetto, an array of garden apartments --- the home of the brave and pink. In their shadow, hidden in the tributary glades and near the quaint old mule canal, stood the mansions of the filthy rich queers. I once thought that I should go shopping there and be set for life. I certainly had the figure and taste for such style, but the cost was too high; and I don't mean money. I mean my eternal soul. What a girl had to do just to spend a night in these cathouses, especially the Otterson estate, a sprawling Tara that I had been in once, but once was enough. Some of the Jersey Gay Sparrows fluttered to the Otterson estate, which was owned by a Princeton University Prof, who had other businesses to be sure. I only asked once as to what they were and their nature, and didn't understand the answer, so I chalked it up to ignorance is bliss. Creatures like Padgett and Todd and Mortimer (who lived in the basement), fluttered around Roy Otterson and his rich cronies. I would need to be at the bottom of my luck before I went sprawling across the Professor's threshold again.
Three gay bars. New Birch had three gay bars --- they still do, although they seem to change their names and décor every three years, except The Crow. That one never seemed to change. More a restaurant and pick-up joint, the food was classy but the clientele less so --- much on the distaff side. It also had an outdoor pool enclosed with tall cedar trees for the clothing optional. I liked to stand on The Crow's verandah and gawk at the latest crop, but honestly, in many cases I wished the bathing suits were mandatory. A Motel was attached for the quick urges. I remember the first time I ate at The Crow. I was a naïve newbie then and while I waited for my date, I spied a three hundred pound naked hairy man sprawled on a bed with the windows open and the lights on. I guess it was a two for a dollar sale. It put me off food that night.
The other two bars were fun places --- The Continental, which served the younger set, but had a basement dance floor and a fair menu. It constantly opened and closed, as it was mafia owned and operated --- not even by the gay mafia. The bridge and tunnel crowd would vacillate between The Continental and the third bar, The Wagon Wheel, which was an even funner place --- dancing, a piano bar, three lounges, a porch, a disco and a parking lot that was guaranteed to break your axles. When The Wagon Wheel was in vogue, the mafia would close The Continental, change its name, improve its fixtures and have a go at it following season. When that happened, The Wagon Wheel, which was Lesbian owned, would redo the lounge (Safari one year -- leather the next), and add some new menu items. What they should have done was pave the parking lot, which could have accommodated an old Conestoga and other vintage wagons.
So Matt and I packed our bags and headed for this Mecca on the Delaware for a full week of relaxation and fun.
2
The Lantanas was a quarter of a mile north of the main drag on the Delaware side of the road, festooned with pine trees and overgrown with ivy and, true to its name, lantanas. Heck, I didn't know what a lantana was until I saw this Bed & Breakfast. I remember asking Ginger, What the hell's a lantana? Some sort of Lesbian light bulb? That got me a Ginger punch in the arm and a quick lesson in botany about the creeping vine that peeped through the porch's latticework. How was I supposed to know? Unlike Ginger, who was an electrical engineer or Leslie, the lawyer, I only knew the flowers on linen patterns and ties. The place was quaint --- a cottage with three stories --- a parlor, dining room, kitchen and seven guest rooms and a place for the girls. We were the first guests of the season, our choice of rooms and places at the table. The table part was nothing to brag about. The Bed was good, but the Breakfast was . . . Lesbian fare --- rubbery eggs, burnt toast and near sour orange juice. Matt and I would giggle throughout the service, Ginger dumping the food unceremoniously on our plates in a Mel's Diner sort of way. Leslie would be already gone to town for her mail, her law offices being in Libertyville.
We would then retreat to the porch and feed the cats, and there were cats everywhere. I believe that every cat in New Birch hopped over the fence and waited in the tall grass for the tins to pop open, an act that Ginger did with a bit more grace than when she fed us.
"Do they have names?" Matt asked her.
"Why?" Ginger said, whistling to the gang to assault the tuna and sardine crap that waited for them. "If they did, would they call each other? All I know is that they're better behaved than the purries that I get in here."
"We'll be good," I said.
"No you won't." She laughed. "And we didn't invite you here to be good. We want you to be bad --- so very bad."
Ginger was a tiger cat herself. She had had a hard life, or so Leslie told me once beyond Ginger's earshot. Her family had disowned her when she left her husband and that after losing a child. I couldn't picture Ginger as a housewife or even a mother. I shouldn't talk with Viv in my saddlebag, but Ginger was so . . . butch, a perfect pitch to Leslie's femininity. Still, Leslie was the guiding force and they were devoted to each other beyond this business holding and the Erastes Errata Choir. Ginger had difficulty holding a job, outspoken as she was, and often told her bosses which window they could jump out of and what to do with the horse that they rode in on. Leslie was financially steady and laid no requirements on her mate to be other than herself.
It was a memorable first vacation. The price was right. The setting was rustic and shopping was within a short walk. And shop we did. I bought enough bric-a-brac to keep my feather duster busy and Matt added to his boots and spurs collection. I loved the old Aquarian shop with the tarot cards and incense and hippy shit. It was directly across the street from the straight biker bar and every so often, a dark shaded leathery burly man and his Moll would drift into the shop and try on the Gothic jewelry or roughly handle the naughty tee shirts with the Harley Davidson logos. Matt wanted to get a drink in the biker bar.
"Hon," I said, more a recommendation than a response. "They can spot a fag a mile away. We'd be pinned like butterflies before the head on your beer settled."
"Where then?"
That was simple, only it was not within walking distance. It was up the hill, away from the tourist track at The Crow. That day, it was our second or third, we had already driven up to the highway and danced at The Wagon Wheel and ogled in The Continental. We had also had a narrow escape coming back in Matt's Cherokee, the drink clouding the driving abilities. When Matt pulled into the driveway, the nameless pussies fled in every direction. So even though The Crow was a hike, we decided to huff it and, if intoxicated (ha ha, if), we wouldn't be challenged behind the wheel.
The Crow had a quality restaurant. We lounged by the pool and watched the nudie show and chugged beers, and then had a fine steak dinner, complete with garlic mashed potatoes, a prelude of onion soup and topped it off with crème brule. It was far better than sitting at the B&B wondering what Ginger had killed for the evening meal. Dinner wasn't actually in the deal, and she only sloshed stuff together if we hadn't moved our asses into town for grub. Leslie generally ate out, would come in late and retire to her room --- the two watching television and giggling like schoolgirls. The walls were thin, so I guess they heard us also.
In any event, after dinner at The Crow, we sat at the bar and then drifted into the lounge. This bar was known as a haven for the older set, so when youngsters (like Matt and I) drifted into the lounge, it was pocket-handkerchief night at the old pick up bar. Many senior fairies sat at attention at our entrance. The bears sharpened their claws on the nearest tree. Suddenly, I spied a young one . . . one whom I knew --- but from where? It was the waiter from The Cavern --- Bobby What's-his-name . . . Anselm. He sat on one of the four sofas that dotted the room. I remember the smoke was thick that night, my eyes burning already, but gay men have lungs of steel. The place needed a good dusting and perhaps my vacuum broom, but after a vat of beer and a full belly, the only thing I could think of was sleeping. I didn't need to play the cruising game in this opium den. I had my squeeze on my arm.
"I know that guy," Matt said.
I sighed, perhaps tinged with a touch of jealousy. Bobby was a looker --- a real fine looker and he was looking now --- fishing, even. No, trawling, although he sat beside a plain looking man, who squinted at us.
"Perry?" Matt said.
The man stirred.
"Who is that?" I asked, surprised. "I thought you meant . . ."
"No. It's Perry Chaplin. He works up at Gamma Rex. He's been to Axum Labs for some training and . . . he's real good, but I didn't know . . ."
"Matthew Kieler," Perry said, greeting Matt formally.
"I'm surprised."
"To see me here," Perry said. "Secret life. But I knew you were . . . and I was meaning to come out the next time I was . . ."
"No need now. This is my . . ." Matt hesitated.
"Martin," I said. "Is that darling with you, because I've seen him at The Cavern?"
"Bobby," Perry called.
Bobby strutted over and immediately latched onto Matt's hand. I felt like knocking him on his ass --- his gorgeous bubble butted ass.
"Cowboy," Bobby said, his eyes riveting. "I've seen you around." He cocked his head and winked. "Not enough for my tastes, but some of you is better than none of you."
"Stop it, Bobby," Perry said. "He's such a kidder."
"Then you two are together," I said, not asking, but announcing.
Perry flashed his hand. A commitment ring. Bobby reluctantly flashed his, and then winked again. I noticed that Bobby was either very drunk or unsteady.
"Get me a Cosmo," he said to Perry.
"I don't think so. You weren't supposed to have the first."
First? He must have meant Tenth, but Bobby just shrugged and drifted back to the couch. I noticed that he had a birthmark on his neck, just beneath his right ear. Matt saw it also, because he was suddenly distressed as if that blemish spoiled the perfect Adonis notion that was Bobby Anselm.
I had to sit, so I elected to keep Bobby company, but he wasn't much company. In fact, he had no interest in me at all. He just winked at the old gargoyles and occasionally moistened his lips in Matt's direction. Matt and Perry babbled in code. They were building the next generation of information technology right there in the heart of the night trade. They were oblivious to it. I just drank and drank, and soon, I was oblivious to them all. I do remember glancing down at Bobby, who had fallen asleep. I got a good look at that birthmark. God had some sense of humor created such a perfect creature only to despoil him at the last moment --- the mark of Cain. I was really drunk. I heard Perry Chaplin say I had better get him home, and then Matt echo the sentiment --- mine too.
Fortunately, we didn't need to walk. Well, I couldn't walk if the place was on fire. Perry offered to drop us off at the B&B. I vaguely remember the trip, except that Bobby must have found in me a comfy cushion, because he snored away on my shoulder. We arrived and I do remember trying to negotiate the fence instead of the gate, and yelling I've got to piss. I wandered through the garden uncaring of where I aimed. I just had to go. I heard the upstairs window open and Leslie cry out. Is that you, Martin? I heard the echo What are they doing? from Ginger. He's pissing on the cats. And sure enough, they were scurrying to the four corners. Matt howled, and then tugged me toward the porch.
"You like him," I said or I think I said.
"Who? Perry? He's a colleague."
"Collie? No, not him. I mean . . . Bob . . . Bobby."
"You're nuts."
"Really. Me? I'm nuts. I saw the way he looked at you, and I saw you starin' back. I mean, his cotton candy, that one. He's got eyes."
Bobby's eyes drew the world to his soul. No one could resist them. They winked and flirted with everyone he saw. He underscored this with a smile that blossomed.
"Bullshit," I said, holding onto to Matt for dear life. "He's not so pretty, you know. He's got a wine splotch, you know. It's hidden unless you know where . . . well, I saw it."
"I feel sorrow for him, Pumpkin, that's all."
"Sorry. Bullshit."
Matt straightened me up. I remember that just before I passed out.
"He's sick, Martin. He's very sick."
I don't remember much after than, except that Ginger caught me as I passed out, and she probably marshaled me up to bed, because I heard a whisper on the wind, between the yelping of wet cats.
"And we didn't invite you here to be good. We want you to be bad --- so very bad."
3
When I pried my eyes open the next morning, I was alone in bed. The light assaulted me with a new definition of torture and I saw everything in rainbow colors, although not in the correct order --- all of them simultaneously. My stomach rumbled, but not for food. I thought I was giving birth to the Alien. I sat up, but could get no further. I guessed that this day would not be as much fun as yesterday.
The door cracked open and a cowboy-hatted head peered in.
"What time is it?" I belched.
"Half past one," Matt said.
He crept in. Respect was always a hallmark of this gentleman and he evidently appreciated my condition. But half past one?
"I've slept too long, and the day is shot now."
Matt sat beside me on the bed. He scrunched my shoulder and kissed my forehead. Good thing, because my mouth tasted like Rommel's army had been through it, tanks and all, a taste I didn't want to share with anyone.
"You were hammered last night."
"No shit, Jose"
"Do you remember pissing on the cats?"
I shook my head. That I remembered. I also remembered a flirtatious little kid trying to attract my cowboy.
"Where've you been?" I asked. Tart. Unabashedly accusative.
"Out."
"Out where?"
"Shopping."
"I bet."
Matt sighed. It was a bit too mortifying for me. I shuffled back under the counterpane. I guess I pouted, prissy little bitch that I can be at times.
"Now, Pumpkin, if you think I had any interest in anyone in that place but you . . ."
"And computers."
"And computers."
I could deal with computers. Computers and Luis, but that was the limit. He hugged me. Then his hand drifted by my bloodshot eyes. He held a ring between his fingers. A commitment ring. I sat up . . . quickly.
"I thought . . ." he said.
"I love your thinking."
I put my hand out. He slipped the ring on me, a beautiful gold band that hurt to look at. Still, it could have been drilled into my nose and I would have been just as happy. Then he handed me another ring.
"Do me now."
I grabbed the ring and thrust it on his finger. I slammed him into a hug hold, and kissed him long and hard --- Rommel be damned.
"I'll do you," I said. "I'll do you and do you until the cows come home."
"Or 'til the cats dry off."
He laughed and we spent the rest of the day in bed.
1
Summer drifted into fall. The birds began taking wing and the leaves turned in glorious pageantry. I loved the fall, because it heralded the Yule season. I wasn't much for Thanksgiving as Viv never cooked and, if we celebrated it because her current squeeze was a traditionalist, it would be in a restaurant. Perhaps that was for the best. Turkey has been known to be lethal if not prepared well and Viv could have lapsed into a festive accident if given a roasting pan and a baster. However, this year was different. I looked forward to Thanksgiving, because it was at the Kielers.
"Just wait 'til you taste that dressing," Matt said. "Mom's touch is in every morsel. There's nothing like it here or even on Mount Olympus."
Sounded great. I was a little home keeper, but I was better at thawed frozen foods than from-scratch banquets. While I was happy that Matt was tasting his mother's dressing already, I had some anxiety. Viv was invited. I didn't think she'd come, but she was between beaus and surprised me by enthusiastically accepting. Now Viv was fine company for the likes of me. I was her little shithead, after all. However, to traipse her out before the Kielers --- that was a source of heartburn.
"She'll be fine," Matt assured me.
He had managed a great relationship with Viv. She nicknamed him Harpooner, because he had managed to fish me out of the sea. I also suspected that she gave him that nickname for other reasons best left in the shadows. They got along famously. However, Louise Kieler was . . . a lady --- a regular plantation belle without the southern prejudice --- gracious and hospitable. To toss Viv into the works just might change the Kieler's perception of me, which was warm and sociable.
"She'll be fine," Matt reassured. "My mother has lived a bit also. She's no prude. Besides, Viv might surprise us all."
"You mean she might use fuck only every fifth word instead of every other one. Remind me to have a talk with her."
"Why spoil things," Matt said. He chuckled.
"You want her to embarrass your family," I said.
"You'd be the only one turning red, Pumpkin. My family has an open door to the world,"
That was true enough. It would be wonderful to have a whole family in one place on one day a year. However, I still thought it advisable to give Viv a heads-up.
"These people are very stylish, Viv. They never curse. They live a well ordered life."
"Fuck, are they alive?" she asked. "And how did their little darling queer son get to know the ropes if they didn't use curse words. Shit, shithead, I'm not used to being turned off in this way."
"Please."
She rolled her eyes and tossed her stringy hair about in a sweep, but she agreed. In fact, she showed up ahead of us, dressed with less fringe and mascara. She waved to me when we came in (not giving me the usual shithead greeting, although she did call Matt Harpooner). Viv was subdued, but I could see she was seething to ask the Kielers a thousand questions. She actually would have pulled it off if Louise had been more prudent when we sat around the dining room table.
Before the feast was brought forth, we all joined hands for the Thanksgiving prayer, which I'm sure the head of the household would have deliver. However, when all heads bowed, Mrs. Kieler relinquished her rights.
"Vivian," she said,
"Viv."
"Viv, as our honored guest, would you lead us in prayer?"
"Shit," Viv said. "You're gonna make me work for this grub?"
There was a flutter around the table and my heart sank to my knees.
"Well, I guess that's the price for a good meal. So, are you ready? Everyone shut your eyes and think happy thoughts. God, it's me, Viv Powers, and I say so because it's been a long time --- a real long time, and You just might not remember me. But thanks for everything --- the food, these friends, stuff, and my little shithead, here. All of it. Amen."
Mr. Kieler cleared his throat and the feast began. I nearly had a stroke, but Matt and Mary giggled --- and not quietly, I might add, which loosened Viv up more.
"What?" Viv asked. "Like you don't have things to be thankful for, Harpooner."
He blushed, but things were less tense after that, now that Viv had cut the cheese, so to speak.
2
I love Louise's cooking. I remembered once that Viv opened a can of condensed soup for a visiting truck driver, but that was as far as she had ever gotten into a kitchen. But the Kieler Thanksgiving was a meal that tightened my pants; and we're not talking just good cooking. Presentation reigned here. The bird was crisp and decorated with cranberries. Sam carved it like a ritual akin to a Roman decanting. He recalled every past Thanksgiving. Remember when Granmer Kieler put the pineapple in the turkey and it exploded when she cut into it. And Mother, this is better than last year's, and I know it, because the Pope's Nose is browner.
The side dishes were not just side dishes. Each was garnished with parsley and walnuts and paprika and drizzled honey. The yams were not merely cooked, but presented. There was a sauce for everything, from the asparagus to the mince pie. Yes, I had a tightened waistline and opened up a button, as rude as that might sound. Still Louise pushed plate after plate of goodness at me until I finally pushed back from the table and retreated to the living room. However, as I headed toward Matt and Mary, I heard Viv rattling the dishes.
"Let me kelp ya with the clean-up, Louise."
I shuddered. I pictured the leftovers sliding into the trash pail and the heritage glasses dropping and shattering. I reversed course and grabbed my mater's arm.
"Come sit with Matt and me," I yammered.
"Yes, relax," Louise said. "It's under control."
Sam was ushered into the kitchen, and Mary was summoned. Everything seemed settled on that score. Viv plopped beside Matt and gave him a little tickle.
"Some digs your folks have here, Harpooner," she said.
"Don't break a nail, now," Matt said.
She immediately recouped and examined her priceless sculptured daggers. Matt settled into a stare out the window, while I tried to decide whether to sit on his lap or drag Viv out of her seat. I decided to do the lap thing just as Mary returned with Sam in tow. They appeared unsettled.
"What's up, Sis?" Matt asked before I could sit.
"Nothing, Newt. She won't let us help."
"Leave her be," Sam said. "Sometimes the preparations settle her into a sanctuary of suds and soapy water."
I glanced from Sam to Mary to Matt, and then decided that of the company, I was the only one with experience with suds and soapy water. So I eased my way through the dining room and crept quietly into the kitchen.
Louise was standing in front of the sink. It was sudsy and soapy, but she wasn't doing more than glancing over the surface as if she was trying to see the future or perhaps the past. I hated to disturb her.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She turned. She'd been crying, her eyes red. Perhaps the preparation of this feast had taken its toll. I expected her to wave me off and I would have retreated, but she didn't.
"Martin," she said, a sigh rattling her chest. She smiled dimly. "I'm okay. Thanksgivings take their toll on me."
"Lot's of hard work, I know," I said. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything so good."
"Thank you, but I have. I have tasted better."
She dipped her hands in the water, a plate immersed in the suds. She washed it as an afterthought, placing it in the rack. She handed me a dishtowel. I remember that it as a soft towel, more a bath towel than a tea cloth. I grasped the dish and began my task.
"My mother would have twenty for dinner. Her turkey stuffing was unbelievable. I try to duplicate it, but some things go to the grave and stay only in the mind." She washed another dish. "I miss her so, and yet at Thanksgiving, I pray for the mothers of this world who need to watch their children grow and then let them fly into the unknown. Yet, we know the road and we cannot tell them where the pitfalls lay. They wouldn't believe us. Not for a second."
Suddenly, she turned. I thought she was going to chase me out.
"You know, Luis used to come around at Thanksgiving, when we lived in Houston." She touched my chin, the water dripping down my shirt. "He was such a beautiful child. Yes, his eyes were like emeralds. His smile charmed anyone it shone upon. He worried me so."
"Worried?"
"Well, Luis was more like a daughter to me than a son. However, he had a disquieting fire that made Matthew unsettled at times. Life pulsed in his veins, but death called from the sidelines. Well, Luis is gone, his soul's at rest."
"Yes," I said.
I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to stay there, even with the beck and call of household duties. This gracious lady, as refined as porcelain, had opened the kiln of her heart. It was fiery and unsettling. She must have sensed my discomfort.
"I shouldn't talk like this to you. I guess Luis crops up now and then between you two."
Odd. I always sensed Luis there, but Matt had never mentioned him again after that first night on that wintry volleyball court.
"Actually, never," I said.
Louise frowned, but then blossomed into a smile.
"I'm glad. Perhaps the issue is settled. All I want for my children is happiness and you make my Matthew happy."
I gazed into her eyes. They were Matt's eyes. The tender charm that attracted me to my Cowboy that day over the tie counter was evident in this woman.
"I love your son, Louise," I said. "I love him beyond myself."
Her sorrow turned with the warmth of a summer's day in autumn. Those eyes twinkled like a cloudless sky.
"Now, I need to ask about your mother."
"Viv."
"Viv. Yes, Viv."
"Viv is Viv."
"Yes, but why does she call you . . ."
I laughed. That's all one can do when explaining why the woman who shot you out between her legs in those days of yore called you something that motorists on the New Jersey Turnpike shouted at one another.
"It's an endearment."
"I see. And you call her Viv. Never Mom or Mother or . . ."
"Oh, I call her other names, but never Mom or Mother."
She chuckled.
"Martin," she said. "Sweet Martin." She kissed my forehead, and then slipped the towel from my hands. "You may call me Mom."
3
So we finished the dishes and listened to the chatter from the living room. It was a warm feeling to be among warm people . . . even Viv, who was giving a symposium on the art of sculpting nails. When the washing up was finished, we tackled the leftovers and the cling wrap.
"Not that," Louise said as I wrapped a protuberant chuck of brown turkey meat --- hard and round and as brown as the earth. "That's the Pope's Nose and that's a special treat . . . for the cook."
"Really," I said. "Never heard of the tradition."
"My mother always saved the Pope's Nose for herself, although in her day they called it the Parson's Nose, only we're Presbyterians. However, this year the honor goes to . . . you."
"Oh, I couldn't."
"You must," she said. "Or if you're not up to it, give it to . . . Matthew. I know he'll gobble it up."
The idea intrigued me. Here was a mother's gift given to me and I could bestow it on my lover. Louise retrieved a silver platter from the bottom cabinet. She placed the globular morsel in the center. She quickly peeled and quartered an orange, arranging it about the ecclesiastical schnozzle like the choir at St. Peter's. It's always about the presentation and I was impressed.
When I entered the living room carrying this prize like a coronation crown, Louise announced our entrance.
"Orange slices to cleanse palate," she said. "And the Pope's Nose."
Sam twisted about. He gazed at the platter.
"You didn't scoff it down, Louise, like you usually do?" He turned to Viv. "She usually carries it off like a squirrel's nut and devours it in a secret hiding place." He laughed.
"A new trend," Louise harked.
I offered the orange slices around until I came to Matt.
"The Pope's Nose goes to Martin this year," Louise announced.
"And I'm giving it to Matt."
"Pumpkin."
Matt was astounded.
"Just like Luis," Mary said. "Newt, don't you eat that thing. You know I want it."
She reached, but Matt plucked it off the platter and popped it into his mouth.
"I don't get it," Viv said. "What's so special about a Turkey's ass?"
Matt nearly spit it out. Mary grabbed for him. I almost dropped the platter. However, the golden sound about the room was Louise's hearty laugh. She evidently found Viv's comment rib tickling good fun. It was then that I knew I had found my family.
Part II
The Great Divide
1
It was Christmas again. Holly, angels, appliances, and carols sung by Jersey Gay Sparrows. The whole nine-yards including the expectation of another appliance --- this time a blender to make Margaritas in the comfort of one's own home (or apartment or the apartment of your . . .oh, never mind). Christmas was even better this year, because I shared it. Not with the heartbreak kid of the hour, but with my own bona fide boyfriend . . . hubby, if you will, deuces take the law. I had a ring. I had a hand and a heart. There's nothing like buying a Christmas tree together, and then decorating it with sparkle and shine. We used my sparkle and shine, because Matt didn't have any, although he bought the lights. He even rigged up an electric candle in the front window. Then together we made cocoa and love. Then, in the morning, when Viv knocked on the door (she had no key here), we bantered, exchanged presents and mixed up a batch of Margaritas.
My life had been transformed. Working retail was not just working retail. Russ avoided me now. He waved at choir rehearsal, but he no longer swooped down on me from the Tux shop and shot the breeze during his break. It was fine with me. I had a wise old queen once tell me that close friends sometimes get jealous of the new lovers. However, that queen also told me lovers come and go, but friends are for life. Well, I guess Russ had become an acquaintance. Things change and shit happens.
Life settled into a routine. It was different living for two, planning for two and finding out all the annoying habits my cowboy had. No matter how hard I tried to train him to depart from the room before farting, he'd let one rip whenever he saw fit. Announced it, even. Pumpkin, I believe your ship is coming in, he'd say, and then foghorn Flannigan, the room would rattle. I hated that. I'd wave my hand about and complain, giving him instructions, and then pranced out of the room while he laughed his ass off, which is a better use for it than cutting the cheese. Matt was easier going. Never complained. However, I suspected he got annoyed when I'd stopped mid-sentence, run for the dust devil and clean crumbs off the sofa. Despite this, we had made it to the first Christmas and beyond.
Matt even started to come to rehearsals, which surprised me. He would drive, because after three hours of practice, Pumpkin, you should rest your eyes. He would sort my music and could even handle the temper of Brian, the Librarian. Matt would sit quietly by the window, or if called upon, turn pages for Tim, the accompanist. At break time, he'd help with the set-up and clean up, and got to be a favorite with all the sissies in the choir. He managed even to hold Todd and Padgett at bay. He could distinguish between the three Rons and even had a kind word for Jasper. Russ rarely approached him, but I think Matt was fine with that. I guess he sensed that whatever Russ and I had as friends, Matt and I had in spades now. There was no room for a third wheel.
Matt had to have patience with this whole Gay Jersey Sparrow business. I mean, he didn't sing, except that warble of Dixie, which I never encouraged him to perform. He couldn't read music, but enjoyed it, and to sit through all the exercises, prodding and poking and even the directorial hissy fits --- well, if I didn't love it so much, I would have never subjected myself to it. Matt took mental notes. So much so, when I practiced my inevitable solos back at the apartment he'd yawk like a frigin organ grinder. You were supposed to hold that note longer and crescendo. He was always right, and I usually bristled at him. Critics I could take (well, barely), but tone-deaf music coaches were a bit much.
It was shortly before the spring concert that Matt sprung his biggest surprise.
"Pumpkin, I was thinking. Since we're both going to GALA Festival, I thought I might foot the bill."
I was appalled and elated.
"I can't let you do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I have the money."
"Barely."
"How do you know that?"
He knew. I had cried poverty over that trip for over a year. All he could do is smile.
"Well, if you don't want me to do it . . ."
But I did. What kind of shit was I? Here was a man who gave me his all --- his very being, and I was now willing to wallow in his cash wad. How different was that from the fireflies at the Otterson estate who vied for the Professorial favors? Wasn't it the same thing?
"Something tells me, you've already done it."
He grinned. He held an envelope behind his back. I tried to grab it. When I succeeded, I was even more surprised. It was a check for $ 800.00 --- my check.
"Your deposit," he said. "I retrieved it and paid for us both --- in full."
I shook the check at him.
"Well, I'm buying you lots of stuff with this when we're there."
"You can buy me a beer in the dust up, 'cause the Gay Rodeo is there in town at the same time."
I hugged him.
"I'll buy you two beers and a steak."
He kissed me long and hard.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he said.
"You too."
"I want to make sure you have the most wonderful memories of me in Colorado."
That I found strange, because I would always have wonderful memories of my cowboy . . . always.
2
The solo for the Festival that I had landed was a plum. I didn't expect it to be when I was told it would be a world premiere of a new AIDS memorial piece. Although I had never sung a world premiere, I have sung a crop of the maudlin, weepy memorial numbers. Now don't get me wrong. At the time, I was rather ambivalent about the disease. I wasn't heartless. These musical pieces were overtly moving and I heard the blubbering when I sang my solos. In fact, a full third of our singing canon had AIDS pertinence. When I sang Bring Him Home from Les Miserables, I recall a young man collapsing into his neighbor's lap, bawling. I knew it wasn't necessarily my rendition, although I sailed a high G-flat that echoed throughout the venue. I admit that when we sang a short concert over a portion of the AIDS quilt, I found it emotionally moving. However, it came with the territory. If you sang in a GALA Chorus, you warbled requiems over the mounds of loved ones. Again, I wasn't callous then, just untouched by it all. It was a bubble somewhere out there. I knew about safe sex, but didn't give it much credence, although Matt was near clinical about it. Youth knows only immortality. The furthest thing from my mind was the grim reaper and the news items from New York and San Francisco. I mean, weren't Haitians getting the disease too?
Still I was surprised at this world premiere memorial number. It was entirely in Cree. Not Creek. Cree, which I learned was a Canadian tribe, and somewhere along the inevitable line, the Cree managed to give birth to a one-hundred percent Gay warrior --- a dancer named Little Fox. He was evidently a brilliant interpretive dancer and amazed audiences nightly at the Winnipeg Ballet. Then, like Nuriyev, he contracted the disease and withered away. His lover was a composer and thus wrote this memorial piece. It was rhythmic, filled with war-chants. I had a soaring solo --- like an eagle. These wonderful vowels would let me throw passion to the wind and take flight. Surprisingly, the piece wasn't depressing. It had all the in vogue dissonance. A paean to life --- I think. Not a word of it was in English. However, the musicality of Cree and the pulse of the composer's remembrances defied translation --- it didn't need one.
Jasper also had a solo in the piece --- a secondary tenor line. We even had to sing a duetto for six measures, where he inevitably tried to blast me out. I knew I would need to sit him down for a serious talk. I mean, I understood his jealousy. Who wouldn't, but this piece became a badge of honor for me --- for the Jersey Gay Sparrows. Finally, when he upset the balance for the fourth time in rehearsal, and the director had given up, I did something I had never done before --- and never since. I volunteered to relinquish the solo, to great protest from all. The flack so embarrassed Jasper that he took me aside and asked if we could give it one more go. I agreed. Perfection. He may have begrudged me my spotlight, but he finally realized that there was more at stake here than egos.
"You made me cry, Pumpkin," Matt said on the way home.
"I've seen you cry before."
Silence. I hit a nerve and I didn't mean to do it.
"I'm sorry. I never want to intrude on your memories of . . . Luis."
He squirmed, but that was the first time I had mentioned our resident ghost since we had met.
"I'm okay," he said.
He was clearly not okay, but I let it be. I guessed that death, in its many forms, could be evoked in music --- moving, soaring music. The moment soon passed and I began to hum the Cree piece. Matt hummed too, but he was in serious counterpoint. He hummed Dixie.
3
Vacations were granted by both A&S and Axum Labs and, once again, like our first B&B summer, we were free to go where we pleased. However, where we pleased to go was none other than Denver, Colorado. We left from Philadelphia because our travel agent found us the cheapest way out at that always under construction air hub. The flight was delayed --- that is to say, conditions were normal. I didn't mind. The Sparrows were twittering, making a scene for themselves before the straight public, who either enjoyed the campy antics or fled to a corner with their children huddled so as not to catch a disease. Didn't you know that homosexuality was contagious? The three Rons did a chorus line number, while Todd Moorehouse marched hither and thither complaining about the air quality in the waiting lounge. Brian, the Librarian, panicked when he came through the metal detector (a simple device in those pre-9/11 days). He was wearing so much metal body jewelry, his crotch set off the alarm. He broke down crying when the security guards asked him to remove his cock ring or at least account for it. We roared and had a tale for the ages to tell around rehearsal halls and dinner parties for years to come. Do you remember when Brian set off the metal detector in the Philadelphia Airport?
Once boarded, the shenanigans didn't stop. You see, while we waited in the lounge, Padgett passed around some props --- Dixie cups attached to rubber bands and toilet seat covers. When the flight attendant began her spiel, we were all rehearsed to synchronize our movements with hers. We popped open the seat belts and waved the flight instruction cards. The attendant, at first, was not amused, but her male counterpart, who was clearly a member of our tribe, joined in the charade. Even a few of the straight passengers, the ones that weren't shaking their heads and going my, my, my, this plane is doomed for hell, waved their cards in support. Then came the piece de resistance. When the oxygen mask was demonstrated, we all had our bouncing Dixie cups, ready to apply to our dainty noses. Life jackets? Toilet seat covers. The plane was roaring with mirth now. Guess they were wondering what we had planned for flotation devices, but there we drew the line.
Things calmed down a tad once we were airborne. Matt liked the window seat and was quiet. Brian, the Library, sat in front of us and occasionally would turn around and try to engage us in conversation.
"I hear that they have a wonderful collection of Rainbow Jellies at the Denver Aquarium," he said.
I didn't know they sold jam in an aquarium. I didn't even know that Denver had an aquarium. It took ten minutes of his babble before I realized he was talking about some rare species of jellyfish that swam in Amazonian waters. It put Matt to sleep. All I did was bob my head and prayer for the man to turn about. Suddenly, Padgett was taking drink orders. It appears he had usurped the flight attendant's coffee pot.
"One lump or two, sweeties," he said. "We have a variety of soft drinks and tiny little bottles of the hard stuff. Wine is served in an eyedropper. Pretzels and chips and, if you're real nice to me, I'll cut the cheese."
The attendant was attempting to regain her cart, probably realizing that about ten F.A.A. regulations had been broken. Our director, on the other hand, was keeping the gay steward company somewhere in the rear of the craft, and we supposed that that may have been the sum of it.
Besides an occasional Behave yourselves bleated out by the humorless, we managed to be model gay citizens out on a lark above the friendly skies. I eventually conked out only to wake to a dry tongue and every joint yearning to be free. I don't like air travel, with or without a bevy of silly sissies. However, I remember gazing over at my sleeping cowboy, his hands folded, the ring shining in the dim reading light. I have looked forward to this trip for a long time, I thought. But who could have predicted this? Who?
Then there was light and voices and the Captain speaking. Prepare for landing, and all that standard crap. I woke Matt up, and together we peered out the window. These were the days of the old airport --- Stapleton, before they had the mega-port that ate everyone's luggage. Denver spread before us and, in the near distance, like a curtained wall --- mountains. But not just mountains. The Rockies. The Big 'uns. The Great Divide. The red sky bled over the crags and ridges. My heart and body were both a mile high.
1
Our warden, a sweet African-American sissy wearing an outsized beanbag cap glittering with rainbow rhinestones, met us at the airport.
"Welcome to Denver," he sang out.
His name was Derek or Dean, I quite forget. We only saw him when we were summoned to be somewhere. And I remember that one night he took us to a karaoke bar called Rallingon's or Remington's or something like that. It was dark and smoky and in need of my vacuum broom. He sang with soul and was worthy of his beanbag cap.
So we all shouted out a good old New Jersey Howdy complete with a flutter of Z-snaps and Liza poses. Matt seemed pale to me. I guessed it was the flight, although he slept during most of it. Perhaps it was the ham sandwich and stale cookies. Those were the days when airlines at least shammed a good in-flight experience instead of devolving into hauling cargo across the Great Divide. Matt assured me that he was okay, that he needed to get his land legs. So I followed the beanbag glitter hat, like the rest of the Sparrows, into an awaiting bus.
Denver surprised me. I expected it to be set on the roof of the world. We were on the roof, but in a flat plain surrounded by mountains. They loomed as a distant curtain. The city spread in every direction. I remembered passing the State Capitol and the performing Arts Center, where GALA Festival was hosted. Then were crossed a river --- or something that once was a river, now a wide expanse of mud with a trickle running down its center. Our hotel overlooked this trickle and the new baseball stadium.
Derek or Dean . . . no, now I remember it. His name was Desmond. He chattered about how he was with the Denver Gay Men's Chorus and each member was responsible for a different visiting choir. I recall thinking how large the Denver chorus must be to spare a member to cover each of a hundred and ten performing groups. I was excited.
We settled into the hotel. I wanted Matt to rest. We were lucky, because the Sparrows were four in a room, but Matt paid to have us private, which had some tongues wagging. But I didn't care. This was like a honeymoon and I didn't need a Padgett or one of the three Rons to be intruding on my happiness. There was no time to rest, however, because we unpacked, washed our faces and it was off to Boettcher Auditorium for the opening ceremonies. I could hardly catch my breath.
The full compliment of choruses hadn't arrived yet, but the program was set, so the commencements could not be delayed. It was generally known that some of the gay men's choruses would be fashionably late. Our very own Erastes Errata Chorus had arrived the day before from Newark, or so it was reported. We couldn't find them. They were supposedly staying in a place called Aurora, so we would need to thresh through the seven-thousand hoohoo's attending the Festival to find them. We didn't until a week later.
Just think of it. Seven thousand gays and lesbians invading the mile high city and on the same week as the Gay Rodeo, which swelled the queer population to twelve thousand visitors. How many were with the home team, who could guess? And it was Gay Pride month to boot and we were all expected to march in Denver's Gay Pride Parade, especially now, because there was an insidious referendum on the State's voting slate called Proposition 2, which, if passed, would make it illegal for gay and lesbian specific legislation to be presented for consideration to either house of the great State of Colorado.
Colorado was a schizophrenic state when it came to gay rights, so I learned. Desmond clearly explained this to us.
"Here in Denver, there are many gay friendly folk. Even more so in Boulder, where the University is persuasive. Now I tell you this. There is this organeyezation called the Coloradoe Family Values Association that believes that gay folk just shouldn't breathe free on this here planet. Or at least in the free State of Coloradoe. Theyz a powerful bunch, they are. They tout their bullshit in Coloradoe Springs and Pueblo, our very own Bible belt. Theyz most influential and if theyz allowed to get their way, gay folk be set back to the dark ages."
We were expected to march. In fact, I got the impression that the marching was regarded more important than the singing and, frankly, that didn't set well with me. Matt didn't express an opinion one way or another. I mean, we didn't vote in Colorado. I wasn't even registered to vote in New Jersey, which got me in deep shit with Leslie. There was always something she wanted me to support. I guess I was born with the laundry gene and not the political activist gene. I was in Colorado to sing --- to warble in Cree in that big ass auditorium --- and it was huge. Lifting my fist in the air and shouting to the mountains for pink freedom was the furthest thing from my mind. At least there would be a big party after the Parade.
Matt and I squeezed into the third balcony in Boettcher Auditorium. It was one of three venues separated by a grand promenade. There was a smaller hall called Hoyne Buell (we just called it Buell) and a performance space call Ricketson, which we used for rehearsal. Each chorus would sing their set first in Boettcher, and then in Buell. There were no prizes. This was not a competition. It couldn't be. The big choruses --- Turtle Creek, Seattle, New York City and San Francisco were two hundred member's strong each. Some choruses were something more than a quartet, so it was a pride thing. You did your best with what you had, although when the Denver Womyn Chorus opened the ceremonies, my heart stopped still. What a gorgeous sound.
"Am I hearing this right?" Matt muttered. "They're like angels."
"They're lesbians," I said. "I think those Family Values ding dongs would dispute the wings."
There were a few speeches and a welcome from the Mayor of Denver and . . . Governor Romer, who invited us to watch the fourth of July fireworks with him on the banks of the Platte, which was that muddy expanse that ran by our hotel. We had a surprise guest, the composer John Corigliano, who was hosting a performance of a Symphony of Remembrance. I was thrilled that he was there because I had performed his Fern Hill when I was in high school. I wished I had my sheet music and get a signature. It would begin my autograph collection. I didn't even know he was gay, but we're everywhere --- especially on the stage.
The evening ended with a selection from probably the best GALA Chorus of them all --- The Turtle Creek Chorale, a two hundred member choir from Dallas. I swooned into Matt's arms at the power of their blending. He thought I would fall from our high perch in the third balcony.
It was a wonderful beginning to this long anticipated trip and I was ready for an adult beverage and the bar tour. However, Matt looked washed out. That jet lag can be a bruiser, so we hopped on the bus back to the hotel, and sang our own duet --- snoring in two off keys until the sun arose the next morning over that mud flat called the Platte.
2
I let Matt sleep in the next day. I had rehearsal, and it was none too pretty. The Cree number was fine, but our fearless leader sprung a new number on us, Fine Days and Petticoats, a campy piece that just didn't fit in with our other pieces. He thought it would show off the versatility of the Sparrows. Some agreed, but most of us greeted the addition with hostility. It was too late to give us a new piece and to ask that it be memorized. We generally performed with sheet music, but the larger choruses were off the written page. So it was understood from the outset that we would need to memorize every piece. Fine. However, to give us a new piece, and a campy one at that, with hand movements and a few chorus line kicks, was unreasonable.
Our director did exactly what any high-strung artist would do under the circumstance. He walked out, leaving Tim, the accompanist in charge to lead us toward our performance date, which was in the second week. As it turned out, peace prevailed. Another well-known number was trotted out --- one of the AIDS thingies that probably would be sung fifteen or more times by the GALA choruses during the festival. One of the Rons persuaded our maestro to agree, because our director had the hots for this particular Ron. Soon they were inseparable and we proceeded unabated. Oh, the politics of art.
Matt joined me for lunch and we decided that we would limit our attendance of the choral performances to a just few key ones.
"Pumpkin, I love the voices, but not for fourteen days in a row."
So we pinpointed a few performances --- Turtle Creek, of course, the New York City and Seattle, and managed to get a ticket for the Corigliano memorial piece. Matt was a planner, but I had asked him to set that aside here. Otherwise I would be on a schedule all day and then on one all night. We had daily rehearsal until noon, except on the Wednesday of the second week, the day before our performances. Therefore, we earmarked a car rental and a trip up to the Rockies on that day. It would be our little vacation of vacations and would be interesting as we were sharing the rental with Russ, Padgett and Tim. (Russ had lassoed Tim. Our accompanist was tall, and Russ liked the big drinks of water).
Evenings were spent bar hopping. Denver had many and some fine restaurants too. There was even a place that served rattlesnake and buffalo chops. Not for me, honey, but Matt devoured them up. He was feeling better --- getting his land legs. With the Rodeo in town, I expected we would go to a dust up, but it never happened. We were just too busy. However, there were cowboys everywhere and they were seeking buckaroo broncos. My man's cowboy hat was a magnet, the yippykayays tripping by him in full cruise mode in every gay establishment in town. I was proud of him. He was civil, tipped his hat and then flashed his wedding ring. That usually bought us a round and a shooting-the-breeze session before the wrangler moved on to the next corral.
One evening we returned to the hotel to see two cowboys locked in a lip embrace in the lobby. It was shocking --- not to us, but there was an Hispanic Christian youth convention at the hotel, and there was more than one flurry of maricones uttered from parental lips. However, this display brought on a harangue from one mamacita, who chastised the couple publicly. When the cowboys disengaged, I was amused to see that one of them was our very own Brian, the Librarian. While his pardner cowered to the wagging parental finger, Brian puffed his chest.
"Haven't you ever seen The Midnight Cowboy?" he asked in his Spartan choppy voice. "I suggest you rent it tonight and give me a report in the morning."
The woman was speechless. Her mouth carped open. The lobby froze like the ballet scene from An American in Paris. I believe we were more shocked in our recognition that cowboys making out in public were less dangerous than lighting the fuse of our bi-polar music librarian. The woman retreated, and so did the other cowboy. No amount of smooching was worth this. Perhaps the mamacita did him a favor.
3
The Denver Gay Pride Parade was set for Saturday, which I thought was unusual as most Gay Pride Parades were on Sundays. I had marched in a couple in my day. New Jersey had its annual Pride event in Asbury Park, because our political machine was dominated by the lesbian contingent and Asbury Park is Lesbo Haven. The New Jersey Parade has always been a small affair, marching in organizational units through the residential areas, passed the Faggots Go to Hell banners on the sidelines. Then we needed to traipse within view of Ocean Grove, a religious right enclave that never failed to shun us with banners draped over the embankments across the tidal basin. Then on to the boardwalk and our festival site --- weenies, burgers, booth after booth of every kind of gay organization and their ware. Typical stuff. Then a subset of the Jersey Sparrows would stand on the narrow track stage and warble a few tunes from our last concert.
Of course, I also marched in the New York Gay Pride Parade. Now that's the big one with nearly two million people showing up --- New York's largest and grandest parade running the full length of Fifth Avenue right down to Washington Square Park. None of this Macy's terminal business. It was huge and wild and safe. It had more topless womyn and more bottomless men that a Roman orgy under Caracalla. We also had a better class of bigot. They would line the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral and turn their backs on us. I suspect they sneaked some mirrors into their group to get a better view of the many cracked moons that saluted them. There was a memorial minute of silence, when the cacophony fell suddenly and died away to nothing, the only time that silence overwhelmed Manhattan Island. The after parties were many, crowded and lasted long past midnight. The fireworks over the Hudson were brilliant and the Empire State Building was lit pink. It was an odd feeling attending New York's Gay Pride Parade. The whole world seemed gay and you were in the spirit of the majority. You needed to remember to cruise back to reality when the sun came up.
Now Denver's was somewhere between the two. We congregated in Breckenridge Park, unfurling our banners. With one hundred and ten choruses in the parade, we would swell the event by two thirds. It was a simple affair. There were no marching bands --- no dancing Dorothys or contingencies of gay Police, Fireman or danseurs. Just local organizations and one hundred and ten GALA Choruses. Who needed bands? We would all sing numbers from our concert along the route. Most of those who lined it wouldn't be attending the concerts anyway. So there were no spoilers.
"Martin," came a husky cry.
I turned. We had found them. The Erastes Errata.
"Ginger," I cried.
Soon Leslie was beside her, sporting the biggest Vote No on Proposition 2 sign I had seen thus far.
"I thought you guys never made it," I said. "Matt, look who's here."
Matt was preoccupied by a bevy of topless musclemen, a gay body building class that rippled under the morning sun. I didn't blame him for looking. They were nice eye candy and would, evidently, be the group directly in front of our contingent. Matt greeted the girls with a hug.
"Where've been hiding for a week?"
"I saw you guys on the schedule, but wondered . . ."
"They stuck us in the burbs," Leslie said.
"In Aurora," Ginger barked. "It's so fucking far from Boettcher and the nightlife, I've a good mind to complain."
"That's all you've done since we've arrived."
"Sorry if I'm not so willing to lie down and take it."
"She's in a mood."
"Don't you say it," Ginger said, "or I'll hit you over the head with that big fucking sign."
"Now, now ladies," I said. "You're spoiling the reunion."
"I don't know why we need to march in this parade, anyway," Ginger said.
"To support the good gay citizens of Colorado," Matt replied.
"A lot of good that'll do," Leslie said. "Ginger's right. They've become complacent."
Now I was surprised. Leslie was rarely critical of any gay political initiative.
"How can it hurt?" I snapped, deciding that it was time to line up behind the gym bunnies and boogie on down the avenue.
"It can't hurt," Leslie said. "But the Gay Coalition has overestimated their support and underestimated the Colorado Springs denizens. They've become complacent."
"So let's just go for brunch and some drinks," Ginger suggested.
Leslie crossed her eyes and sighed.
"No. I believe we must all go down with the ship."
"See you later, fellas," Ginger said. However, she didn't high tail it out of the park, but returned to the ranks of the Erastes Errata.
"I don't know why I put up with her," Leslie said.
"Sure you do," I said.
Matt looped me through my arm.
"We all must stick together," he said. "No matter what."
Leslie smiled, and then frowned, her brow curling. She placed her hand on Matt's cheek, and then sniffed.
"No matter what," she said.
So we marched down the avenue --- singing, chanting, and waving our banners and placards. We sang on the steps of City Hall. We took over the civic park with a festival, merry and gay. However, in the end, Leslie was right. When the voters assembled in August, they voted for Proposition 2, disenfranchising the gay citizens of Coloradoe and, although it was overturned as unconstitutional a year later, we all learned a lesson. Take nothing for granted and that Leslie is generally right, drat the woman.
1
I must admit a terrible truth. No matter how many times I've had my heart broken and plummeted down into the depths of depression, I was never traumatized to the point where I didn't think that it could be remedied by a nice shopping spree. Call me shallow, or perhaps naïve. Whenever I wept into Viv's shoulder and she patted my head like her pet dog, whispering You did it again, shithead. You did it again, I never thought beyond my own fleeting heartbreak. It was like eating bad Chinese food. You gagged, threw up and then took a Bromo-seltzer or the pink crap. All would be good in the morning. Therefore, it was hard for me to fathom the depths of Matt's heartbreak for Luis. I did what I did best --- put it aside.
Let's not analyze this. It is what it is and the pink crap will make it go away. Either that or a quick romp through the linen department.
I mention this because, after the Parade was behind us, the Remembrance concert loomed. I looked forward to it, because I love the Corigliano sound, especially with the composer on the podium, conducting. According to the promotional material, the Seattle Gay Men's Chorus would be an integral part of the piece. So as Sunday morning progressed, I attended to some sink laundry --- socks and delicates. However, Matt mooned about the room, gazing out the window at the little muddy river that flowed between the new stadium and us. I supposed he was missing his computer. This was the longest time he had been separated from the electronic beasts since last summer, and that was only for a week. At least I had something to wash, wring and drape over the shower bar.
"Matt," I asked, hugging him from behind. "Are you still suffering from jet-lag?"
"No, Pumpkin," he said. "I was just trying to decide whether I want to stay in today."
"Tired from the Parade?"
We had been out late, shuffling from the karaoke bar to the western bar to the collegiate hangout. We drank a lot and all three places were suffocating, hot and smoky. Padgett and Todd had a fight. Not a fist fight, although that would have been a diversion. Padgett had staked out his territory at the collegiate bar, where a host of twinks watered like gazelles at an oasis. Padgett had his eye on a tenor from Taos, New Mexico, who was sprouting more than his share of cactus. It seems that just as Padgett went in for the kill, Todd intervene with a story about his vacation to Sedona. Spirit cleansing this and Historical significance that. It sufficiently engaged the twink, who probably missed his stretch of dessert. Padgett glared at Todd with all the grace of a puma about to spring. We all watched this action and knew that when the New Mexican abandoned Todd, which he inevitably would (everyone else had), that Padgett would launch into a tirade that we'd remember for the next two seasons.
"You and your travel logs," Padgett spit.
"You should get out more," Todd responded.
"I'm out now, or have you missed that fact."
"I miss nothing, dear."
"Don't dear me, you bitch. You saw my action. Don't deny it."
"I deny nothing."
That's when the drink flew, baptizing Todd Moorehouse with some sticky concoction that included peppermint schnapps. Todd growled. Padgett seethed. We all moved closer, because the floorshow was about to begin. It was classic, Todd promenading around the dance floor in a queenly circle followed by a haranguing Padgett. This continued until Todd reached his own drink and returned the splash, this time in Padgett's face.
"You've blinded me."
"Grow up," Todd said. "It's only alcohol. It's good for your eyes."
Padgett stretched to his full height, a tornado about to be unleashed. However, the tenor from Taos intervened. He took Padgett's hand, dragging him onto the dance floor. There Padgett did a chicken dance, constantly glaring at Todd, who spit bullets from the sideline, babbling about cretins and ignorant yokels. Little did he know, he was insulting most of the yokels around him. It was quite a floorshow.
2
"No, the Parade was fine," Matt said. "Liked it, in fact. And those ditzy hyenas at the bar last night were worth the trip. Naw. I'm worried about today's concert."
I figured as much, but had avoided that suggestion.
"It's just music," I said.
I thought to acquiesce and let him stay here. However, this trip was principally about me, even though I was committed to this man. Viv had taught me how to throw guilt with skill
"If you want," I said. "If you really, really want to stay back, I'll stay with you. I understand."
"No, you go. You've been looking forward to it."
"No. I wanted you to hear this composer's work. It's a special piece, I hear, and Corigliano is conducting it . . . live . . . in person. Well, it wouldn't be the same without you."
I was such a bitch. I knew he'd relent and I did not intend to stay back. Why are we such manipulative creatures? I mean, we get one life each to play like a fiddle. Why do we need to grab someone else's bow and play our own concerto on their instrument? We could call it sharing, but no two people are so connected that their little ray of independent sunshine cannot be devoured by the pall of the midnight soul.
"I'll go," he said.
He sighed. I immediately felt bad, and could have stated the other option, but didn't. I wanted him there. Perhaps, in my twisted fairy mind, I thought the pain would help ease him. The concert wasn't dedicated to bashed drag queens, but death is death. I really had no notion about it, because death was beneath my radar, but if Matt needed to reach closure on Luis, perhaps the mournful tones of Corigliano would do it. Then he could have a good cry and we'd have a good talk and then . . . Luis would disappear from the scene. That was it. That was the down deep reason I steered Matt's ship into this harbor. I don't regret it, even to this day, although I didn't realize the breadth of the shoreline or the width of the dock. I wish I had. I might have taken a different bearing.
3
The concert event began as most of these events --- with a courtyard gathering. Between the parking deck and Boettcher Auditorium was a broad concourse, which all the GALA members used as a meet-up. In this case, there was a mini-buffet spread down the center. Finger foods and drinks (non-alcoholic). I mean, we wouldn't want hoohoos to swan dive from the third tier balcony, would we? Matt had chilled out by the time we swept passed the canapés and cans of Diet Coke. The Jersey Sparrows were there in force, although there was a clear demarcation between Todd and Padgett and their respective contingencies. Still, out of deference for the event, there was no reenactment of the Montagues and Capulets across the pizza-puffs.
The crowd was thick, at least seven hundred, and merriment less so than the day before, I assumed also in deference to the moment. Although being somber or being sober is a matter of perception. I still had the option to turn to Matt and say something like Well, we've eaten, but you really don't need to go inside, if you don't want to attend this thing. However, I just looped my arm into his and dragged him through the crowd, tickets in hand.
It's just music, after all.
We had good seats --- no third tier balcony this time. I managed to get orchestra --- mid row center with the little cash I had recouped from my down payment. Not all the Jersey Sparrows perched with us, but enough to spot. Tim waved to me from three rows ahead. However, Russell just smirked, nodding his head. I wondered how things would fare when we all shared a ride into the Rockies next Wednesday. Soon the spotting and waving calmed down. The program rattling ceased and we listened as the orchestra warmed up.
"Are you okay?" I whispered to Matt.
"Just fine, Pumpkin. As you say, it's just music."
That smarted, because he was either buying what I was selling or was just appeasing me, which would have been disingenuous. Still, when the house lights dimmed and the Seattle Chorus mounted the risers, it was like Christmas all over again. Then the man himself entered --- John Corigliano, climbing the podium as humble as I was sure he was. He bowed to the applause, and then turned to the readied forces in the pit and on the stage. He raised his arms, baton in hand and then . . .
Crash.
Thunderous and explosive canons fired at us. Arrays of kettledrums and strings and trumpets assaulted us.
The piece was dissonant and turgid. I could see Matt squirm. I enjoyed the mesh of sounds that didn't live well together. I had sung this composer's Fern Hill after all, but Matt was more a Dixie boy. The shockwave rocketed over our mid-row, center orchestra seats unnerving him. I gripped his knee and he seemed to settle. Soon, the music transformed into gentle snippets of oboes and flutes with here and there a bass fiddle farting in the bulrushes. It wasn't lyrical, but it spoke to me on some level. It prodded a place that wasn't prepared to receive it. Now I squirmed. I could see many squirmers. The corkscrews were slowly preparing to decant us.
It was somber stuff. Well, it was a piece dedicated to a host of fallen souls to a plague that insidiously crept in our midst. Soon the chorus hummed in Latin and Greek or some language, I knew not what. I peeked at my program for a translation, but couldn't read it. Too dark. Suddenly, the orchestra swelled again, harmonic and moving and building to an emotional climax.
Then . . .
Silence.
The piece halted suddenly. I knew not to applaud, even though I saw a few hands raised and then dropped in hasty recognition. John Corigliano turned to the audience.
"Now comes the tolling of the bells," he said.
Tolling, chanted the Chorus.
"There are many among the missing," a voice came from within the Chorus.
Three men stepped forward.
"We are the remnants of the Seattle Gay Men's Chorus," said another.
"We have lost one hundred and thirteen members to AIDS."
There was a shudder through the audience. A quiet murmuring was soon replaced with bawling.
"Join us as we call the ghosts to witness our love and devotion," said the third chorister. "We miss you."
My heart hitched. The chimes tolled --- slow and regular while the names of the fallen one hundred and ten were called out. The names overlapped. Soon audience members stood, shouting out their lost lovers names --- friends, family, faces young and wizen --- gone, only their names remaining and the memory of their lives --- traces of those who may have dreamed of Colorado and GALA festivals, but arrived here in the hearts of others.
One by one, the names were called between the tolling of the bells. The wailing and weeping inundated me. I held onto Matt, cursing myself for having brought him here.
Suddenly, Matt pushed my hand away. He stood, trembling. I thought he would fall.
"Luis Sanchez," he shouted. "Luis Sanchez," he shouted again. "Luis . . ."
He collapsed into his seat. I reached for him.
"Luis," he muttered.
He was dashed. I held him tightly.
"Let it all out," I said. "He's at rest, baby. You be at rest too."
Suddenly, I wanted to leave. I wanted those god damned chimes to stop and those hundreds of names to be silenced. They swirled about my head. Strangers as they were to me, I nonetheless realized that the world was fighting a war beyond my little sphere and I was the most unbrave of soldiers.
Finally, the names faded and the tolling ceased. The composer dismounted from his podium, his orchestra packing up in silence. The chorus filed into the audience, while the audience --- the war wounded, hobbled out through the lobby, clustered on shoulders --- a sea of the mournful with just too many remembrances to think of survival.
I saw other Jersey Sparrows, all affected by the trauma, and that's what it was --- trauma. Mass trauma, inflicted on us with the hope that our departed sisters might return and sing yet another verse --- yet another refrain. False hopes. Dashed dreams. Young lives gone for nothing.
Matt still wept on my shoulder as we emerged onto the Promenade. I felt helpless. I didn't know what to do for him, for me or for the hundreds of grieving folk who staggered out into this world that condemned us. I was seized by a momentary anger. I grabbed Matt and pulled him forward.
"Excuse me," I said as I pushed through the resistless crowd. "Please. We need some air. Please, let us through. Please."
We reached a safety zone by a railing. I leaned against it, only to spy Leslie and Ginger aiming for us. I pulled Matt away, but he bucked like a mule.
"I'll be okay," he said.
I swallowed hard, and then turned to hug Leslie and Ginger in turn. They were a mess also, but had the presence of mind to engulf Matt.
"I'm okay," he said. "Thanks. I appreciate it. I'm just fine now."
I was glad he was, because I certainly wasn't. I gazed out over the recuperating mob. Voices were beginning to stir again. The silence faded as the trauma passed. I reclaimed my cowboy from the lesbians.
"I need a drink," I said.
Matt smiled dimly, and then kissed me.
"Forgive me," he said. "Luis would like that. Yes, he would."
There was something in this endorsement of a drink to dead lovers that didn't settle me. However, the girls shuffled us out of the Promenade, our backs now turned from the tolling, from the names and the ghosts that still hovered. It wasn't just music, after all.
1
Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don't give it a second thought.
That's what the voices told me that evening while I get drunk. I didn't even get Corigliano's autograph and, now that I think of it, it would have been a sad reminder. The concert didn't spur on a discussion of the trauma or the closure, if there was closure. However, that was Matt. He wasn't an analyst when it came to personal feelings. Things were what they were. When emotions bubbled close to the surface, he just let them burst, never discussing the whys or wherefores. I, on the other hand, needed to account for all my feelings and, as we were partnered, I thought it important to account for his. Still, as I meandered through the balance of the week, through meals and rehearsals, I decided to let it go.
Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don't give it a second thought.
However, it lurked. No matter how funny the Sparrows' antics were; no matter how wonderful the New York City Gay Men's Chorus sang, the shadow of the Remembrance Concert drew aside my expectations of a good time. All I wanted now was to sing my Cree solo and go home. Still, there was the Estes Park trip. I did anticipate that fondly.
The world beyond Denver's boundaries was flat and ungainly to the edge of the hills that creased the borders of the towering crags. Then the forest line emerged and the road, straight and endless turned serpentine and finite. It was good to get away from Denver for the day. To put it behind us. Put it away. We let Russell drive, because it seemed best that way. The once boisterous queen of Tuxedos had become demure --- staid and decorous. I wasn't sure whether it was because he still disapproved of my choice of man or whether it was some new found maturity for the benefit of Tim, the accompanist. I never knew Russ to hold a grudge, but he displayed all the earmarks of despondency. He had lost weight, his already bony figure bonier; his eyes deeply set now as if he rarely slept. And the silence --- that deathly silence. It was so un-Russ.
The journey did not lack conversation, however. We had Padgett, who flirted with the passengers in passing cars, waving with a queen's twist to anything with a head.
"I wouldn't do that here," Matt warned.
"And why not?" Padgett said. "They're probably Festival hoohoos anyway."
"Might catch a bullet," Russ said.
It was a spacious vehicle --- a mid-range Honda. Padgett sat with us in the back seat. Tim careened about peeking over the back of the suicide seat.
"Might be they're here for the rodeo," he said. "That's here too, you know."
Tim was a brilliant pianist, but was one note short of a full chord when it came to conversation. He reminded me of a big old sheep dog with mystical talents, but would run behind car tires on an interstate just to sniff the piss of a fellow sheep dog. Russ liked them tall, talented and single-threaded. Tim met the standard.
"Could be?" I said, and then shrugged.
I clasped Matt's hand. He had the window rolled down, the breeze blowing through his hair, his lid having slipped to the floor.
"We don't have mountains like these in Texas," he said. "In fact, we don't have mountains at all in Texas. These are the highest I've ever seen."
We were approaching a sheer, craggy wall --- a fortress rising into a tower above the plains. I whipped out my map as navigator, although Tim had offered, but unless we were headed for Wyoming, I thought it best to leave him to Chopin while I handled Rand-McNally.
"Let me see that thing," Padgett said.
The map left my hand, the prissy preener bringing the folds to his nose.
"Where are we heading?"
"Estes Park," I said.
"Past Boulder," Russ echoed.
"Oh, here's Boulder. I found Boulder. There should be a sign somewhere ahead. In fact, I thought I saw a sign for Boulder a few miles back." Padgett lurched toward the window. "We didn't miss the turn off, did we?"
"No," I said. I grabbed the map back. "It's coming up on your left, Russ."
"Maybe we should eat first," Padgett said. "Does anyone need to pee?"
Tim glanced back.
"I could, if I tried, but I think I can hold it."
I ignored them. I traced my finger across the map locating Estes Park, deep in the Rockies. I nudged Matt. He nodded as I tapped my finger on the spot.
"There's the place," I said. "It'll be cool. Glad I brought a jacket."
"It must be high," Matt said. "My ears are clogged already."
"Mine popped," Padgett said.
"Mine too," Tim announced.
"How about you, Russell?" Padgett fussed.
"How about what?" Russ asked.
"Did your ears pop?"
Silence.
"Is this the turn off?" Russ asked me.
"Yes," I said.
I gazed forward of the line as the scenery changed from scrub grass to low pines. The green world closed about us and I was suddenly aware that I was alone even though I was in a car full of people. Not even Matt was there. It was one of those out of body experiences I had read about and Viv claimed she had at seances. I knew no one had actually left, but they were all lost to their own world as I was in mine. Then the moment fled when Tim clucked like a chicken, his version of laughter.
"Well, will ya look at that."
The Honda rounded a curve and . . . there it was --- nestled beneath a canopy of primordial granite --- a breath taking sight. It didn't need a sign. Boulder.
2
Aptly named, Boulder sat under a precipice of Rocky Mountain National Park. This was the bastion for Western liberality, or so Desmond had said because it has the University. Sort of a liberal Rock of Gibraltar. Suddenly tree lined streets and lush parks, buildings white and manicured, came into view. It was simply American in the fresh mountain breeze of the Great Divide. However, I wasn't born yesterday. There was gold in them thar hills and Boulder was well heeled.
My ears had finally popped, but my bladder was about to burst. So despite my inclination not to be a complainer (we had Padgett for that), I tapped Russ' shoulder.
"Maybe we could make a pit stop."
Russ didn't complain. We had already passed four service stations and the next one came up quickly.
"I could use an iced tea," Padgett said.
"Me too," Matt said.
He kissed me. I kissed him back. He was in a better mood today. What am I saying? My cowboy was never in a bad mood. He was as plain as the day is bright. If there were any mysteries about him, it was only for my lack of asking.
"I'll skip the tea," I said. "Any more in and I'll need water wings."
"Careful over the bumps, Russ," Padgett said.
Russ found them anyway, and I thought I'd wet the seat. I had to run for the bathroom key the minute we glided into the gas station --- no apologies made. When I returned, Matt was propped on a railing, sipping at his bottle and gazing aloft to the cliffs and crags. Padgett was flirting with the attendant, while Russ paced about waiting for the fill up. Tim was somewhere inside, probably stocking up on chips. He had munched on three full bags of chips even before we left Denver's city limits. As for me, it was relieved, in the best possible way. The sun was warm, my kidneys were drained and I was happy for a moment of solitude. I was never a happy passenger cooped up in a car for any length of time. My legs would cramp, especially in the middle seat.
I hesitated before joining Matt on the railing. He looked so pacific, I hated to disturb him, but when I stepped out, I suddenly felt light-headed. It was just a passing dizzy spell, but enough to halt me, forcing me to check my balance. Sitting was a necessity and, by the time I reached the railing, I practically fell into Matt's lap. However, the faintness had passed as fast as it came.
"Are you okay?" Matt asked.
"Fine. Just was a little light-headed."
"Bubble headed, you mean, Pumpkin."
I gave him a love punch. He punched me back and then rubbed my back. His touched calmed me --- better than the warm sun or emptied kidneys.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," I said. It was more a venture than a statement. I didn't expect a response, but I got one.
"I know you are. Don't fret about it. I needed to go there. I hate to say it, but it helped. It's nice to know . . ."
His voice trailed off lost to a thought, one that I was supposed to complete. I couldn't, but didn't much care to fill in the blank. Matt just glanced back to the car. The attendant had finished filling us up. Padgett still posed and flirted. It wouldn't be long for the attendant to summon his redneck buddies to take out a car full of fairies. The thought alarmed me, but the attendant, although not very fay, seemed tolerant. This was Boulder after all --- city of the liberal edge. He was probably a student working his way through a law degree. Padgett could sniff out a professional from ten miles distance.
Tim, trailing three more bags of chips from his platinum fingers, strutted toward the suicide seat. It was time to move on, leaving Boulder behind us.
The road climbed, we climbing with it at a steep angle. As we ascended, the pines were taller, the road rougher. Cabins peeked out from the brush lands besides rushing waters. I wanted to jump out, grab a fishing pole and do my best Huckleberry Finn. Shame I don't fish or eat fish, or have a deep Missouri accent. Soon the cabins gave way to homes, some chalets and others, ski lodges. We approached Estes Park, a resort that, during the summer hiatus, doubled as the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. The place tumbled out around us, and soon we were in a bustling community of shopkeepers and tourists. The town green hailed charming, sporting restaurants, souvenir shops, clubs and more than one mural painted on white washed walls in an attempt to summon an Alpine atmosphere. Who needed paintings for that? The mountains did that mighty fine.
"Glad we don't have Moorehouse with us," Padgett snapped. "He'd be comparing these unfavorably to his latest Bavarian jaunt."
That was true enough. I was glad Todd was not with us, because I couldn't put up with both of them today. Although they would kiss and make-up back in New Jersey, the separation of the milk from the cream suited me fine now, although we were stuck with the milk, and that milk was sour.
The day was pristine, sunny, a cloudless, royal blue sky. A chill kissed the air and the place felt . . . Christmasy. I wanted to shop for ornaments and I knew that there must be a year 'round Christmas shop tucked along one of these quaint lanes.
"We'll eat first," Russ said.
No arguments here. It might take us an hour to decide what to eat, but that was part of the landscape, as sure as the mountains came before the faux chalets. So Russ parked and we popped out of the Honda like birds from the cage, only . . . when I took my first step, the faint feeling returned. I thought I would fall.
"Holy cow," Matt said.
I saw that he was having problems too. I grabbed his shoulder. I don't mind wobbling about if I earned it with a pitcher of Cosmos and a beer chaser. But this was a non-alcoholic drunk and it worried me.
"What's going on? I feel like I'm at a funhouse."
The street spun. I noticed that Padgett had spun too, landing on the curb, his head bobbing like a pullet. Tim giggled, and then did his best impression of Frankenstein's monster. He was enjoying the sensation, no doubt.
"It's the altitude," Russ said. "It was mentioned in the guidebook."
He looked no worse for wear, as pale under the malady as he was when he stopped for gas. Matt pulled me toward a shop front. I thought I was going to heave.
"Just settle down," Russ commanded. "If you stand still, close your eyes and take deep breaths, your inner ear will resolve itself."
"When were you going to tell us about this?" Padgett complained.
"Didn't you read the stuff that Desmond handed out about traveling in the Rockies?"
"Obviously not."
I closed my eyes, and then controlled my breathing --- deep breaths.
"Blow into your cupped hands, Pumpkin."
I did so and that seemed to work. Imagine what mountain climbers on Everest must go through if I had to hold on for dear life just a bit over a mile high.
"We're getting there," I said.
"It'll pass," Matt said. "We'll be okay to ride to the summit."
I felt like telling him that I was as high as I wanted to go, but if I could manipulate him into a hall of weepy people, I could at least return the favor by letting him murder me on this mountain.
"Once I get my head together," I said, thinking that it would never happen. "Once I'm steady, we'll take a stab at it."
"Well, up then," he said, giving me a hand up.
It was a tenuous boost, but I made it up. I opened my eyes. The world was steadier and I laughed. It was a giddy feeling, this mountain high. I had heard the expression --- even heard of mountain sickness, but I always thought it was a joke told to greenhorns.
The others were coming around, but fast we weren't. Ice skaters new on the pond came to mind.
"I could kill a hamburger," Tim said. He had recovered, if he even realized anything was wrong.
"I could puke one up," I said.
"Something fizzy to drink," Padgett added. "That's it. A tall seltzer water."
And that sounded good to me. In fact, it became a personal and immediate goal.
There was a bistro two blocks away. By the time we reached it, I was walking less drunk than weary. My stomach rumbled, so I ordered a salad and kept the ranch dressing on the side just in case it provoked an embarrassing response.
Estes Park was idyllic. I anticipated a good shopping day and even rearranged my luggage in mind to accommodate the unbought booty. Best of all, trouble seemed far away now. Matt had hit it off with Tim (go figure) and Padgett had run out of things to say (go figure). Then, in one of those silences that inevitably happened during group meals, Russ raised his root beer and proposed a toast.
"To Summer," he said.
"To Summer," we all echoed, clicking our various drinks mid table.
"Remember it always . . . even after you've all forgotten me."
Matt blanched, his eyes studying friend Russell, as if he saw him for the first time --- a penetrating, analytical stare, most un-Matt-like and unnerving.
Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don't give it a second thought.
Suddenly, the sun went behind a cloud, the only one to show up on that cloudless day . . . or so I thought.
1
On unsteady legs and with a disquieted heart, I had reached the pinnacle --- a mountain so high that I could imagined myself suspended like the angel atop the tree. When I recall that day in the Rockies, far from New Jersey and even Denver, I remember one thing. Clarity. A point of clarity in my life, because on that day the shadows faded, letting the darkness set in. I am a bright spirit, cheery and always decking the hall with boughs of holly. Still, I believe that I'm tough --- a street fairy who raised himself under the scant guidance of a loose moral manicurist, who tagged in the margins with lethal advice. We always imagine that we are stronger than we really are and still, no matter what mountain looms before us, we still manage to climb toward the summit, whether we ever reach the other side or not. So I mushed on and mushed on, with unsteady legs and a disquieted heart. That's the vigil I've kept and keep.
I was stunned. I stood on the platform overlooking the world, seven-thousand feet up. A brass map showed me the points of interest --- the names of the peaks, the lakes, and the meadows, but that didn't matter. My heart raced, in part from the altitude, but mostly with a morbid fear of heights and the question I had now posed to my inner fairy --- Why was I up so high? Was I nuts? The snow capped peaks called to me --- Jump. Jump. My stomach twitched and I decided to retreat to the Honda bumper.
Tim and Padgett were climbing to a higher point, a steep nanny goat path with a tenuous railing. That wasn't for me. Matt had walked further up the road and around a curve. I think he was looking for patches of snow --- summer remnants. Him and his love of snow. Ever since that first evening when he rolled around naked in the stuff, he looked forward to every flake that heaven belched. Now, when the park ranger said that there was still snow up ahead, he had to explore. I was fine on the bumper, sitting next to Russ.
"Where's your cowboy?"
Talking, are we?
"In search of snow."
"Snow cones?"
"Something like that."
I thought of finding my own bumper. I recognized Russ' approach to conflict and I was in no mood for it. I found it difficult to breathe and the dizziness came and went as if it were becoming a permanent condition.
"Listen," I said. "I know you don't like him and I know you might be a bit . . . jealous of our relationship, but you should shake it off and move on."
Russ smiled. It wasn't his pixie smile, but an incredulous spike.
"Your choice of man is not my problem. I don't sleep with him, you know. In fact, I'm surprised that you think that anything you've done concerns me."
"Fine." I slid off the bumper. "Stew in your own shit."
Russ waved his hand about, and then rolled his eyes.
"Wait, Lambkins." He hadn't called me that in over a year. "I'm sorry if you think that you've caused my current funk. It has nothing to do with you."
"What's wrong then? Is it Tim?"
"Him?" He shrugged. "Dumb as a post, but horny as a toad. He's fine, in his way. He mostly ignores me and my . . . funk. Suits me fine."
"Then what?"
Russ swallowed hard, his Adam's apple dancing like a stuck fish bone yearning to be free. He shook his head.
"Fine, then," I said. "You've always confided in me, always told me your little shitty secrets, even if they didn't amount to anything. Now, you look like crap --- a shadow of your former self and you hum and haw. I think I'll join my cowboy is search of snow."
I turned away, wavering in the first few steps. Russ muttered something I understood, but really couldn't fathom.
"Ask your cowboy what's up with me."
I rounded on him.
"Are you telling me that Matt's been . . ."
"No," Russ snapped. "Nothing like that."
"Then like what?"
"He can see through me. Always has, since the first day. His eyes penetrate my soul and he reads me like a book, something I thought you could do. Ask him."
That did it. Cat and mouse games aside, Russ had pissed me off and I wouldn't stay there for another round. I flipped him the finger and marched off, as best I could, to the curve in the road.
2
The road inclined steeply. I didn't think I'd make it, but as I rounded the curve, a strange silence overtook me. The conversations of tourists and rangers suddenly muffled. It was as if a quilt was thrown over my head. I had never known such silence. A vacuum. My breath hastened, my fingers tingling. I was going to pass out. I just knew it. However, beyond me was the summit and there was nothing beyond the pinnacle except a mound of snow --- frozen and gray, but snow nonetheless. Near the drop off stood a man in a cowboy hat.
"Matt," I called.
I was afraid to approach the ridge. With wobbly feet and swimming head, I might not need to reflect on the angel harks to Jump. Jump. I might just get to the edge, swoon and tumble. However, Matt didn't turn. Nor did he acknowledge me, so I had no choice but to trundle nearer the brink.
"Didn't you hear me?" I asked.
I stood about ten feet from him. I supposed that this strange silence might have dampened my call. Matt raised his right hand, and then turned. In his left hand, he held a snowball.
"Don't throw that thing at me."
"No way, Pumpkin." He sighed. "It's a souvenir --- summer snow from the mountain."
"It won't last," I said.
"I'll stick it in the fridge."
"It'll melt."
"Everything melts, hon. Still, I can hold onto to it for as long as I can. Come stand with me."
I stepped back.
"No way. I'm dizzy as it is. It's just too high up for my nerves."
He waved me on.
"Come on. I won't let you fall."
"That's a comfort. What if you fall?"
"We'll take the plunge together."
I wasn't up to this lover's leap concept. Still, I needed to demonstrate some level of trust, so I moved forward, until he wrapped me in his arms, tickling my nose with the snowball. I trembled. There was nothing below us. The drop off was thousands of feet below. My stomach twisted and I tugged myself out of his arms.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I understand."
I walked to a safe distance before finding a boulder. I sat and watched him juggle the ball until he finally returned to the road and, in my mind, his senses. Next, he'll try to talk me into sky diving, I thought. He stood before me and shrugged, his eyes --- those ice blue eyes, penetrating my soul.
"You've been fighting," he said.
How perceptive, and then I recalled.
Ask your cowboy what's up with me. He can see through me. Always has, since the first day. His eyes penetrate my soul.
"You're right," I said. "I've had some words with Russ."
Matt sidled up to me.
"Russ. He shouldn't upset you."
"Why not? What's up with him? He said, you'd know. Why?"
Suddenly, Matt's mood shifted from serene to turbulent. He dropped the snowball.
"Shit."
"We can make another."
"Shit, shit, shit."
He tipped the hat brim over his eyes, which told me that tears bubbled. I hunkered down, no mean feat.
"What is it? What's up with Russ? What's up with you?"
He sighed, choking on my questions.
"Russ is . . . sick."
"Sick as in weird or sick as in . . . wait a minute. How can you tell?"
He stood, gazing toward the pinnacle.
"I can tell. I mean, I didn't fully know until a few hours ago. Then he made that odd toast which made me think. Then I studied his face and I saw . . . I saw . . ."
I stood. Matt tried to retreat, but I wouldn't let him. I snapped my hands on his shoulders and shook him.
"You saw? You saw?"
"I saw . . . Luis."
"Luis!"
Matt escaped me, heading back down the road.
"What the fuck are you saying? Luis? Luis was murdered. You told me Luis was bashed."
Matt twisted about, fury mangling his face.
"He was bashed. They beat him beyond recognition, those bastards. But Luis died of AIDS, Martin. He died of AIDS."
I was stunned. What was he saying? This was nuts. If Luis was HIV positive and was carried off by this plague, that meant he was more than a ghost in my bed. He was . . . Clarity. Suddenly there was clarity --- the reason for Matt's insistence on protected sex. His reaction to John and Bobby. His proclamation shout at the Remembrance Concert. A whirlwind overcame me. Matt had lied to me and that was the first thing I voiced.
"Liar."
Matt stopped. He didn't turn to argue, but spoke to the gravel.
"I'm not lying."
"You never mentioned this. Why?"
"I didn't want to scare you away."
"Why? Do you have it?" I reached him. I lifted his chin and rattled his head. "Do . . . you . . . have it?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"I didn't, but it takes a long time to catch it . . . sometimes years. And I didn't lie. I just wanted it behind me. Behind us. There was no reason to bother you with it."
"No reason. I don't know much about it, except we've been singing goddamn requiems over a whole community of corpses. Don't you think I should be bothered with it? I don't believe this."
I shook. Then, I spied the others coming around the curve.
"How pretty is this?" Padgett called. "What are you guys up to, like I didn't know?"
Tim galloped behind him, Russ in tow. I stiffened. I was not about to share this dirty linen with the crowd, although somehow I knew Russ had a hunch.
"Forgive me, Pumpkin."
I wasn't sure I could, but with the others approaching, I certainly wasn't going to continue this conversation.
"I wish they'd go away," I whispered. "Goddam it, Matt. You said you're negative."
"Yes," he said, trying to compose himself. "But . . ."
"But what?"
"But I don't know now. It's been strange lately."
Padgett neared. Tim was waving a camera.
"A perfect backdrop," Padgett cawed. "Let's get a picture of these love birds."
Shut-up. Did the man ever shut-up?
"Strange? How strange?"
"I can't explain it. It's like I have a blackness in the soul."
"It's the altitude, you ninny. It's . . ."
"Smile," Padgett said, while Tim brought the camera into focus.
I squeezed Matt's shoulder.
"Smile," I muttered, plastering my best party grin across my face.
Click. Snap. Click.
I released my cowboy fully intending to continue this later out of earshot. It was then that I passed out. When I came to, my world had changed forever.
1
There are times in life when you surrender. Coming down that mountain was one such time. I must have turned several colors, because my buddies couldn't help me. A ranger was summoned and he declared, or so I was told, that he had seen cases of mountain sickness before, but I took the prize. In fact, they considered getting me to an infirmary, but by the time we arrived in Estes Park, I was conscious and moaning and holding my tummy with every violent growl. I do remember the trip back to Denver, because we stopped two dozen times (who's counting) at every size and brand of service station so I could make a deposit from my overly lubricated bowels. Matt was no help. In fact, in my semi-delirium, I remembered that if I survived this I might just return his ring. However, while the grinds were overtaking my every priority, all I could think of was surrender.
I didn't much care about my impending solo as I writhed about in my bed. Sleep was more important. Still, after a full day under the covers (I hadn't a clue where Matt was, because he wasn't sleeping in my bed), I managed to sit up at the bed's edge. I saw someone in the shadows, the blinds drawn making everything difficult to see. I felt better, but I vaguely remembered dashes to the toilet, an unaccountable case of diarrhea, because I hadn't been eating. What had been coming out? My liver?
"Who's there?" I asked.
"Me," said a strange voice. "Jasper."
Jasper? Why the hell was he here, and . . . oh. He was loitering for the solo like a distant relative waiting for me to die and the last will and testament to be read. I wasn't leaving him my solo.
"Go away," I said. "I'm singing the fucking thing, even if they prop me up with a broom." Then it dawned on me that I hadn't a sense of time. I may have even missed the event. "What day is it?"
"It's the day. You have less than an hour to get ready. That's why I'm here."
"Less than an hour?" I tripped about the room looking for my pants. I was bare ass naked, probably a short cut for those toilet dashes. I was embarrassed to have my ass flashed at . . . of all people, Jasper --- goofy looking, big eared, second rate tenor, Jasper. "Where's Matt?"
"He's been sick too?"
Sick too? This thing isn't catching, although we were all susceptible.
"Where is he?"
"He's been bunking with Russ and Tim. He's caught a cold --- a doozey. I've been tending to your . . . well, I've tried my best at getting you to take the kaopectate, but you're the worst patient."
I recalled none of this, but gazed at Jasper in a different light. If he was trying to stop up my anal dam, he certainly wasn't fishing for my solo. Well, of course, he had the duet with me, and if I didn't sing, what would he do? He was my backup, but no one was assigned to fill in for him.
"Help me find my pants, and . . . thank you."
"We gotta go now, Martin. We're due to line-up for Buell twenty minutes before curtain."
I had never regarded Jasper as anything more than a musical rival, but during the rehearsals, he actually tried to blend, and now, as he helped me on with my pants, I had a funny thought. No matter how abrasive we could all be at times, family is family, I guess.
2
I was never happy with our director's decision to ditch our tux for this performance, opting instead for black pants and white shirts, open at the top. Now I was grateful. I would have never been able to negotiate a full tux and still arrive at Buell's door on time. As it was, Padgett was pacing in counterpoint with Todd, and two of the three Rons were on the look out.
"Thank God," Padgett said. "I thought you'd abandoned us."
"Not if I could help it," I said.
I spotted Russ and Tim. Russ shook his head. I must have appeared like quite the zombie, but then again so did he. Then I recalled what Matt said, and that led me to thoughts of Matt. I bolted from Padgett's attention.
"Russ," I stammered. "Is Matt here?"
Russ pulled me aside.
"Your cowboy is out of the saddle."
"How so? I know he hasn't been sleeping with me, although I don't know why I even noticed."
"Harsh, man. Harsh, man."
I pulled away.
"What do you know about it?"
"As much as you do. Listen, hon, you might have your feathers in a fluff, but as sick as Matt is, he checked on you constantly."
I stopped. I was still too dizzy to flare into some queenly rage. I just gazed toward the queue and our director, who was waving me forward.
"How sick is he?"
"Bad cold, hopefully. He's got a fever and I thought it best he stayed away."
"I should go to him."
"You should, but not until you dispatch this Injun solo."
I glanced into Russell's eyes, those once lively eyes, now bagged and sunken.
"What's happening?" I asked.
"Nothing that you've done and nothing that you can stem. So just knock the socks off these fairies."
The director reached me, tugging me into the line-up. We were moving into Buell.
"Listen, Martin," he said. "You too, Jasper. Don't over sing in Buell. I've been told the acoustics are dead. You won't hear a thing. But in Boettcher things are so lively, you can't let it get away from you."
All I wanted to do was find a crapper, because my stomach rumbled. I turned to Jasper as we came through the back stage area.
"If you smell something during the number . . ."
Jasper smiled.
"I'm used to it, Martin. You have a distinctive smell."
I laughed, and then mounted the stairs. There was a round of applause as we came onto the stage and climbed the risers. I didn't have far to go, tenors being in the front and I, on the first step center. I gazed out and saw . . . nothing. The lights were so bright and from the deadened applause, it was difficult to assess the audience's size.
God watch over me and my sphincter, I prayed as our concertina commenced.
3
Exactly how our numbers went and precisely the impact of the Cree piece as it hit the boards, I couldn't say. The director was correct. I couldn't hear a thing, not even the chorus behind me. I didn't hear Jasper and needed to carefully follow the baton to maintain a proper timing. My great arching high note was lost to me . . . lost somewhere just a foot away. I could have belched and it would have been just as fine. There was applause, but it too was muffled. I was just thankful that I didn't crap on the stage.
"It was just fine," the director told us as we scurried off and down a flight of stairs and then up another to the large venue next door --- great, cavernous Boettcher.
"I couldn't hear a thing," I complained.
"It was fine. You didn't over sing it. Just be careful in Boettcher. It's a live hall. Very live."
We waited in the wings for the New Mexico Chorus to finish their Spanish lullabies. I glanced at Jasper, who was moistening his lips.
"I guess we did okay," I said.
"I wish I could tell," he said.
Then the applause happened for New Mexico, like a roaring, thunderous rattle. Live hall, I thought. An understatement. Then came, Now welcome, from the Great State of New Jersey, the New Jersey Gay Sparrow Choir.
We swept onstage quickly. The venue was humongous, the towering curtain legs rustling in the fans. The lights were three times as powerful as Buell's --- no, four times.
My stomach rumbled in earnest now. I was suddenly out of my body. Although the lights were raging and hot (another reason to be thankful to perform without a tuxedo), I could see the phantoms in the three tiers. I was suddenly disenchanted. Matt wasn't here. I wanted him to hear this, and not on the recording. I wanted his loving angel heart sitting somewhere mid-orchestra mouthing the words in Cree. However, I was suddenly realizing that as sick as I was as I waltzed onto that stage, my little blue-eyed flower was tucked in bed --- not even in our bed, shivering from a fever and a real bad cold. I cursed this mountain sickness in all its forms, and then watched our director, who stood a mile away raising his baton.
Our first three numbers I hoped were letter-perfect, although I noticed we seemed not to be in sync with the baton. Distance, I assumed. And the reverberation from the balconies was unsettling. We were like little mice in the mouth of a whale, fearful of being swallowed by the audience and the hall and the lights and the high arch of the curtain. The applause was thunderous, with some bravos and here and there a Woohoo. Then, silence . . . total silence. Not even the proverbial cough or throat clearing. Jasper and I stepped forward standing before our Cree warrior back-up group waiting for Tim's downbeat to start the number.
Strange. I had never really heard the work before now. The hall enlivened the wonderful melody that my fellow Sparrows warbled, the basses on point today with their driving Gu-ma Gu-ma to-ba-fo-na and the tenors with their sweet A-fa-lit-ta do-me-zu-na floating above it. Then, Jasper entered, his voice the best I had ever heard it. I was so entranced by the doings that I became quite lost. In fact, I nearly missed my entrance --- a quarter beat late, which received a raised eyebrow from the baton. However, soon Jasper and I were swimming in a land of lilting dance in honor of the fallen danseur.
Mo-shu-fan-to Ko-ler-ran-tu-Mas-hu-fi-na Mashu-mashu, with the basses Guma-guma beneath us. The dance song became wild, and the full chorus shouted their call to the great Father --- Mish sha Shona, Mish sha Shona, and then lapsed into Latin, Gloria in excelsis, Mish sha Shona. It was glorious. It grew, the crescendo leading up to my great moment, but as it approached, I heard another sound, and so did Jasper.
Oh, please God, I thought. Not here, in front of three thousand fairies.
The music accelerated and the gas dropped. I was approaching the moment like a freight train off its tracks. I couldn't concentrate. The baton was poised to cue me in. I gasped, took my launching breath, and then clenched my ass checks with a mighty snap and out came . . . the most glorious note of my career. It soared to the top tier. It touched heaven itself, lingering --- hovering. It echoed, and then burst into a firework explosion in reverberation. Then another salvo as the solo arched and swayed from ear to ear, my lips trembling and my vibrato calling from my bowels to save the world, if not my dignity on this the biggest stage of my life. Then, the chorus, like a wave beating on a jetty, inundated first me and then the audience as we clinched the finale.
If I live to be fifty, I shall never forget the sound of those lucky people who heard me that day. I remember that I didn't bow, but nodded, fearing that the ocean stopped up inside me would erupt if I so much as bent at the waist. We turned and marched into the wings. The director beamed. Tim bobbed his head with a satisfied grin. I felt the back pats of my fellow Sparrows as we gave up the stage to the Baton Rouge Lesbian Choir.
"That was remarkable," Jasper said.
"You were great yourself," I said, and then realized it was the first time I had ever complimented the man.
"Party time," Padgett announced.
I turned to Jasper.
"Thanks," I said. "I need the latrine. Could you ask Russ to take me back to the hotel . . . and to Matt?"
"Sure," he said.
Suddenly, I had only one person on my mind now.
4
Russ didn't come in. He just gave me his room key and led me to the dark room. Matt was on top of a pile of blankets. The room stank --- not the same as our room, but salty, if that can be said to be a stink. Matt coughed, a wheezy full phlegm cough. I turned on the lights. It was still daytime, but the drapes were drawn. I tripped over shoes. In fact, the place was a pigpen. I scarcely could believe that there were gay men residing here --- clothing strewn everywhere and I didn't even want to think about the bathroom.
"Pumpkin."
Matt was awake, but his voice was hoarse. How he knew it was me, I couldn't tell, still I had forgiven him for his lie of omission, even though he still denied it was such. He sat up as I approached. He looked like hell, his black hair matted across his sweaty brow.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "You were none to good last time I saw you. Some case of the shits."
"I'm fine now. But you?"
"Just a damn bad cold." He then must have noticed my white shirt. "Shit, I missed it didn't I?"
"You'll catch the recording."
"Damn."
I went to him. Then I noticed he was hot as hell and wet. In fact, the blankets were soaked.
"Matt, you're sweating like a race horse."
I pulled the blankets back. The sheets were drenched.
"Maybe you need a doctor," I said.
"No doctor, Pumpkin. It's just the mountain sickness. It's not even catching."
"No?" I asked. "Well we're a fine pair. We're the best damn couple in the state and here we sit, Mr. Soaked and Mrs. Shitz."
I felt his head. It was hot, but I wouldn't say it was boiling hot.
"You're not staying here. Back to our room, so I can take care of you. If you won't see a doctor, you just need to settle for me."
"Nurse Ratchet," he said, giggling.
I hugged him. Salty.
"I'll Nurse Ratchet you. Have you been taking aspirin or something?"
He coughed --- really hacked. He never answered me.
"Come."
I helped him up. It was the shaken leading the shook.
"I'll get you some Nyquil."
"Drug me, will ya?"
"It'll conk you out. Aspirin. Cold compresses and . . ."
"Kisses."
"We'll see."
"I won't go then if you don't fulfill the whole prescription."
I gathered him into my arms, and then kissed him.
"Can I have two of those every hour?" he asked.
"We'll see. Watch your step. This place is a shit house. I've never known Russ to be so untidy."
Then I recalled that . . . Russ had changed.
1
The festival was over, the last vestiges of choral singing reaching the zenith. The closing ceremonies were a last ditch effort to keep the spirit of singing alive until the next GALA gathering in four years down in Tampa. Matt managed to attend the final shindig, although he dozed off during the unison caroling of Bernstein's Somewhere. There were parties deep into the night, but I chose to sit quietly with Matt and watch the Fourth of July fireworks from our window. Governor Romer had gathered on the dry pitch banks of the Platte and thanked the gay community for having chosen the fair city of Denver for their festival. He praised the courage of our leadership and stirred every pink and lavender soul there by assuring that the evil Proposition 2 would never take hold in the great State of Colorado. (Of course, neither his good wishes nor our fond hopes could stand up against the Bible thumping rutabagas of Colorado Springs and Pueblo. It would take a court to set the constitution back on its heels and recall the public to the good sense that it's In the Courts do we Trust).
It was over and it had been everything that I had hoped for and nothing that I expected. Matt's fever came and went and I counted the minutes for us get airborne again and return to sea level. At least out of these mountains my bowels would moderate and his wheezing would abate. As for that other issue --- Luis' demise and the shadow of another germ, I tried to put it behind me. Matt had not really lied to me, I reasoned. I had never encouraged him to speak about Luis since that evening at The Cavern. I had sympathy for the little Spanish drag queen who was pummeled by hecklers and expired in a back alleyway, which, as I learned, was the truth. However, it was his compromised immune system that failed him in the short run. They were saying in all the New York buzz-rags that no one ever dies of AIDS. It's the ravages of other stuff --- canary something and old age bruises and sheep rash that does you in. I usually skipped the details, but now . . . now perhaps I'd read a little deeper.
I was encouraged on the day we departed. Matt seemed to rally, his fever abating and he even insisted on carrying his own baggage. I wouldn't let him, but he fought me. Then, on the plane he conked out, his wheezing and coughing aggravated by . . . well, I chalked it up to the altitude. I mean, altitude gave him this, and flying higher than the mountains certainly wouldn't help. The outbound flight was more subdued than the raucous Colorado or bust flight. Padgett sat quietly beside Todd, I guess each deciding whether they should kiss and make up and in the process they stayed mum --- a record for both. Russ and Tim held hands, while the three Rons engaged Brian, the Librarian, analyzing the merits of the various GALA participants from Vancouver to Key West. I tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. I just wanted to land, catch our ride back across New Jersey to the shore. I was sure that once Matt was in his own surroundings, he would rally. A few days more would do the trick. I had to be back at work, but I was positive that Axum Labs would extend Matt's vacation by a few days.
There are moments of serenity and anxiety in our lives. Mary, Mary, its quite the notion that my life was cut and squared away like my linen closet. However, more than my bowels were acting up now. A deep-set anxiety grew in the pit of my stomach and a sinking feeling craved my heart. It was like what Matt said on the mountain. It's like I have a blackness in the soul. I had never felt so empty and full at the same time. I wanted to cry for joy and sadness. My mind must have being going, or so I thought. Love's a bitch. Here I was higher than a mile now, safe in the hold of a metal tube catapulting through space, but feeling like I did near that ledge --- on the pinnacle, with the angels screaming at me --- Jump. Jump! The only thing that went through my head was --- Gu-ma Gu-ma to-ba-fo-na, mish sha Shona. Mish sha shona. The angels were not letting me off easy. They wouldn't stop pestering me until I let go and dove off the edge. Gloria in excelsis, Shona.
2
I called Mr. & Mrs. Kieler as the ambulance arrived.
"Meet me at the Hospital," I squawked as I watched them lift Matt onto the gurney.
He hadn't done so well after the flight and the trip home. In fact, he was having more and more difficulty breathing. Sea level did not work the miracle that I fully expected. I panicked. He wouldn't see a doctor, but he was choking and I didn't know what to do, so I dialed 9-1-1 and paced. I was beyond anxious.
"Matt," I stammered. "They're coming."
"Mama?"
That's when I realized that we'd been living in a vacuum and the Kielers hadn't a notion that their son was ill. Yikes. I had to be the one to summon them. What would they think? They'll blame me and my fucking trip to the mountains. Matt didn't warble. There was no need for him to trek out to the Proposition 2 state to catch the first craggy bug that crawled out from some swampy bottom.
"No, Matt. The paramedics are coming."
"No."
"You need help," I said. "They'll give you . . . air. And I'll call your parents just as soon as the . . ."
The paramedics were here, so I dialed the Kielers. They were shocked, but somehow, not. Odd? Thank God you're with him, Martin, Louise said, which surprised me. There was no admonition. Just thanks.
"Meet me at the hospital," I squawked.
The paramedics were already working on Matt --- oxygen mask, blood pressure and a heart monitor. The police were there also, a tall dude who surveyed the place, and then me.
"You are?" he asked.
"I'm his room mate."
The cop raised an eyebrow, and then made a note.
"How long's he been like this?"
"We just came in from Colorado. A vacation."
"We?"
"Yes, and he caught a cold there."
"Didn't he see a doctor there? Before he traveled back here?"
"No," I said.
The tone was so accusative that I thought I'd be arrested for malfeasance. I was ready for fingerprinting, for taking a suspicious vacation to a secret hideaway and returning under curious and criminal conditions.
"Is this his first episode?" asked a paramedic.
She was softer in her interrogation as if she was actually concerned.
"As far as I know."
"As far as you know?" the cop asked. He wrote a note.
The gurney was loaded and in full flight now.
"Pumpkin," Matt uttered beneath the mask.
"I'm coming."
"He's in good hands," the cop said.
"I'm riding with him," I declared.
"Not allowed."
Suddenly, I was alone. No Matt, no paramedics, no Sergeant Friday giving me the third degree. Thoroughly and utterly alone.
3
The East Shore General Hospital was easy to find. Viv had been there a few times for various ailments. However, my patience was wearing thin as I sped there, managing to honk at every slow cretin on the road. I garnered several well-deserved finger flips, but I didn't give a shit. I just wanted to get to the emergency room and take my place beside my cowboy.
As it turned out, Matt bypassed the emergency room. Not bypassed, but just a fly through. Nevertheless, when I made inquiries at the front desk, I was told that he was admitted and on the fourth floor, but I couldn't go up yet.
"But he needs me," I said.
This was received with skeptical eyes that said If you're not his doctor, he doesn't need you. On some level I understood that, so I paced, waiting for the Kielers, who I expected at any time. However, they didn't come. Not fast enough. I paced and paced, and finally I asked.
"What's Matthew Kieler's room number?"
I took advantage of the shift change, so there was no suspicion from the new receptionist that I had every intention of sneaking upstairs and defy their little maintenance rules.
"423," she said, and then went about her busy work.
Busy work. I thanked her, paced some more, and then, when the busy work consumed her attention to her dereliction, I darted into the open elevator, where I paced some more until the bell rang and the door slid open on the fourth floor. The place was like a fortress, the nurse's station looming over the traffic. No busy working nurse here. Instead there was a hulk --- a woman who certainly wasn't the dietician, dressed in blue. I caught her attention immediately.
"Yes," she said. "Can I help you?"
She said this before I lost sight of the elevator bank. I regained my dignity and marched to the fore.
"Yes," I said. "I'm here to see Matthew Kieler."
She huffed, and then perused a monitor, muttering Kieler, Kieler, Kieler.
"Room 423, but it's marked immediate family only. Who are you?"
"Martin Powers."
"I mean, what relationship are too Mr. Kieler?"
"I'm his . . . I'm his partner."
"Business partner?"
"No. We . . . live together."
"Sorry. Immediate family only."
Suddenly, my heart sank. The floor shook and I was at sea.
"I am his immediate family."
"I can't see that you are. I suggest you come again when he can see friends and acquaintances. Call first."
I was stunned --- stunned and angry. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. I turned back to the elevator, pressed the down button, and then waited. However, when the car came, I couldn't move forward. I spun about and charged at the woman, who now was buffered by two other wardens.
"I told you, sir," she said, firmly. "Immediate family only."
"But I'm his partner," I shouted. "I'm his . . . lover."
This didn't help my case. In fact, it girdled her resolve and probably evoked other rules --- unwritten ones from the spleen of clean Christian living.
"I'm sorry, the rules are the rules," she proclaimed, her words like daggers. "Immediate family only."
She stood triumphant.
"Can't you even tell me his condition?" I pleaded.
I felt the tears rising. I trembled and thought perhaps to get on my knees and beg. She wasn't relenting. In fact, she seemed to relish her position as the great divider.
"He's critical," she snapped.
"Critical," I muttered. I was falling. I slouched on the desktop. Perhaps my genuine tears would move her to pity.
"I can't tell you more. Immediate family only. You can discuss it with his doctor, but the doctor won't tell you any more."
"But you don't understand," I moaned.
I was pathetic; a poor creature brought to these portals beseeching a simple kindness only to be treated like a cur. Matt was my love. He was my husband. I had a ring. I vainly displayed the ring before this snarling beast, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words. She would have probably laughed --- dance a jig maybe.
"Uncaring bitch," I said.
"Sir, if you become abusive, I'll have you removed from the premises."
"No, no," I said. "I'm sorry. You must know that Mr. Kieler is my . . . well, we are . . ."
"Sir, that's no concern of mine," she said. She made it to Torquemada at last. "If you are not an immediate family member, you must wait until the family arrives. Perhaps they will tell you . . ."
As if on cue, the elevator doors slid open and Mr. and Mrs. Kieler, with Mary, emerged.
"Martin, Martin," Mrs. Kieler said, embracing him. "How is he?"
"We were caught in traffic," Sam said. "Martin, you look terrible."
"He's not . . ." Mary whimpered.
"I don't know," I said, weeping full force now. I pointed to the keeper of the gate. "She won't tell me anything. She won't let me in to see him. She says I'm not his family. There are rules. I'm not anyone important . . . important according to them. I'm not his . . . She won't let me see him. They don't understand. They don't understand."
Louise Kieler opened her eyes wider than she possibly could, her teeth bared. She gazed at the nurse.
"Oh, she understands perfectly," she said. She marched to the counter.
"Now, Louise," Sammy said. "Let's not make a scene."
"What do you mean he's not his family? You should be ashamed of yourself. This man is my son's primary family."
"And who are you?" the nurse said, still probably imagining she had the upper hand.
"I'm his mother." Louise slammed her fist on the counter. This brought all three nurses center court as if they were the fates that cut the string in some Greek play. Louise cuffed me about the shoulders drawing me into her arms. "And this is my son-in-law, Matthew Kieler's life-partner. How dare you! How dare you!"
"I'm doing my job."
The nurse quickly paged the doctor.
"The doctor will see you in a minute," she said, no remorse in her voice. "As for this young man, whatever the relationship, he cannot see the patient unless he is immediate family as . . . as defined by the laws of the State of New Jersey."
"Look at him, you bitch!" Louise shouted.
"Louise, not so loud," Sammy said.
I trembled. I was proud of her, but was also afraid we would all be kicked out. Louise rapped on the desk, the papers and pens rattling with each pound.
"This is suppose to be a place of healing. Of caring. What right have you to judge? What right have you to inflict pain in a place of healing? He is closer to my son and more important to me than I am sure you are to anyone so unfortunate to call you a relative. Now, take us to my son!"
"Mrs. Kieler," the nurse said, finally with some alarm. "Please calm down. Doctor."
The doctor had arrived, and just in time. I thought Louise was going to seize a pen and stab Nurse Bitch and a Half in the jugular.
"What's the problem?" the doctor asked, looking up from his clipboard. "This a hospital, not a wrestling match."
"I was explaining Hospital policy about immediately family only . . ."
The doctor raised his hands.
"I'm here now. I'll handle this. You are Mr. and Mrs. Kieler?"
"Yes, Doctor," Sammy said.
"Doctor Farrell."
"How is my brother?" Mary asked.
"My son?" Louise said.
"Your son is resting," Doctor said. "But we had to put him in an oxygen tent."
"Oxygen tent?" I cried. "Doctor, is he . . .will he . . ."
"He has pneumonia --- pneumosistis carinii."
"Just like Luis," Louise stammered, her lips trembling.
"Then," the Doctor continued. "You realize that he is in a great deal of danger with this episode."
"AIDS?" I said, for the first time. The word hung in the air before me. All the air was driven from the room and I felt faint. No, I thought. It's mountain sickness. He's been in the Rockies and the blood thins up there. It does. You can't catch AIDS from thin mountain air.
"He never told you?" Mary asked, and then covered her mouth. It was a poor Martin move. Was I the only one who didn't know this shit?
"I'm afraid," Doctor Farrell continued. "I'm afraid your son has serum converted. I'd say about a week ago."
A week ago. In the mountains. He . . . he did what? I shrugged a hopeless shrug.
"It means, his blood converted in response to the HIV infection. Are you his significant other?"
I shook my head slowly. A sudden recognition loomed. I was the significant other and Matt had serum converted --- whatever the fuck that meant, and I might be the next morsel on the virus' menu.
"You need to be tested immediately. Have you been safe?"
Safe? I didn't believe this. I heard Louise crying and Sammy comforting, but still this attention on my sexual activities in such a clinical manner in an open corridor before Mary was just too much for me.
"What are you saying?" I snapped. "Am I . . ."
"I just asked you a simple question, Mr. . . ."
"Powers," I snapped.
"Have you and your partner used protection when . . ."
"Yes, yes. I don't believe this."
I was in a tailspin.
"May we see him now?" Louise asked.
"Yes, come now," the Doctor said.
"Can Martin come?"
The nurse lurched forward --- her moment of vindication.
"Why, of course. Come now. All of you."
I should have danced a victory dance on that bitch's face, but I was too devastated and confused to think of much else now. In fact, thoughts of Matt were churning to deeper and more brooding thoughts . . . thoughts of me.
1
I clung to Mary as we entered the room like mourners, only we weren't mourners or watchers. We were the immediate family. The doctor interrupted a nurse, who had reached beneath the oxygen tent to prick Matt's arm. My cowboy was pale in his quarantine and surrounded by a mass of tubes and dripping bags and flashing monitors. I trembled, especially when Mary wept.
"He's awake," the nurse said to Doctor Farrell.
"Visit for a little while," he said to Louise and Sammy. "Let's not tax him. Don't let him talk."
That was hard, because when Matt spied Louise, his eyes lit up.
"Mama," he croaked. "Dad."
"Shhh, Lamb," Louise said. "The doctor says you're not supposed to talk."
"Sis."
Mary spluttered out at a Newt, but it was a half effort. I didn't know how I'd survive it. I suddenly felt misplaced. I wasn't his immediate family. I was an outlaw. How could I have presumed to be more?
"Pumpkin."
"Hush," I said.
"I'm sorry, Pumpkin."
"Hush now," I said.
Louise pushed me forward. The plastic wall between us annoyed me. I felt like ripping it down and taking him in my arms, but as I observed his face --- his ashen cheeks and those sky-blue eyes swimming without reference now, I couldn't imagine that I had come so far with this man only to slam into this wall of plastic. The monitors were beeping, while the bags of crap that were attached to him were a sure reference that my cowboy was sick --- very sick. He was in danger, but I knew nothing about this plague. Nothing other than what I read in the papers or heard on TV. There, everyone was in a panic mode. The TV reported how men with AIDS were shunned. Schools tossed classmates out the door. Mass hysteria broke loose in quiet suburban towns when the local queer was reported ill. I realized that I knew nothing about the disease except that the villagers ran the ill out of town with pitchforks.
Shouldn't we be masked and enclosed in protective clothing, I suddenly thought. Then a voice --- a medical voice pecked on my brain. You need to be tested immediately. Have you been safe? What kind of test? Probably a big needle in the stomach. And who could say what was safe? Matt was always clean, or so I thought, which always fit into my thoughts of him as a gentleman. He certainly wasn't trying to prevent pregnancy. Safe?
"Pumpkin," he wheezed.
"Shhh. You're going to be just fine, now that you're under a doctor's care."
He blinked. I realized then that he no more believed me than I believed me. Still, I remember praying a silent prayer. Please God, let me survive this moment. It was all about me. I couldn't lose this man, and yet, I was hurting so bad that I just wanted this to pass.
"Lamb," Louise said. "Well get through this together."
I suddenly realized that she was speaking to me. I smiled, and then buried my head on her shoulder. I didn't deserve any of this. Matt began to cough.
"Easy now, son," Sammy said.
"Dad."
"Listen to us. Don't speak. Whatever it takes to get you out of here, we shall do it."
"Just like Luis," Mary muttered.
"None of that," Louise said.
Louise had held her composure better than any, especially me. She turned to the doctor.
"There are new treatments. I heard Tom Brokow say there are drugs now."
"AZT and other treatments. Herbals and diet."
"We'll take them," Sammy said.
Doctor Farrell shrugged. He pulled Louise aside. Sammy followed. I came as baggage.
"Trouble is," the doctor whispered. "We can try to brace the immune system, but when the contaminates take advantage, our battle is with each invader. Some infections are just uncomfortable, while others, like carinii, are downright dangerous. Any pneumonia is dangerous, but this one is usually reserved for cats. Today I'm your son's veterinarian."
"Get him well."
"We'll try our best."
"When will you know?" Sammy asked.
"Hard to tell. His lungs need to sustain a proper oxygen level, but he's basically strong. But . . ."
"But what?" Louise said.
"I don't want to instill false hope. Youth has many advantages with most diseases, but with HIV that advantage is sapped in many cases with each passing episode."
"So you are not giving him good odds?" Sammy croaked. I thought he'd burst.
"Not so loud," Doctor Farrell said. "I'm saying I can treat him and he could last for years. Or I could battle each . . . each monster that invades him and do my best."
Sammy spit, but Louise touched his arm staying him.
"I appreciate your candor, Doctor," she said. "Our family are fighters, so you will have an army behind you."
She glanced at me, and in that glance, I felt the weight of battle --- a call to arms. I was suddenly mustered and I hadn't a clue to what. Matt began coughing again.
"It's best you go now," the doctor said.
Louise went to the plastic wall, Sammy behind her and Mary tagging by the window. I knew she was fearful of her own feelings and perhaps she found the distance better for everyone.
"Lamb," Louise said. "We'll be just outside. I'll let Martin stay a bit longer, so you two can . . . well, be together."
She touched her fingers to her lips, and then pressed her hand to the plastic.
"I love you, Mama."
She smiled. Sammy sniffed, frowned and then sighed.
"Son."
Mary mouthed a Newt. And then I was alone with him. Just me, Matt, the doctor and the tent. Matt smiled. I knew that as long as I was there, he was content.
Please God, let me survive this moment.
I came close to him, the tubes infesting my reach. I wanted to take him into my arms, but it was impossible. The logistics precluded it. I'd probably disconnect him from something that kept him alive. At that thought, I quaked. I began to tremble, my shoulders bouncing as I gasped for air that I somehow couldn't find.
"Pumpkin," he whispered. "It'll be okay. Well be just fine . . . fine and . . . dandy."
"Don't talk," I said.
I reached beneath the tent. I had seen the nurse do it to draw blood, so I knew it could be done. I didn't give a fuck if the doctor thrashed me with his stethoscope. I needed to touch my man. My hand ran along his arm to his hands. There our rings touched. It was electric. This is what I needed --- an assurance that as long as we were wedded by some conscious and continuous act that nothing could part us --- no tent, no doctor, nor a fucking media frenzy about a lousy plague.
"You need to go now," the doctor said.
No chastisement. I squeezed Matt's hand, my arm receding from beneath the plastic. I thought to perform Louise's kissing ceremony, but then thought that was best left for mothers.
"I'll be around," I said to Matt.
His eyes blinked, and then closed, perhaps exhausted by the ordeal of visitors.
"I'll have you tested," the doctor said to me.
Tested.
I closed my eyes now and thought of that big-ass needle in my stomach.
2
The test was nothing --- a blood sample from the crook of my arm. The nasty part was that I wouldn't know for two weeks if I walked on the same path as Matt. It wasn't like those new fangled pregnancy tests --- pee on the stick and go shopping for a bassinet. I had choices now. I could sit in vigil with the Kielers and glare at that bitch of a nurse until her shift changed, or I could get drunk. I chose the latter.
It wasn't much of a drunk at that. In fact, I didn't even go to a gay bar, fearing that I would run into the old crowd and need to tell them everything. I didn't want to tell a soul. It was my secret. One word to a Padgett or a Todd and the entire state would know by tomorrow noon. I wasn't ashamed, but I did not want Matt shunned. Of course, I would share his shunning, so perhaps I was fearful after all. If I had gone to The Cavern, I might have bumped into Russ and then I would need to discuss it with him. I needed information, but not this minute. Now I needed booze and not cosmopolitans. I needed gin and tonic in numbing quantities. If I had imbibed at The Cavern, I might have even been served by that waiter boy, Bobby, and I didn't want any more examples of this disease tracing me that night. So I opted to drink at McCann's, where the baseball game barked over the TV and the old shore drunks bent elbows over real men's drinks --- scotch and water, hold the water.
I swaggered to the bar and did my best butch impression, although the bartender probably recognized me from the neighborhood. I did my best to order my gin in a gruff voice. I listened to some Republican bullshit politics being spouted at the other end of the bar. I was also engaged in conversation by an old man about the latest baseball games. I found that nodding and silence was my friend. I agree. You're right. Didn't catch that game. But there was no escape. The News came on and there was a bit about some Gay man in Bisbee, Arizona who intentionally bled on a group of unsuspecting thugs when they robbed him and beat him to a pulp. There was talk about prosecuting him, but he died from his head wounds. Then I was subjected to a discussion on these faggots and their disease. Scourge of God, it is. He wants them all dead for their sins so He's wiping them out. But they have their nerve trying to infect us innocent, normal true-blooded solid citizens, who never do wrong from morning to evening. I was angry at their remarks. I felt like standing on the bar and saying Shut-up or I'll open a vein and add some pink blood to your scotches. I might have this thing. I'll know in two weeks and then you'll know, 'cause I'll tell you fuckers.
I decided to exit before my opinion was asked and would damn my eternal soul with an answer.
3
I didn't want to go back to Matt's place. That was a conscious decision I made when I was sober. I knew I'd be trashed and in no condition to drive. So I picked McCann's not only because it was a breeders haven, but also because it was two blocks from my apartment. I staggered around the courtyard fence. I hadn't been here in a while. I would pick up mail once a week. I had moved my plants to Matt's, so I didn't even need to water now.
Suddenly, the place looked very much like home. I recalled my thinking on relinquishing the apartment, but now I was glad I hadn't. It was more than a haven. It was a downright escape. Except, as I stumbled over the debris that had managed to clutter the courtyard, I noticed a light on inside.
"I left the light on?" I asked the porch furniture. "Well, that's going to be some fucking electric bill."
The door was open also. I expected now to enter a threadbare apartment stripped of whatever furnishings I had manage to collect as my lifelong legacy. The place was musty. No, smoky, and I had a hunch who was there. Only I hoped I wasn't about to surprise her as she spread eagle on the couch with some trucker plowing the fields that once popped me out. Shudder at the thought, because I had witnessed that scene more than once. I staggered into the light.
"Shithead," Viv said as sober and prim as . . . well as prim as anyone who could say shithead and still remain sedate.
"Viv," I said. "You moved in?"
"Don't be a smart-ass."
"Tonight's not a good time."
"You're drunk."
I smiled, and then bowed to her. I lost my balance and aimed at for the couch, landing beside her.
"Takes a drunk to know one."
She shook me by the shoulders.
"I'll make some coffee."
"Don't. It'll kill me. The last time you made coffee, I had the shits for a week."
"Well, take a cold shower then."
"Why? What's happened? Do you have some one here?"
"No, and you tell me what's happened."
I stood and moved away from her. She was the last person that I wanted to know my secret. How did she even suspect? She's fishing. She don't know a thing. She's getting married or something and springing one of her little surprises on me.
"Nothing's happened," I said.
The room spun. Suddenly, I was pulled onto the couch and into her arms. It was like a wooly spider weaving a web around me. It felt luke-warm --- not motherly in the least, and yet not repulsive. I guess I was so drunk that if the bar baseball crowd had hugged me I would have felt warm.
"Bullshit," she said. "Louise called me. Told me everything."
I pulled away.
"I really don't need anything," I said, and unkindly. "I just need to be alone."
"The last thing you need to be is alone."
"I've survived until now," I said. "They come and go, you know."
"This one's not gone yet, Shithead. Don't write him off so fast. "
"I'm not writing him off."
That was it. I don't know what came over me, but I did something that I had never done and would never do again. I slapped her.
"Ouch!"
She raised her hand, and I scurried off the couch.
"I'm sorry, Viv. I didn't mean it."
"I know you didn't," she said.
I thought she'd cry as she held her cheek. I came to her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away.
"You can slap me around all you want," she said. "I'm used to it, you know. They all wind up slapping the whore."
"Don't say that."
"I'll say whatever I'm pleased to say. But you listen to me. I know you and you're unbrave."
"Unbrave. There's no such word."
"You know what I mean. You worry about your next Christmas and the next love journey and the big boo hoo breakup, shithead. It's always been that way."
I was furious, but didn't repeat the slap. If Louise meant this to be a comfort --- into my mother's arms and all that, she'd been into the vermouth too.
"Well, I've had a good teacher," I said.
"I've been the best, but I'm telling you now. You had better not abandon this one. You better not or I slap you from here to kingdom come."
"You think you know everything."
"About you, I know everything. It's all about you. But not this time."
I trembled. How dare she accuse me of thinking of leaving Matt? How could she? But . . . it was true. I had thought of it several times that evening. I thought of running and hiding --- to make the world go away. I loved him, but I was afraid. I didn't know how to love him anymore. It was beyond me. I was . . . unbrave.
I staggered into the bedroom standing in the dark. I wanted this woman gone. I knew I couldn't kick her out. I wasn't that powerful, but if I separated myself from her by a room or two or three, I might be able to . . . run away . . . hide. I was drunk and stupid. I knew nothing else to do but cry, like the child of Christmas that I was, standing on the brink --- on the pinnacle listening to the angels shout Jump. Jump!
She was behind me. I sensed her. I smelled her vanilla perfume and heard her cheap jadeite earrings clinking against their ugly settings.
"Listen to me," she whispered. "I have other things to teach you."
"Like what?" I said to the darkness.
"Your father."
"You don't know which one of the three men that month was my father."
"That's what I told you, but . . ."
I turned. I could see only her silhouette against the living room lamp.
"Your father was with me for two years before you were born."
"Two years?"
I was imagining . . . what. I had never seen a photograph and had no mental image of the man or the men. In fact, I wanted to change my last name to Jones as that fit me better than Powers.
"We were a family and I . . . loved him, but . . ."
"But what, Viv?"
"He got sick. Lost his job. Became depressed."
"He left us," I said. "You told me that he left us."
"No. I was unbrave. I couldn't deal with it. He drank . . . more than me and, well, I needed you to be away from him, so . . . I upped and left him one night."
"He's alive?"
"No. He died of emphysema. And I never saw him again. I got a letter. It was wrong of me leave him."
I sighed.
"Well, it doesn't make much difference," I said. "It don't change a thing."
"No it don't, but . . . I loved him. I loved you more, but I was unbrave and couldn't watch him die."
"Matt's not going to die."
"I didn't mean that, but he's seriously sick."
"I could be too."
She whipped me into her arms. She no longer felt like a wooly spider. Warm. I could hear her heart beat against my chest --- two flat chests heaving together.
"I know you want to run away, Shithead," she whispered in my ear. "But listen. So do I now, but I won't, because I will never leave the man I love again and neither should you."
"Oh, Mom," I said.
I had joined the unbrave.
Part III
The Unbrave
1
Life sometimes requires us to learn new things against our will. I had always been opened to new horizons --- new books, new friends, new places, but as for the day to day routine of living, I was set. I had made compromises from the solitary life --- one peppered with the occasional drunk or meth addict, all short-term affairs, to a life of sharing with another man. Sharing was a joy here. I shared a bed, food, laughs, patio furniture and the very air I breathed with this man. Now, I was at a loss. I needed to learn about a disease. No, conditions --- with weird names and odd symptoms. I needed to realize that the decay of old people and animals was now grafted on young men --- on my young man. I was dizzy. This wasn't a new horizon. This was a deep pit that afforded me little choice, but the choice was selfish if I chose to exercise it. And as for sharing . . .
The result of my test was negative. I was disease free, although I was ordered (it was not a suggestion, because Doctor Farrell delivered it as a mandate) to be tested regularly. I must admit I was nervous less about not knowing the results immediately. As I waited the two weeks, I felt a darkness creep into my soul. I had convinced myself that I had it. In many ways, it was a consolation --- the ultimate sharing. I would have preferred more patio furniture, but what could one do? Then I was told that although I shared the world with Matthew Kieler, I did not share his condition. It was not a relief. I felt cheated. I wanted to share this path with him. Somehow, the thought that we were together walking into hell was packed with its own solace. However, now that he was going alone and I would be standing on the sidelines waving to him as if he were on a ship leaving for the Caribbean and I --- I was stuck on the fucking shore with the healthy peasants, it wasn't fair. The whole thing just wasn't fair.
So I buried myself in books while I waited for Matt to come home from the hospital. I read at my counter at work. I got brochures and sought out the solace of the Kielers, when I could. I made lists. Lists. Page after page of lists. I would ponder them while I waited for visiting hours to begin. Sometimes I would sit alone, wondering whether Nurse Ratchet would let me see him. Sometimes the Kielers were there. I was more subdued then, afraid to express myself in front of them, even though Matt was out of the oxygen tent and looked almost human again. Then Viv visited, with her How're ya doin' Harpooner? She was so loud we received a reprimand and stern warning from the nurse's station.
I spent most of my hospital time sitting and waiting and reading. Sometimes I'd share my reading with Matt. Sometimes I'd ask Doctor Farrell a question of two. No matter how it came down during those two months, as Matt got stronger, it was clear to me that he would be home and I would need to adjust my scopes to a new way of living --- the life of the dutiful wife, vigilant of someone else's behavior. I thought it would be somewhere between a mother and a wet nurse. I wasn't sure what it would be. As time passed, I felt comfortable that I could master the new duties as long as I could control my emotional state. I would need ice in my veins, not Cosmopolitans. However, in the end, Viv was correct. I was unbrave and what I imagined was nothing like what eventually transpired.
Matt left the hospital like a maternity case. I pushed him in a wheelchair, while mother Kieler and sister Mary pawed him. Sammy helped me get him into the car. Matt, however, exerted his independence from the outset. Even when we arrived home, he didn't want me to wait on him hand and foot. I could see he wasn't strong enough yet and it would be another two weeks before he was able to return to Axum Labs. Even then, I insisted on driving him --- changed my hours at the store for him. It was important that he dived back into the routine of programming --- his career --- his life. He talked incessantly about how the McKinley Database Project would be hopelessly off schedule without him. The fact is I met with his boss, a descent guy named Doug Lynch, who thought the world of Matt and couldn't care less about gay relationships. As long as he's able, Lynch said, we'll keep him on. Hell, if he wants to work from home, that's fine with us too.
Axum Labs was a rarity. Most firms wouldn't want a man with AIDS on the premises and I was sure that if all the employees knew, they would have a health revolution --- picket signs and law suits and a rash of resignations. I watched the news. I saw the bullshit. However, Lynch was a good egg. He kept the nature of Matt's condition confined to a bout of pneumonia. I was grateful for that, because as time progressed --- as the fall moved onward toward Thanksgiving, Matt was having difficulties working a full day. He would start out the morning primed to go, but by lunchtime he began to fade. I'd give him a call to see how he was doing, and he usually lied and said Fine, Pumpkin. But on four occasions, I insisted he leave work. My management wasn't as forgiving. On those occasions they dressed me down for darting out --- my vacation time had thinned, and it didn't work that way anyhow. You needed to request vacation in advance. On the fourth occasion, I was docked. But shit, I had no choice.
The fact is, I did have a choice, but I wasn't about to chance things now. Matt took his medication --- a cocktail of capsules and pills that would have choked a horse. And he did choke. I believed the meds were keeping him going, but the AZT, which the doctor insisted was the best thing to strengthen the immune system, had bad side effects --- vomiting and diarrhea. In fact, on two of those occasions when I rescued Matt from work, he had . . . soiled himself.
"I'm not wearing a diaper," he snapped, when I suggested it.
"Why not, sweetie? There's no embarrassment in it. No one will know."
I eased him onto the couch. He was tired that day, even though he had enough snap in him to resist my suggestion.
"I'll know," he said. "I'm not a baby."
"You're my baby," I said, kissing him.
"You know what I mean."
"Well, it's a sight better than shitting your pants and having to call me to wipe your ass."
I marched away. He wasn't working with me here. I was docked a half-day's pay to save him from a situation, which wasn't his fault, but still, prevention could be applied. Still, he fought me in this. As I slammed things around the kitchen, wondering what I could feed him that wouldn't upset his stomach further, I remembered that he had another cup of pills to swallow.
"It's time for your meds."
"Not now," he barked. "They won't stay down."
I came to the kitchen door, my hands on my hips --- the perfect salad cruet pose.
"You can take them with peanut butter."
"I didn't like them that way."
"Well, milk will only give you the shits."
"I already have the shits."
"So what do we do?"
So what do we do? He sat there, my perfect specimen --- still the cowboy in a suit jacket without pants and a bit pathetic. However, he was my beauty, his eyes pleading for love and fun, not meds in peanut butter. Why was I torturing him? No, I wasn't torturing him. It was the bug that swam in his veins --- a bug that I was beginning to know better and better. His T-cell count was still strong enough to keep him afloat, but that wouldn't last if he didn't ingest pills, get a bad belly ache and take a run at the toilet like some dysentery patient. Oh, I was learning. Reading and learning. Who was the victim here? I wondered.
I moseyed to his side. He glanced at me with those wonder-eyes. He was tempting me to forgo my notions of meds and lectures on diapers.
"How about if we just take a dive into the bed and call it a night?" he suggested.
Tempting, but . . .
"It's still daytime," I said. "And you're going to take your meds or the nice people at Axum Labs will be finding themselves a new wunderkind to finish their super-duper database project."
He pouted.
"I hate it with peanut butter."
I looked him in the eye.
"Tough shit. If you don't behave yourself, I call your mother."
"She wouldn't make me wear a diaper."
A chink in the armor.
"Let's call her and find out. Or better still, I'll call Viv."
He surrendered. He took his meds on bread with butter and honey. He still gagged, but the God of T-cell counts was served. Then he dozed and I crept out to buy a package of Depends, that is, after I soaked his crappy under drawers and got a stain and the stink out of his suit pants. Thank God for lavender linen spray. I knew the dry cleaner wouldn't touch them in their native condition. By the time I finished these chores, dropped by my apartment for the mail, boiled the silverware to keep the germ population down, washed the kitchen floor for the same reason, made a cheese plate to bind Matt's rear and wolf down a cold cheeseburger I had picked up at McDonald's, I was ready for bed. However, I never made it there. I fell asleep in a chair with one sock on and one sock off. I woke up at two in the morning just in time for Matt's meds . . . bread, butter, honey, pills and resistance --- the perfect combination for a little Miss nobody like me who just wanted one thing now. To fight the odds and not be unbrave.
2
Good days. Bad days. I knew them well as we moved toward Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was never sure when I'd get the call at work to retrieve my cowboy from a dizzy spell or a faint. I did win the diaper war. He even carried a spare in his attaché case. Still, I was called on the carpet by my blue pencil on the job for reading instead of folding. I had told her that Viv was having some problems. I could never admit to a lover with AIDS. I would be sent to the stockroom and never emerge. And as for the reading, I mixed the pamphlets in with travel brochures so no one would suspect. With Russ no longer at the Tux shop, I took my breaks alone and read and read and read. I was learning a new language, an education in immune systems and retroviruses and serum conversion. I had learned that AIDS wasn't a disease but a condition, like diabetes. No one ever died of diabetes. With diabetes, you always went from kidney failure, a heart attack or too many toes and legs lopped off. With AIDS, it wasn't the bug, the HIV (excuse me the Human Immune-deficient Virus) that got you. It was the critters that invaded your body because the white corpuscle police were nodding off somewhere. In fact, you could host the virus (or, as I learned, the retrovirus, although that always made me think of sperm swimming backwards --- ass-backwards), and never get sick. If you developed . . . complications, then you had full-blown AIDS. I was learning, and the lingo was difficult, and it got harder as I progressed.
Matt had full-blown AIDS, because his immune system was compromised and that bout in the hospital was pneumonia. But not just any pneumonia. A special kind. How sinister. It was PCP --- Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. It was rare in healthy human beings as it was caused by a parasitic virus that infected the lungs making it difficult to breathe. In fact, although he had survived it, he still had it. If he went off his meds, it could take over again. Doctor Farrell told me that most full-blown AIDS patients had multiple episodes of PCP and would be periodically hospitalized. I was fearful. Every time Matt coughed, and it was often, I had my hand near the phone ready to dial. There were worse things, which to my knowledge he didn't have like Toxoplasmosis, a deadly parasitic infection you caught from cats, and Candidiasis, which he did have --- a fungal infection of the tongue and mouth. That was controllable. I was constantly on the lookout for Kaposi's sarcoma, a cancer that only old men contracted --- until now. The patient broke out in blotchy, purple lesions. Every little bruise I found on Matt's hand or leg was suspected now.
I figured that the more I knew about these complications and their prevention, the better I'd be to combat them. However, the question was how to do this and still live. The only easy time I actually had was at work. It was almost downtime as it turned out. Even on the good days, when Matt could get around on his own --- working on his computer and not under my feet, I still had a strict schedule. He insisted I go to rehearsal, but that was a short-lived fancy. I went to the first one, was greeted by an enthusiastic throng of well wishers, but when presented with the assigned solos, I sighed and declined.
I expected Jasper would do cartwheels, but actually he had changed. I guess our Colorado experience made him more aware of his vocal shortcomings and his ascension to my tenorial throne was assumed with humility. In fact, he was sorry to see me go --- and go I did. I couldn't concentrate on the music. I had no patience for the note by note honing. And . . . Russ was among the missing. Tim couldn't give me much information. They were an item only at the festival, Tim jumping ship shortly after their return home. One of the Rons said Russ was in the hospital and I immediately demonstrated my grasp of the lingo (not intentionally) by asking PCP? This got me a shrug. I had decided that I should stop up and visit Russ, but it never happened. I'm not sure whether it was the lack of time or AIDS overload, but I never made it up there. I didn't even mention it to Matt, fearing it might upset him. What kind of friend was I? What kind of human being had I become? The unbrave, as Viv dubbed me. I guess that numbed me to everything but my cowboy and getting him through these turgid waters.
3
"Marty," Jasper called to me after the rehearsal.
It was dark as I passed Richardson Auditorium on my way to the car. I recognized the voice and even succumbed to the sacrilege of anyone calling me Marty. In days past, I would have ignored Jasper's hark, but I needed the company now. I heaved a deep sigh.
"If you're going to try to talk me into staying," I said, "don't waste your breath."
"I understand," Jasper said. "It's a shame. The sound will suffer . . . greatly."
"Thank you. I guess we've had our ups and downs."
"My fault," he said.
I looked at his goofy expression in the street light. It wasn't so goofy as I had recalled.
"It's been mutual," I conceded. "Our duet was brilliant."
"It was. But that's not what I wanted to say."
I feared that maybe I had sparked something incorrect in Jasper's soul. Mixed signals. I mean, why would he be so attentive to me in Colorado? It was beginning to make sense. I raised my hand, and then continued toward the car.
"You need a buddy," he stammered.
"I'm flattered, Jasper. Truly, I am."
"No, no. You have it wrong."
I stopped. Did I? What was he talking about?
"Do I? Then set me straight --- in a manner of speaking."
He giggled.
"I mean, you need someone from Buddy Services. I work for Buddy Services."
Comprehension gelled. In my reading on cures and treatment, I came across a mention of the corps of volunteers that helped out with AIDS patients and their caregivers. This was a sweet offer.
"Are you offering to . . ."
"No. I mean, yes. Buddies are assigned, and I already have three buddies, so I think I'm maxed, but I suggest that you apply for one."
"I don't think I need that right now. It's too soon."
Jasper shrugged. He looked at me as if he saw something I didn't.
"What?"
"Well, you'll hate me for saying it, but it's only been a few months since Denver and . . . and well, you look like shit."
"Well, thank you." I think I laughed, but them's fightin' words.
"No, I mean, your drawn and tired looking. You may have things under control, but wouldn't it be nice to have someone come by and run some errands --- do the dishes, or the laundry."
Someone touch my All-Purpose Cheer? Unlikely. But pick up the mail or scrub a floor. That might be an option. The germ was set. But it would be a perfect stranger. A perfect stranger. That sounded like music to my ear . . . especially the perfect part.
"Matt's Mom and sister help out."
"I'm sure they do, but listen to me, Marty." I cringed, but decided Jasper could call me that. It would be his special privilege. "Things could get . . ."
"Worse. I know. I've been reading. Reading a lot."
"You should join Hyacinth?"
"Is that where they keep the Buddies?"
"Yes, but you can learn a lot more, and there's support there."
Actually, as good as support sounded, most times I wanted to crawl away alone and free myself of the growing world of information overload. I closed my eyes, while Jasper popped out a card. I passed it under my eyes, now opened and perhaps for a doss of enlightenment. Hyacinth Foundation, it read. It was in New Brunswick. A bit far, I thought --- I who traipsed all the way to Princeton to sing and to New Birch for a mug of suds. Any excuse would do.
"I'm not promising anything," I said.
"Just think about it."
And so I thanked him, and then left him under the lamppost. I tucked the card in my wallet, where it sang to me for a few days. I mused at it at home. I even picked up the phone once to call, but stifled it. I even found a reference to the Hyacinth Foundation in the literature. Then I had a thought. No, less a thought than a notion. I was hiding Matt's AIDS status from the world out of fear. No one understood. No one could help me beyond Doctor Farrell and the AZT fairy. But here, screaming at me from an organization card, was help --- support, people who understood and, moreover, cared. So I took a resolve.
"Have you ever heard of the Hyacinth Foundation?" I announced to Matt as he crammed over the computer.
"I think I have. Not sure. Why?"
"I think I'm going to get you a buddy."
"I have a buddy."
"No. I mean someone who cares."
"I have someone who cares."
"Not a perfect stranger, you don't."
Not a perfect stranger.
1
"Now what is this organization called, dear?" Louise asked.
She sat at the kitchen table opposite Matt, who read the Asbury Park Press. He looked up.
"Hyacinth," he said. "And honestly, I don't think we need them."
"Well, it can't hurt," I said.
Louise stopped over twice a week and we still traipsed over to Holmdel on Sundays, when Matt had good days. Today was a good day and I was almost embarrassed that when the Hyacinth representative would arrive, he would be confronted by three healthy souls. Perhaps Matt was right and we were wasting a valuable resource that could be applied better elsewhere.
"And how much do they charge, Martin?"
"They're volunteers. In fact, I'm thinking of volunteering too."
"Don't you have enough to do?" Matt said, this time not looking up from the Op Eds.
"Hush," Louise said, grasping his hand across the table. "Martin knows that when we take, we must also give."
Did Martin know that? I thought. I wasn't sure that I did. Taking always felt so much better than giving. I mean, I wasn't a rich man, especially when I was trying to upkeep two places on my meager income. Matt's salary was fine. I never really contributed to his place, but more and more our money mixed together --- not our bank accounts, mind you. That was a Viv no no, and I abided by her advice on that score. However, on bad days, it was hard to get money from a sleeping man when the fridge needed stocking. I was also worried about these meds. AZT was an expensive item --- twelve dollars a pill, and Matt was consuming a hundred dollars worth a day. The pharmacy provided a hefty bucket full --- a tub more like it, but the bill was floating between insurance claims and hadn't come home to roost. Of course, Sammy told us not to worry about a thing. If push came to shove, he'd foot the bill. Still, Matt wasn't happy with that and I wasn't entirely sure that the Kielers were related to the Rockefellers. Before I could confirm or debunk Louise's confidence in my sense of giving (or my propensity for taking), the doorbell rang.
"Should I be in bed?" Matt asked.
"Why?"
"Well, won't this buddy guy expect me in a full-blown Camille?"
"Please," Louise said. "Don't be so dramatic."
"Drama Queen, Louise," I said, and went to answer the door. "It's Drama Queen."
I was surprised at the person on our threshold. He was a thin Black guy. I guess it would be better now to say African-American. This didn't matter to me. He could be anything, for all I cared, but I had a mental image of a tall white-bread dude named Hank LaCrosse. I soon found out that his name was Henri LeCroix, which over the phone came out Hank LaCrosse.
"Hank?"
"I'm here for Matthew Kieler."
"Yes, come in. I'm his . . . his partner, Martin. We spoke on the phone."
He followed me into the living room, where Louise had taken the couch and Matt edged toward the comfy chair.
"I'm Matt's mother," Louise said, extending her hand.
"Have a seat," I said.
Hank preferred to stand. He eyed Matt, and then smiled.
"Matthew?" he asked.
Matt nodded. "In the flesh," he said.
He was being a wise-ass today. I guess it wasn't easy to face this mortality --- the eventual dependence on the kindness of strangers, as someone once said. The conversation hit an abrupt halt.
"Would you like some coffee or a soda?" I asked.
"Thank you. Soda if you have one that's diet? If not, water."
"And sit."
Louise went for the beverage, while Hank replaced her on the couch.
"I guess," I said. "I guess we need to make a schedule or something. Is that how it works?"
"Yes. Matthew . . ."
"Matt, please."
"Matt, do you get out?"
"You mean like dancing?"
"No, smart ass," I said. "He means just plain, fucking outside."
I was annoyed that Matt was resisting, and my comment met Louise as she came over the threshold. I never cursed in front of her. There was something sacrilegious about it. However, she giggled and gave Hank a Diet Fresca.
"I see we have a bad patient," Hank said. "That's okay. I have some that throw things at me."
Matt blushed. I assumed it was a combination of being singled out in a group of recalcitrant sick people and, more than likely, being referred to as a patient.
"Well, I go to work . . . most days," Matt said.
"Good," Hank said. "Then I'll not need to read you bedtime stories."
Louise laughed.
"That's my job," she said.
"How are we set for . . . meals?" Hank asked.
"I feed him," I remarked. "Doesn't he look beefy?"
That wasn't exactly true. Matt was still fleshy, but he had lost about twenty pounds and his appetite was dwindled to about half of what I pushed on him. The half he ate sometimes came up, and invariably, it came out. Hank didn't remark on that.
"I guess I'll start by helping your partner with chores," he said. "You could use a break now and then, Martin."
"You said meals," I asked. "Are you talking about cooking?"
"No. Buddies don't cook. I mean, if you're not here and he's hungry, I pour him some milk and plate up a stack of cookies. But Hyacinth can deliver two meals a day, if you need them."
"Like Meals on Wheels?" Louise asked.
"Exactly."
That was an idea.
"What do they taste like?" Matt asked.
"Probably better than the crap I make for you, but . . . let me think about it. We'll see. And I could use some errands run."
"Laundry?"
"More like mail . . ."
"Mail?"
"I'll explain later. And sometimes it gets pretty quiet in here."
"You need some scintillating conversation?"
I smiled. Somewhere in my warped mind I couldn't imagine such a phrase escaping the lips of this man.
"That's my job," Matt said. "Isn't that a bit like a third wheel?"
"Hush," Louise said. "This isn't all about you, lamb."
Matt pouted. I pouted also. It was all about Matt, but when I was bone tired and the reading drove me to questions, it might be nice to have someone nearby to give me answers.
"Would that scintillating conversation include ways of detecting Kaposi's sarcoma or the latest tidings on ACE inhibitors?"
"It could. I'm a buddy. I have training. You can deploy me in any manner you think fit except . . ."
Here were the provisos. Hank reached in his pocket fetching a paper. He flipped it open. A contract, I thought. I, Martin Powers, hereby assert that I shall leave my kidneys to the students at Robert Wood Johnson for dissection, and will donate an organ a week for every load of laundry that Hank LaCrosse does. An eye for each mail stack delivered. Three fingers and a toe for seventeen hours of scintillating conversation.
"This is for Matthew, as I am his buddy," Hank said, "but you might as well be the custodian of the rules."
"Rules are good, dear," Louise said, smiling at Matt, who pouted again like a recalcitrant child refusing his spinach.
"What does it say . . . in a nutshell," I said. I was in no mood now to read the Declaration of Buddy Dependence.
"They're simple. I'm available at my own schedule, although I'm flexible. I shall receive no payment. Every effort should be made to insulate me from any contagion, but don't worry. I've been through many hours of training and can pretty well take care of myself. I will assist you with government agency contact, if needed."
"What does that mean?" Matt asked.
"Welfare. The township. Food banks."
"We're good there," Matt snapped.
"Let the man speak," I said.
"You never know when you need some assistance. Hyacinth can get you a break on some of your meds, for instance."
"AZT?"
"Yes."
This was sounding good already.
"I'm not to be expected to contribute financial aid to your household. However, I'm permitted to make you gifts . . . books, flowers, a movie. I excel at household chores."
"Hours of training," Matt snapped. "My pumpkin can teach you a few things about household chores."
Louise scowled. Matt shut up. On some level I understood his frustration, but one more word and I would ask this new buddy to strangle him . . . free of charge.
"And that's it."
"No money. No germs. Your schedule and you act as a liaison between Matt and some helping hands."
"Exactly."
"Do I need to sign anything?" I asked looking for the signature block at the end.
"No," Hank said. "But each time I come you must sign my hourly sheets. Also, if I'm unacceptable, you can request a different buddy."
"How could anybody do that to a volunteer?" Louise said.
"I'm a Black volunteer," Hank said. "It happens more than you would care to know. But I can see there's no problem here. Right, Matt?"
Matt raised his hands in surrender.
"I just love you darkies."
With his Texan accent, I thought that Hank would tear up the contract. However, he just gave us the biggest, brightest, toothiest smile I'd ever seen. There was a real comfort in that grin.
"Well as long as you don't want me to play the banjo, we'll do fine."
"Can you sing Dixie?"
The grin turned to laughter and then to song as Hank drawled a good rendition of Dixie.

"I wish I were in the land of cottin'


Ol' times there are soon forgottin'


Look away,


Look away . . ."

Matt and Louise joined in, while I mumbled a basso continuo beneath them. The pact was sealed and Matt finally came around. When Louise returned to the kitchen and Matt to his Asbury Park Press, I squirreled Hank aside. He told me that his own partner had been HIV positive and that he joined Hyacinth while his partner was still alive. It was a heart-rending tale of love and devotion, but I somehow kept together, and also ignored the obvious Déjà vu elements as they played past my ear. I then asked him a dozen questions that had mounted in my head about the meds and the best way to administer them without blasting Matt apart over the toilet bowl. Hank admitted that AZT was lethal. He actual described it as a complication of the disease. He recommended mixing them with plain yogurt, followed by some cream cheese. Then a twelve ounce glass a water after that, which somehow kept everything down. As for the bowel explosion, there was little to help that except perfect timing. It's a plus that he still gets around on his own, a statement that left me on the brink of despair.
"Don't worry," Hank said. "You'll get through it."
"You say that like there's hope."
"There's always hope."
I didn't believe him, but I thought he was talking about Matt. He was actually talking about me.
"You should come to the support meetings."
"With Matt?"
"No. There are support groups for Matt, but as a caregiver, you need to speak with other caregivers. You'll learn a lot."
That's just what I needed --- living mirrors into my soul. Hank hugged me.
"What's that for?"
"You needed it. Come to the support group next Wednesday. If Matt has a bad day, I'll come here."
"Baby sit?"
"I don't think he'd like to hear that."
"I know he wouldn't. If he's poorly on Wednesday, I can ask his mom or his sister . . ."
"You'll come then?"
"I'll think about it."
Hank stood, and then walked to the kitchen.
"Mr. Matt," he said. "I's be goin' back to darkietown, now. I's see you soon."
Matt laughed.
"Stop that now."
Hank turned to me.
"We'll all be fine now. You'll see. The path is steep, but as long as you know where to step, none of you will fall off the mountain."
And that's how we met our perfect stranger.
2
I wasn't sure how the Buddy Service deal was going to work out, but it added to the situation's depth . . . initially. Hank would stop by with the mail, dive into the dishes if I had left them in the sink, dust the furniture and Lysol the tub. He was never idle when he arrived. He was pleasant and informative. However, I soon learned the power of this service.
Matt had a bad day at work and I received the inevitable rescue call. He had his diaper on and the spare, but he was so woozy that he couldn't make it through the afternoon. This was a problem, because if I left the tie counter early once more, I would be shit-canned. The blue-pencil warned me. She kept me in her scopes. Then, I called Hank. Luck had it, he was available. So he drove over to Axum Labs, picked Matt up and took him home. By the time I arrived at the apartment, they were playing gin rummy and laughing up a storm. I could have kissed them both. I decided that I owed Hank the courtesy of going to the support group in New Brunswick, so I left Matt on a particularly good evening where he was engrossed on the computer. I drove to Bayard Street, parked in Ferran Deck and sought the old brownstone headquarters for the Hyacinth Foundation.
As I mounted the short flight to the old wood and glass doors, the light from the foyer braced me. I was fearful of this place on some level. It represented a repository of all the things I needed to know, but didn't want to know. Still, it was friendly inside --- long flights of stairs, rattletrap elevators, bulletin boards flapping circulars of events and items for sale, and a few offices, one of which was open.
"Yes, can I help you?" asked a woman in a green button down sweater.
"I'm looking for the support group."
"Caregiver or patient?"
"Caregiver."
She smiled.
"Bless you," she said. "I'm Marie Blanchard. Welcome to Hyacinth. You're early, you know, but that's okay. Here."
She swiped a goodly sample of brochures from a wall rack.
"Read these. You'll find them helpful. The meeting is up the stairs on the third floor. Room 12-G."
"Thank you."
I stared at the pamphlets --- The Latest Treatments. A Study of HIV at Johns Hopkin. What Every Caregiver Needs to Know. The Story of Hyacinth. I gave her a dim smile, and then hiked up the long stairs to the second floor, which contained a large auditorium and a series of classrooms. The next flight was narrower. The oaken age of the place warmed me. At the top of the stairs stood a tall handsome dude, who rocked on his heels, waiting for something, I knew not what.
"Hi," I said. "Is this the support group?"
"I believe so," he said.
He was hesitant, so I assumed he was new to this also.
"12-G?" I asked.
He pointed around the corner. I nodded and found the room. I was the first to arrive --- well except the dude in waiting, but he didn't follow me in. So I took a seat near the window. It was a small room, the chairs set in a circle, but I found the one chair apart. I needed air and the window was open, a cool breeze blowing in over the fire escape. I brushed through the pamphlets --- fidgeting. I could read these at home, I thought. However, the one entitled The Story of Hyacinth seemed short enough, and not clinical. I didn't need clinical now, so I flipped it open and read:

The Story of Hyacinth


Welcome to the Hyacinth Foundation, an organization dedicated to the care and easement of the angels who have fallen on harsh times and have contracted HIV. Our mission is to bring those who enlist to support People with AIDS, mingling wellness and suffering to create hope. We are named for Hyacinth and inspired by his story.


The god Apollo watched a field of young men at sport and was smitten by the youth named Hyacinth, the strongest and most beautiful of his kind. He was perfect in all respects. Apollo took to the field and played among these fellows --- the javelin, the discus and the race. Apollo threw his discus with ease, but it veered off course and struck Hyacinth's forehead. The youth collapsed mortally wounded. Apollo held him in his arms and prayed to his father Zeus to spare Hyacinth's life, but blood had been spilled. It poured profusely. The youth lay dying. Apollo wept, his tears mingling with Hyacinth's blood, and where they mingled and touched the ground, the flowers bloomed. Those flowers are known now as Hyacinths until this very day.


Both inspired and named for these flowers, the mingling of angel blood and volunteer tears fosters a hope where all else withers on the vine.

I was quietly weeping by the time the others entered the room.
3
There were ten of us and a group leader.
"Come join the circle . . ."
"Martin," I said.
The leader was Earl Daly. He wasn't a doctor or a psychologist or a specialist. He was an accountant who had lost his lover two years ago and who dedicated his off-ledger days to Hyacinth.
"Welcome, Martin."
The others introduced themselves. I didn't know anyone. I thought maybe that I'd recognize someone from the bar scene or the chorus, but no. Fresh faces, and friendly ones, except the tall dude I had already met. He wasn't unfriendly, but he was also new to it, I assumed. The others were regulars. They chatted about their charges --- one had a new recipe for a wheat-germ and spinach mixer, which helped fortify the AZT, while another gave his neighbor tips on how to circumvent the lines at the food bank in Plainfield. It made me quite dizzy.
"Let's get started," Earl said.
He was a big man with a booming voice. I could see him on the podium or the pulpit. In fact, I thought he might have been a preacher and was surprised later to find out about his devotion to accountancy.
"How's Francis," he asked. "Is he out of the hospital?"
"Two more days," said an oriental lad, who squinted. He had a twitch. "It was the worst bout yet." He glanced at me as if to supply an index, a reference point, which was polite of him. "Francis has Toxoplasmosis. I'm glad he's coming home. I didn't think he . . ."
He suddenly choked up. The man next to him gave him a hug.
"Let it out, Tu," Earl said. "You know you're among friends here. Let it out."
Everyone rubbed Tu's back, except the tall dude, who remained strangely aloof, and myself. I wasn't sure what to do. These were strangers. True, we had something in common and if I continued to come to these meetings, I'd be hugging Tu too, and perhaps even getting a back rub myself. However, it was awkward. Earl suddenly looked about.
"Where's Perry?"
"He called me. Bobby's in the tank."
"Which one?"
"Old Bridge Regional."
"Shame."
The hugs subsided. The rubs frittered away. There was a momentary silence for this Bobby person and perhaps thoughts for his caregiver. I wasn't sure I could stay here. I'd be better off in church singing Hallelujahs and expunging my sorrows in the collection plate.
"We have two new faces here tonight," Earl said.
That broke the silence. He glanced at the tall dude, who didn't say anything. Finally, he muttered a single word.
"Mutt."
"Mutt?"
"Yes, Mutt."
"Welcome Mutt." Earl turned to me.
"Martin," I said, although I had already introduced myself. I decided we had entered into the formal body of the meeting.
"Welcome, Martin," Earl said again, this time followed by a round of Welcome Martins from the circle. I also noticed there was no similar Welcome Mutt, but Mutt was singularly . . . single. He might have been an observer --- doing a paper for a class at Rutgers or something.
"We're an informal group, Martin. We usually just introduce ourselves and then our circumstances and go on from there."
He waited for me. Introducing myself was easy.
"Well, I'm Martin Powers, as I've already said, and I'm from Long Branch, and live with my partner in Eatontown. I work at the Monmouth Mall at A&S'."
That stirred interest --- perhaps thoughts of getting discounts and notions of that kind. I greeted their approval with a smile. The next part was harder. I had not talked about Matt to anyone, not even his family. They could see his condition --- the good days. The bad days. However, I had never had the floor to put a spotlight on reality. There was a long silence. Look away, look away silence. Shit. I had to do it otherwise there was no use being at the meeting.
"My partner . . . my lover, Matt has full-blown AIDS. He's still . . . ambulatory." I was going for the clinical terms here among the stricken. "He has had one episode. PCP and was in a bad way, but has been okay since, knock on wood." To my surprise, they did --- chair backs pounded. I smiled. This was support indeed. "I have a buddy now --- Hank LaCrosse."
"Henri LeCroix," Earl said.
That was when I learned Hank's real name. I blinked.
"Yes, Henri . . . Hank, and he suggested that this group might help me . . . help me . . ."
"Get through it all," Tu said.
The others concurred --- This is the place. We'll be there for you.
"There's nothing more to say."
"Are you passive?"
Passive? What the hell was he talking about? I haven't been passive since I shot out of Viv Power's womb. I shrugged.
"Are you HIV positive also?"
"Oh. No. No, I've been tested and so far I'm negative. Does that matter?"
"Not in the short run," Earl said. "But those who are positive and caregivers need extra continuity support. We just like to know up front as a matter of course."
"Well, thank you." They were a bit nosey, but they meant well. I had new images of Hyacinth dying in Apollo's arms, and the blood and the tears and the mingling --- always the mingling. This I guessed was the bloomin' flowers. It hadn't dawned on me yet that this little circle --- me included, were a field of Hyacinths shining toward heaven, crying out to the world with hope --- mutual hope. Earl placed his big paw on my knee.
"Martin, this is the place for sharing. Nothing is too insignificant to share here. You aren't alone. No one is alone. You only need to hear it and you will know."
"I'm alone," Mutt said.
He startled me and stirred the group.
"Mutt," Earl said. "How can you be alone when you're sitting within our circle?"
"One can be alone on a crowded street."
There was pain in his eyes --- his eyes were dark and piercing.
"That's true," Earl said, "but I assure you, being alone is a state of mind."
"Is it?" Mutt said.
"Tell us. Who are you? Who?"
"I told you already. I'm Mutt."
"But . . ."
"Where am I from? Where am I going? What the hell. I'm from Little Ferry."
"Quite a trek down here."
"My lover lived in Somerset. So I bounce between the two places. But I've been living in San Francisco."
"Then, you'll have a lot to share with us. AIDS has hit there quite hard."
Mutt twitched, even more than Tu had.
"Hard there. Let me tell you." He became agitated. "I moved there for fun. I'm a party hound. It was wonderful. You can't believe it . . . man, it was nice. Shit, it was . . . Well, my friends started getting sick. One by one they were strapped into hospital beds with oxygen masks or creeping with lesions. Their hair fell out . . . their teeth. I did everything I could. I joined support groups. I raised money, lots of money. I went to funerals, lots of funerals. I buried my lover out there. Still, I had hope and kept the candlelight vigils."
He shook his head. I could see the tears welling, but he fought them. I couldn't fight mine. I wanted him to stop. What he was describing wasn't my little world of Matt and his diapers. It was a pandemic.
"Then one morning I woke up and . . . I was alone. They were all gone. All those beautiful angels were gone. I had buried them and . . . and I had no one. I knew no one. So I came home to New Jersey. Ain't that a laugh? I came home to fucking New Jersey, because I had no where else to go."
He buried his face in his hands. I could see the back rubs emerging. Hell I wanted to hug Mutt myself.
"But you're here now," Earl said.
"Yes, and I'm not sure where here is because I've been here before, in a different time and on a different coast and I just want it to stop."
Earl gave Mutt the hug. I expected Mutt to push him away, but he didn't, and soon I saw why they called this place Hyacinth.
"I cannot promise that it will stop. Maybe some day. But I can promise you this hug, and it is the best thing I can offer you at the moment."
That's when I lost it. However, I didn't flee. Neither did I cover my eyes and never again did I weep alone.
1
I missed the singing, but I listened to the GALA Festival tapes often. Matt loved to hear me sing my Cree solo, which he had missed when we were in Denver. I'd put it on and whatever he was doing, he'd stop, close his eyes, and then smile, beating the tribal rhythms on the nearest table surface. When the last measure came, he would inevitably shout out Play it again, Pumpkin. It was soon threadbare. Once Hank had listened to it.
"You have a good voice," he said.
"Thank you,"
"You should still be singing."
"How can I with all I have to do?"
"Good point, but you should at least go to the concert."
Good point. There was a concert in late October, sort of a pre-holiday special, mixing some of the works in progress with the established repertoire. In fact, I nudged Matt to consider it and I invited Hank as my guest. Matt was keen on the idea. He rarely got out socially, always worried that he would get caught short at an event and smell up the place. He had those fears with the concert also, but with two caregivers --- bookends so to speak, it was a good risk.
My excitement was dampened when I called for tickets. I called one of the Rons (Ron Fesserstein) to book it and asked casually about the program. There were a few pre-seasonal medleys, old Dog Tray numbers (in Latin and in Coplandese) and . . . the Cree number. That startled me, because I couldn't imagine that piece without me, especially since it had become elevator Musak in the apartment. My old vicious queen gene ripped through my spleen. It was as if Todd Moorehouse or Padgett Anderson dwelt in my swampy bottoms waiting to write a full bull Cyndy Adams review. When I hung up, I thought that perhaps Hank and Matt should go alone.
Then a different spirit overcame me, and it was even more off putting. I assumed my solo would be warbled by Jasper and that irked me. However, this was the new Jasper --- the Jasper that I knew now. The one who I allowed to call me Marty. If I didn't show up, how catty would that be? Then I gazed at my Matt, who dozed on the couch, his soft wheeze susurrating over the kingdom of his lips. I'll get over it, I thought. The solo became a minor matter in the wake of this world.
The evening of the concert, Hank showed up dress to the nines, so us cowboys were quite out of place in comparison.
"Nice," I said. "I suppose we need to dress now."
"Don't think so," Matt said. "I wear a suit day in, day out. Most of those fairies won't be dressed up anyway. Hank, you'll be asked to serve the cocktails."
"Yassir," he said. He always clowned with Matt with that plantation crap. "I's make a nice julep if'n you's wants it."
Matt laughed and pushed him out the door. I guess they had bonded. I mean, who couldn't bond with my cowboy. He may have been cynical at times, and shit, he had every right to be so, but even as he withered, his easy air and his gentle manner never faded. It lives forever.
The concert was at the Church of the Redeemer in Princeton, not far from our rehearsal venue at the White Church. It was a larger space. As we crossed the threshold and went to the ticket call area, the Ron of the tickets (ticket Ron) and Jasper greeted me. It was as if they had been waiting for me, which made me feel honored --- sort of a Prodigal Son. Where was that fatted calf?
"Good. You're here," Jasper said.
There was a mob scene in the vestibule, lots of gay greetings --- kissee kissee, huggee huggee, love your outfit, haven't seen you since Pride, and all that.
"You didn't need to form a reception committee for me," I joked. "Just need three tickets."
"No. We're not here for that," Jasper said. "We need you to . . . sing."
"What?"
I certainly knew most of the numbers, but there was awkwardness in this request, especially when it came to the Cree piece.
"I'm not dressed for it," I said. "I haven't rehearsed. I haven't . . ."
"Ron Neary is out."
Out? Out where? Out of the closet. No, not that. Ron (Ron number two of the three Rons --- the second tenor Ron) was born out. You could spot him across the park, OUT. Out for the count, perhaps? I shrugged.
"He's . . ."
Jasper looked to Matt, and I knew. Another one stricken.
"That's a shame, but . . ."
Jasper pulled me aside.
"He was singing the Cree piece with me."
Oh, I thought. They need my glorious voice in a fantabulous encore.
"I was suppose to sing your solo," Jasper said. "But I'll drop back into second. It's best that way."
I smiled. Now was a chance for my Matt to hear me sing the piece in person.
"Okay," I said. "Count me in." I turned to Hank. "I guess I'm on the menu tonight."
"Really," Matt said. He kissed me. "I knew this would be worth it."
2
I wasn't warmed up, so I scurried away behind Jasper and ticket Ron to the dressing area, which was nothing more than the church's basement. There was quite a stir when I entered. I didn't know whether I should start doing my Hello, Dolly entrance or not. The director was happy to see me. I thought he'd jump out of his skin or at least over the head of Ron the Third (Ronald Xavier Gusmeyer III). Todd and Padgett were genuinely fussy. Tim gave me a broad grin and a thick wave. Brian, the Librarian, came to attention.
"Do you need music," he barked, and then bowed.
"No," I said, a bit numb. "Thank you."
He handed me a black music folder anyway, which I flipped under my arm, and then retired to my vocal section. I was nervous; not because I was gun shy of an audience, but I knew that this might be the only time this season I would be singing with the Sparrows. I didn't know their Christmas line up. In fact, the preview numbers I'd need to lip-sync or sight-read. Good thing I had the music. I wondered why Brian even gave me a choice. Funny duck, that.
The warm up was fun. I always hated the exercises and the histrionics of some of the Sparrows. It was as if Todd wanted everyone to know that he did the best radiator puff of the group, and Padgett excelled at the long count, as if they gave out prizes. Still, to be away from a thing you love and knowing that this is just a respite in the storm had me unusually quiet --- tranquil even. Matt was safe --- in the crowd, with Hank, that perfect stranger, who was better than any stranger I knew. I was allowed an hour to be with my flock --- a fairy ring of warbling birds, who brought joy above the rooftops and music to the heart. I sighed, lined up, and then marched into the Church.
The place was packed. I wondered whether the acoustics were such that I could soar my voice to the rafters like I did in Boettcher. I didn't have the benefit of diarrhea now, which might have been part of the formula. I had a funny thought. The voice and asshole might be connected in some divine way. Anal thought, that. I grinned, waited for the baton, opened the music to the first number and warbled.
Most of the numbers I knew enough to be off the paper. However, I watched the director closely. You never know when a new interpretation may have been interpolated in rehearsal. That's all I needed. An unannounced solo --- the kind that ruined art. So in places I held back and I watched and watched. I could see Matt and Hank. They had good seats in the third pew. As the Cree number approached, my heart raced. Jasper stood beside me. As the piece approached, he winked.
He winked. What was I doing? This was my solo --- my musical pride and joy. Had been since day one. I was the dominator here. Yet, when I departed, it became an inheritance. Here I was --- a guest artist now. A plug-in for Ron the Second as he lay in a hospital bed sucking on oxygen. I gazed to Matt, my blue-eyed flower, his face thinning, but his hat plum stuck on his head. Don't he know he's in church? I thought.
The audience applauded our last number. The director bowed. Tim stood for a bit of praise. And then . . .
The downbeat of the Cree piece cued the basses up for their chanting. I nudged Jasper.
"Ready," he whispered.
"Yes," I said. "I'm singing second tonight."
His head twisted. His eyes had a sudden terror, but then eased into glorious thanks. He stepped toward the podium. I took a few steps behind him. I knew the second's part, but somehow in the pit of my evil queen soul, despite my never quenched need to be the axis of this world, I could not deny this man his moment, just as he could not deny my bowels relief in the mile high city. I watched Matt as I began my subsidiary part --- one eye on the baton, the other on my cowboy. I eased into the duet, a perfect blend and then heard Jasper's voice soar to the rafters, while I . . . well, it was the most glorious solo that I had ever sung.
1
At Thanksgiving we have been taught to thank God for our blessings and ask for support for the challenges. Challenges, I had. Blessing I had also. After all, Matt's good days seemed to exceed his bad days, and the bad days were becoming routine. Matt still had his job --- a real blessing, although he was feeling some pressure from the growing opinion among his colleagues that he wasn't suffering from a long lingering cold. He found himself increasingly isolated at the office. I still had my job, and although that had been a joy in my life, the blue-pencils were monitoring me with an aim for disposal. When my folding was perfect, my attention to customers impeccable and my sales figures were up, I was the darling of retail. Now I was some rat from the cellar. My folding was scrutinized, my sales figures dropped and customers were encouraged to complain about that nasty twit in menswear, why ever did we hire him? Not a blessing.
We had Hank and Hyacinth --- always at hand for me and mine. The Kielers were now my family and Viv . . . well, Viv never changed, but she always left the door open for a reality check. Most of all, Matt was still with me, and with us all, which was not altogether the same thing. Being alive and above ground is a hearty blessing, but staying with me when I was on the warpath --- why, that was a downright miracle. Miracle. Had I wished for a miracle at Thanksgiving it would have been for the world to grow a heart and understand me. Those close did, but the world outside did not. There was this lot in Kansas who took to the streets with signs that AIDS was God's punishment on the Homosexual. Well, I could understand them believing the mistranslations of the Bible that would lead them to that conclusion since they spoke neither Hebrew nor Aramaic in Bumfuck, Kansas. However, it was a free country and you could certainly be as ignorant and asinine as you wanted as long as you didn't harm others. Harm others. That they did. They swayed public opinion. They told the world to lock up their children because the gays and queers would infect them with God's retribution. All Fags go to Hell --- that's what their placards read as they marched around funeral processions, screaming at mourners that their loved ones deserved to die and they would burn forever. Why, it was the Christian thing to scream --- at least it was in Bumfuck, Kansas. Yet, the world was enraged when a group of Gay Activists interrupted a church service in New York City. Well, tit for tat. Still, we didn't have the neighbors surrounding the Holmdel estate on that Thanksgiving. They may have wanted to unleash God's wrath, but it was just not the suburban thing to do. Legislation was the best way to enforce hate in the more civilized segments of our democratic state. Yes, I was grateful for that --- small blessing that it was.
As we sat around the table that year --- Sammy at the head with his hands clasped in prayer (Viv didn't do the grace this year --- another blessing), we had two additional guests. Hank, his black face and ivory grin much at ease in this safe haven of love, and Viv's new boyfriend, Frank Perkins, a widower from Edison --- a well heeled widower at that, who worked in insurance. Now there was one ironic rub around the table of blessings and challenges. Frank Perkins of Edison and insurance brokerage was a blessing, while his industry was my biggest curse.
"God bless this humble fare as we remember those who are needy and in want," Sammy said. "Thank you for old friends and new friends and, most of all, for my son, who is . . . who is . . ."
He bowed low, and then blubbered.
"Who's just fine, Daddy," Matt said, reaching across, touching his father's arm.
"Fine and dandy," Louise said. "Thank God."
"Yes," Sammy continued, recovering a bit. "And for Martin here, who has been his tower of strength."
"And Hank," I said. "Who has been fighting the good fight?"
"Yassir, I's do it," Hank chimed in, starting Matt a-gigglin'.
"No more of that," Louise chided. "You are welcome to our table, Mr. LaCrosse. You are a happy addition to our family."
Hank swallowed hard and came to attention. His grin disappeared and his lips quivered.
"Only family I have now," he said.
Mary, who sat beside him, gave him a hug.
"I'm your sister, just as much as I'm Newt's."
"And if you need another mother," Viv said. "Well, look to Louise, because shithead'll tell ya, I'm not much of that. But I'll tell you when your head's screwed on backwards.'
Mr. Perkins raised an eyebrow, pouted, and then bowed his head.
"Amen," he said.
Grace had concluded.
2
"Pass the stuffing," Matt said.
"I'll fix you a plate," I said.
"No, Martin," Louise said. "You enjoy. You're his servant around the clock. You need a day off."
I smiled. Thank you, Mama. The bowls went around and it was intoxicating, especially the cranberries, which Louise made from scratch. I only knew how to open a can from some bog in Ocean Spray. And Louise's gravy was a shimmering yellow, almost clear and yet as rich as butter.
"I hear you have a bit of an issue with your prescription coverage, son," Sammy said.
The comment was like a knife. Of all the curses current in the household, it was this one. Now Sammy brought it up just before the first bite. I expected Louise to chide him and put it on the back burner. However, she didn't. In fact, she contributed to the pain. Though perhaps they wanted to discuss this in Frank's presence, insurance and all that, but he was in auto casualty coverage, not medical. So what was the point?
"We're hoping it'll get resolved," I said.
"You haven't said anything to me," Hank noted.
"Well, it's Axum's problem."
"They won't cover the meds?" Hank asked. "It's not uncommon. AIDS is not one of your top coverage risks. In fact, once they whiff that it's AIDS, they usually run for the hills."
Hank summed it up succinctly and correctly. The insurance company denied paying for the meds, so that cost would stay out of pocket. However, there was worse news.
"Well, since you brought it up," I said.
Matt held his hand up, a roll perched in his fist.
"It's really not Martin's problems, Dad. It's mine. I mean, Axum has been good, but the insurance company is just being stubborn about everything."
"Everything?" Sammy asked. He had been forking his mashed potatoes, but let them slip back to the plate. "Do you need money, son?"
"Martin," Louise said. "You should have let us know before this."
"Well, we just found out."
"What are you talking about?" Viv asked. "What do you mean everything?"
"They denied payment on the hospital bill," I answer
"That has to be thousands," Mary stammered.
"Twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred dollars," Matt said.
"And eighty-seven cents," I added.
"God forgive us the eighty-seven cents."
Thanksgiving was over before it begun. There was a flurry of conversation about how will you manage that and what if. It was the what ifs that disturbed me most. Viv did some moderate cursing, while Sammy fumed at the insurance industry.
"Those bastards. They should all be sued."
Frank Perkins had been silent until then. I don't really think Sammy meant to insult the man or even to pick a fight with him. Still, Viv had been massaging his arm during this whole conversation.
"I hate to burst your bubble," Frank said. "Insurance is a risky business at best and when there is higher than normal risk, the business part of the equation usually trumps the issue."
Silence.
I could see Sammy's face redden. This is not what I expected for Thanksgiving --- God bless the food, the friends and curse the insurance guy.
"Forgive us, Mr. Perkins . . . Frank," Louise said, darting a sharp glance to Sammy. "We don't mean to insult you or your business."
"I'm in auto insurance, so you're not really insulting me. You just don't understand . . ."
"Well, I do," I said.
This drew the conversation to me, exactly where I didn't want it. It was harder for me. This was Matt's affair with his parents, poor relation that I was, and this was Viv's boyfriend, not mine.
"I mean," I stammered. "Matt and I understand that he poses as financial risk to a multimillion dollar industry." I thought briefly about this. "I mean, you must understand that we're not rich, yet we're not poor. But we will be poor, because we have not been designed to combat health costs that most people fight in retirement, while we are just . . . kids. In fact, the insurance guy I spoke with was very professional. He told me that he had done everything he could do for Matt's claim. Still there was nothing in the policy about the Human Immune-deficient Virus and its complications. And why would it, Frank? Why would it? Did anyone hear about this thing a few years ago? I didn't. If you told me to get insurance for PCP or Toxoplasmosis or Thrush or Kaposi's sarcoma or Dengue fever, would I buy it at age 21? Would I? But now you hand me a twenty seven thousand eight hundred dollar hospital bill."
"And eighty-seven cents," Matt interjected.
"And eighty seven cents."
"I haven't handed you a bill, son," Frank said. "I realize this is an emotional time."
"Emotional?" I was getting emotional and the potatoes were getting cold. "I'm beyond emotional."
"Pumpkin."
"No. People need to understand that shit happens and their policies and waivers and agents become as bad as the damn virus. I mean, the pharmaceutical houses are charging us twelve dollars a pill."
I was heated now.
"Hyacinth can get you AZT," Hank said.
"I know. And we'll need it. But will Hyacinth pay a twenty-seven thousand dollar bill?"
"You know the answer to that, Martin," Hank said.
"No," Louise said. "Don't fret. This is Thanksgiving. A time for blessings."
"And curses," I said.
Louise stood. She slipped her apron from her shoulders.
"No curses, Martin. Never curses. We will pay this bill."
I guess I had ruined the meal. It all came around to me. I didn't start it, but oh, how I ended it.
"Sit down, Louise," Sammy said. "Of course, we'll pay the bill. Of course, we will."
"But Dad," Matt said.
"We'll hear nothing more about it. We are family, all of us . . . even our new friend, the insurance man. It's not his fault that systems collide."
Frank eased up. Louise sat down. I felt like running away, but Mary winked at me and I knew that the money issues could always be solved. Always. It would be a bleak course, but there were bleaker things to consider. That little fucking retrovirus was not going to split this home and hearth apart.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I was . . ."
"No, Martin," Louise said passing me the cranberries. "Never apologize for defending your man."
Sammy raised his wineglass.
"To Matt and Martin," he said. "To this lovely meal and my Louise." He raised it again, to Hank and Mary. "To those who support us." And then toward my queer mother. "And to the vivacious Viv and the Insurance Industry in all its fiduciary splendor."
"Long may she wave," Frank said, smiling now.
"And we'll foot the bill," Sammy concluded.
Suddenly, Viv reached down for her purse and ransacked through it. She reached across the table and plunked something beside my plate. It was the eighty-seven cents.
1
I was in no mood for Christmas, but it came anyway, with its hacking good cheer and carols and shoppers and overtime. I was a child of Christmas, but this year it was all a chore. I commiserated with Scrooge. Matt, on the other hand, was filled with more spirit than anyone I had ever known. It was infuriating to see him peruse the shopping ads looking for things to buy. He even made a list, which was my domain. I tried my best not to change the routine. Hank came and helped. Louise and Sammy checked in. Work went apace, both Matt's and mine. If it weren't for the onerous thought that some insurance company was the grinch that stole Christmas, I might have seen myself clear to think about decorating the apartment.
"Leave it be," Matt declared.
I couldn't abide that. Even if I had to throw the fucking tinsel around the place, the place would smack of Christmas. It was an enforced Christmas. You shall be merry, ho ho, and sing the carols in perfect time type of Christmas.
"How can we let it be," I snapped.
"I was thinking we'd take a little vacation."
I was astounded. I had no vacation time left and Matt was in no position to traipse away on a holiday. What was the man thinking? Hank had just left and I was mixing the AZT cocktail into the yogurt. I drew the twelve ounces of water, and then marched over to the table.
'Here."
"That time already?"
Matt whipped the yogurt with a soupspoon. He didn't like to see the meds in the concoction.
"Where did you want to go on this little vacation? The North Pole? I hope Santa has a supply of Cannon up there."
Matt choked. I felt sorry that I was taunting him. Why shouldn't he want to take a vacation? Hell, I would give my right nut for a little time off, but not in the tundra. I could use the pink sands of Bermuda about now.
"Not to the North Pole, Pumpkin. Let's spend Christmas in Long Branch."
"At my place?"
He reached up and pulled me down for a kiss.
"It would be nice there. Just like our first Christmas."
I thought about that first Christmas --- just two years ago. I did have the place nicely set out then. But all the stuff --- the meds, the books and . . . computers, were here.
"I haven't cleaned the place in a month."
"So we'll rough it."
"You know you can't rough it."
"Hank'll help you. Just keep the neighbor's cat away, and I should be fine."
I sat --- thinking. It would be nice to have a change and perhaps we could even mosey over to The Cavern for a drink. Well, Matt couldn't drink, and I hadn't had a significant round since his illness. Matt crimped my arm, and then gave me one of those irresistible glances with those eyes. How could I refuse this man anything? I'm a sucker for sick cowboys.
"Okay," I said. "But we'll only decorate over there. This place will not get as much as a holly bough."
"Agreed."
"And what are you going to do about the computers?"
"That's what'll make it a true vacation. We could leave the meds and the diarrhea here too."
"That would be a real vacation for me, but I'm afraid the meds go wherever your mouth is and the shits wherever your ass aims."
"I feel bad about that," he said. "You got yourself some deal here, haven't you?"
I kissed him.
"Yep. Some deal."
"Some day it'll pass."
"Shut-up. I don't want you to say such things."
He sometimes got morbid and when he did, I was expected to ride along with it. Not tonight though. If we were going to move over to my place and were going to decorate it to the heavens, I wasn't going to listen to such contraband thinking now.
"But I think things like that all the time," he said. "I was just sharing."
"We don't need to share everything."
I turned away. I didn't mean to say that. It came out wrong. In fact, I wanted to share in the disease. I really did, or thought so. It would give me the vacation I really needed. I could do the dance of shit and choke for air and have people swoon at my every fart. I was born to do Camille. However, I didn't want Matt to think that I was concerned about catching the plague. I could care less about that.
"This has been hard on you," he said.
I sensed morbidity in the Christmas air. I stood, waved my hand and returned to the sink counter.
"Finish your yogurt treat. And don't be sorry for me, Matt. That's what I don't want to share. I don't need pity or a discussion on life or . . . death. It's just not in my repertoire. May never be. You can call it denial or whatever you want, but my sanity depends on not playing cards with the devil. So . . ."
"So," he said. "So shall we buy Viv a new dildo from Santa?"
I chuckled. He had taken the hint. Hell, it was more than a hint.
"Why? Are their shortcomings in the Insurance Industry?"
"Well, you know what they say. That damned red umbrella doesn't cover everything."
2
I spent the week before Christmas rushing between work and Long Branch. The place needed a Dutch Cleanser scrub. Hank helped by covering Matt's meals and meds. Fortunately, all these days were good days, so Matt didn't miss work. I had also planned to squirrel over one of the computers, but decided against it. I didn't know one end of the thing from another. I would surely screw it up and lose data or break a mouse. So I just decided that I would need to be Matt's favorite pastime for the Christmas weekend.
I set up the manger and the holly and frosted the windows, although it looked like we might have a white Christmas. In fact, I prayed we would have a white Christmas. That would set my cowboy on the pinnacle of joy. There was something about the white stuff that electrified him. The only thing I didn't do was buy the tree. I promised him that we'd pick it out together and decorate it on Christmas Eve. Hank was going to spend time with us then and help. However, Hank had no family, except us now. He had three other buddies, but decided he would make pit stops at their places and end up with us to help decorate the tree.
"Are you cold?" I asked Matt as we strolled through the nursery between the cut evergreens.
"I'm fine."
He didn't look fine. He smiled and his eyes were bright, but he was bundled up, his green plaid scarf high to his chin. I could hear his teeth chatter and his bones rattle.
"You could sit in the truck," I said. "I mean, there's no need to overdo it."
"I'm fine, Pumpkin. Let's just pick out a . . ."
He stood still, his eyes opening wider. He pointed.
"That one?" I asked.
"Perfect."
It was perfect. Pyramidical. Full needled and ample. It wasn't gargantuan either, which was a good thing. I inspected it.
"That one's taken," said a man who stood nearby. He was dressed in a flimsy jacket, had a red plaid hunter's cap with the flaps askew. He needed a shave. "I spotted that one and have decided upon it."
I frowned, and then looked for a tag, which would indicate a reservation or a SOLD. There wasn't one.
"Well," I said, "There's no ticket on it."
"Don't need one, feller," he said. "I'm here. I'm taking it. Don't need to tag it."
I perused him. He was a mean looking character, the kind that ate bullets for breakfast. Matt turned away.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'll wait in the truck."
Nice. It was like another session over the toilet bowel. Suddenly, my hand inexplicably latched onto the tree.
"Didn't you hear me?" the man barked.
"I heard you fine," I said, my Mary voice quite the airy-fairy. It was an out of body experience. My body said, run away. Hide behind the big blue conifer, but my soul said fuck you, bully. I've been pushed around by a retrovirus. So you're not so muckin' fuch. "The fact is, my lover wants this tree and this tree he shall have."
I pulled the tree toward me, and then waved to the nurseryman, who was prompt.
"How much?"
"Twenty-eight," he said.
Highway robbery, I thought.
"I'll take it. Bale it up, and could someone help me get it to my truck?"
The tree disappeared into the building. The bully snorted, but didn't contest it. If I didn't know better I would say that he was put off by the twenty-eight. If the nurseryman had said fifteen, I would have been pounded to a pulp. I marched to the truck, where Matt rolled down the window. His face was bluish.
"Roll the window up. I'll put on the heat."
"Did you get it?"
I smiled.
"Nobody fucks with this girl once I get my dander up."
Matt laughed, coughed and rolled the window up.
3
It began to snow as we drove to Long Branch. Matt dozed and didn't notice. The flakes were big and fat. They were sticking before we reached the apartment and an inch was on the ground before I parked the truck.
"Wake up, sleepy head. It's snowing."
"What?"
"Merry Christmas. It's my gift to you."
"How?"
He was out of the truck, slipping on the slick slickment.
"Because I asked God," I said, not lying.
"Thank you, Pumpkin."
Hank was at the gate. He must have been waiting for an hour, but he had a key so he wasn't freezing. I wanted Matt inside, but that wasn't easy. I also needed to get the tree into the apartment.
I was tired. This was an ordeal and the thought of decorating a whole tree tonight did not inspire me. In fact, I was thinking of asking Hank to string the lights and we'd do the rest in the morning. Maybe Viv and Frank could pitch some tinsel.
"You should go inside," Hank said to Matt.
"Help me with the tree," I asked. "It's heavy. I can barely slide it out of the truck."
"It's a firm one."
"It's beautiful, Hank," Matt said as he swiped some snow from the ground. "It's a perfect shape and my Pumpkin fought some goon for it."
"Fought some goon?"
"Well, there was a contest," I said. "Shit, this is heavy."
"Here. I got it. What kind of contest? Did you need to guess the number of stripes on a candle cane?"
"No. I stood up to another customer who had staked a claim."
"On a Christmas tree?"
"Stranger things have happened," I said.
A snowball whizzed passed me. Matt was on fire. Snow did that to him. He was singing Dixie. Snow somehow inspired him to sing Dixie. Maybe it was the thought of cotton.
"Inside," Hank barked.
"I'll go."
Together, Hank and I dragged the tree through the courtyard and over the wreck of patio furniture that I had allowed to fester in my absence. We managed to get it over the threshold and into the living room. The mix of pine tree aroma and Lysol was overpowering. Tuckered, I dropped the tree and headed for the couch. Hank was with me.
Suddenly, Matt was on the threshold, a veritable snowman wrapped in jacket and scarf, his cowboy hat iced over. In each hand, he held a snowball.
"These have your names on it," he said.
"No, you don't," I said. "I spent hours cleaning this place. You're not going to mess it up now."
He gazed about.
"It's already full of mud from the tree."
Hank laughed.
"He's right."
"Throw them out," I said.
"Shame to waste them. I think I'll pop 'em in the freezer. Keep 'em 'til morning."
He headed for the kitchen.
"He's a pistol," Hank said.
"You know, I don't know what we'd do without you."
"I kinda like you guys too," he said. "I will say, you picked a hell of a time to decorate a Christmas tree."
"Shall we wait 'til the Fourth of July?"
"That's not so strange," he said. He stretched out on the couch. "I know this Lesbian couple who have a tree for all seasons. It's a tall skinny artificial tree and they have ornaments for every holiday, even the Fourth of July. It's always up and decorated."
"Well, I'll be."
I tied to picture a thin evergreen popsicle covered with jack o'lanterns and witches. I laughed. Suddenly, there was a crash . . . in the kitchen. Hank was up first. I darted behind him.
"Matt."
Matt was sprawled on the kitchen floor, a snowball in each hand. It turned out to be one of the bad days.
1
I looked like a freaking astronaut in my antiseptic smock, cap, mask and rubber gloves. I was emerging from Matt's hospital room, walking down the breezeway corridor when I saw Leslie and Ginger.
"Snooks," Leslie called. "Is that you behind that gear?"
"Yep," I said, pulling the mask down. "You'll need to dress up too. Only you need to wait."
I pulled Leslie to the waiting bench, while Ginger squinted down the breezeway.
"So this is the place," she said.
"This is the place," I said. "Come sit. His Mom, Dad and sister are there now and technically only two people can be in the room at a time."
We had rushed Matt to Robert Wood Johnson Medical Center at Hank's insistence. They had established a new AIDS ward. It wasn't called that, but all the patients were kept in private and in isolation rooms. Visitors went antiseptic to prevent bringing unwanted germs into the ward. It was plastic, but necessary.
"They're strict here," I said.
"How's he doing?" Leslie asked.
"If you ask him, he'll tell you he's ready to go home. But one look and you might think he'll be here permanently."
I slipped the gloves off, and then heaved a sigh.
"We're so sorry."
"There shouldn't be places like this," Ginger said. "It fries my ass. If the government would throw some money against it, they might get a vaccine or something. But the president won't even admit there's an epidemic. He won't even say the word AIDS."
"What do you expect?" I asked. "He doesn't even recognize that there are such things as gay folk."
"Damn it. He was the vice president to an ex-actor. You can't tell me that he didn't shed a tear for Rock Hudson."
"Ginger," Leslie chided. "I know you're angry. So am I. But we're here to see Matt and comfort Martin."
"That's okay," I said. "There's little comfort you can bring unless you have a Volkswagen full of cash in the parking lot."
"Expensive, I bet."
"Insurance?"
"No coverage for people with AIDS," I said.
"Shit."
"This little house stay has put a second mortgage on the Kieler homestead."
"That's terrible," Leslie said. "Is there any way we can help? I mean we have the B&B and not much else, but if you need a loan."
Ginger crossed her eyes. I caught it and knew they didn't have anything to spare. Leslie was goodhearted, but Ginger's eyes spoke the realities.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm muddling through it. And I'm doing it without steady employment now."
They both fell silent.
2
Matt's collapse on Christmas Eve, the so-called second episode, combined a return of PCP with the advent of Kaposi's sarcoma. The first lesions had appeared on his upper thigh. He found them, but managed to hide them from me for two weeks, so I discovered. I was so tired --- bleary eyed, in the dark, I didn't suspect a thing.
"Did you check yourself?" I would ask.
"From tippy toe to toppy head," he'd say.
However, he never told me the results, inferring that he had found nothing. The second lesion was at the base of his neck. So he started wearing his collar high and wrapped himself in a scarf when outside. I didn't suspect a thing. I yelled at him when he recovered a bit. He duped me, but he didn't want me to worry. I was his caregiver, yet he didn't want me to worry. I would have had his ass to the doctor's at the first purple splotch. So by Christmas Eve, when the PCP returned, exacerbated by our little tree outing, Matt's chemistry was dancing a wild cha-cha to the beat of all those meds. He had become a walking toxic cocktail.
The AIDS unit occupied an entire floor at the hospital. Unlike the other facility, they were aware of gay folk and partners and such. There was no judgment passed. However, they treated the patients as if they were lepers. The staff was sterile, both technically and in bedside manners. Matt was very sick. I prayed and paced. I wept into Hank's shoulder, Louise's breast, and Viv's fringe work. I will say I was a mess for the first week. He looked so helpless lying there and I kept vigil until the nurses threw me out.
"Mr. Powers," said a bruiser name-tagged Nurse Rachel. "You are not doing yourself or your partner any good by sitting at the end of his bed. I suggest you go home, get some rest and perhaps go to work. We'll call if there's a change."
I didn't want to leave. If there were changes for the worse and I wasn't there . . . If I abandoned him in his hour of need, I would never forgive myself. Louise and Sammy were constantly there, but it was Mary who finally urged me to leave --- to check in at work.
I had called my boss, who wasn't pleased and, in fact, doubted that my mother was in the hospital. I had used the excuse so often, it was suspected. Still, I received a cool okay and an I hope everything works out. I now know that the last phrase was my pink slip. The blue-pencil was surprised to see me show up. I had missed, after all, a critical selling week, and then some, and now I showed up ready to fold and to patrol and to sell. My spot behind the counter was already manned, and why shouldn't it be? I was politely told to clear out my locker and that whatever pay owed to me would be mailed.
By this time, I didn't regret the loss of a job in retail, my chosen career. However, I needed this job for more than the incidentals of living. I returned to Long Branch knowing that I no longer could afford my rent. Still, I stayed there, sitting in the lightless living room watching the shadows form. My cowboy was hanging in the balance, the finances were sunk like a battleship and everything I had worked for was quickly sliding into the Atlantic.
Now suicide is not an unlikely thing to discuss under such circumstances. Every gay man has such thoughts, especially after the first beating in the schoolyard or the first rejection by the world at large. However, I am comfortable with who I am and have never entertained ending my existence. I'm too much the sissy for that. I mean, I quivered on the brink in the Rockies. Jumping off an overpass on the Garden State Parkway was too much height for me to consider, although it would be a windshield that would break my fall. However, as I sat there in the dark, I considered beating my cowboy to the grave. It was a stoic, sober consideration. The kitchen was just a few steps away, with a drawer filled with sharp knives --- take your pick, Martin. I could do it the Roman way, in the tub. I hadn't taken a deep relaxing bath in a while. The thought of all those red bubbles was disenfranchising. I pictured the blue-pencil stunned. If we didn't fire him, he'd be alive. I saw the memorial service by the Jersey Gay Sparrows backed up by the Errata Erastes. Jasper would sing his soaring solo. Brian, the Librarian would deliver the eulogy and Todd and Padgett would turn to each other and swap wonderful remembrances of my solid friendship. Hank would be distracted. Viv would lecture me in the coffin, while Frank, the Insurance Man, held her steady. Then I saw Louise, Sammy and Mary, clutching each other in the first pew. I began to weep.
"Matt," I said. "Why did I ever meet you? What did I do to deserve you?"
I was too sober for suicide, so I grabbed my coat and headed for The Cavern.
3
The Cavern wasn't crowded on a weekday night. Still the regulars were sitting at the bar --- Sam, Kurt and Mother. I waved as I slipped under the stalactite ceiling, just as the Zippilin let loose across the empty dance floor. I noticed Bruce Q. was futzing with the contraption.
"Hey, Martin," Gus the Bouncer said. "You've been a stranger. Heard . . ."
"Yes," I said. "There's been an unwanted visitor in my house."
"'Sbeen in many homes lately, guy." He turned. "Carlos, look who's turned up."
Carlos, the DJ waved. The music was soft and low, from the Jukebox at this early hour.
"Martin," Bruce said. He turned to Teddy, the bartender. "A Corona on the house for my long lost patron."
"Thanks, Teddy."
He waved, and then tapped me a mug. I didn't feel like beer. I wanted the hard stuff. Lot's of the hard stuff. Something to give me the courage to head back to the kitchen drawer and the Roman tub. However, I needed to be hospitable. I noticed Nick, the busboy. He seemed to have graduated to waiter, by the looks of his tuppenny.
"Relax," Bruce said. "It's good to see you. I hope everything is . . ."
He stopped. I saw Gus signal him. I just grinned --- a pig's grin, if a pig could grin, and then took may place on a barstool. I just sat there, sipped my beer and stared into the mirror. I was a mess. I needed a shave. My hair was a barnyard disaster. I could have drunk my way to hell and back and could be more attractive. I slouched.
"I pray every night," came a gruff but feminine voice. Mother had joined my reflection in the mirror. "I pray every night that they could all come back."
That they could all come back. The thought chilled me. It stabbed at my soul. Mother wasn't talking about the war dead. She was invoking the fallen of this age --- the sick and dying and the gone. The gone gone, never to return.
"They are angels," Mother said. "Martin, dear boy, look at me."
I didn't want to look at him. I saw enough in the mirror, but he insisted on twisting me around. Mother's face was drawn and over-rouged. He had missed his lips altogether, while the wig was raven and mismatched to the grey plug line. His falsies slipped, one boob lower than the other, the bra strap barely held by his bony shoulders.
"I have seen it all," Mother said. "I have survived all that the world and God had to crush us and I have never sought the exit."
How did she know? Had it been pasted across my forehead?
"I'll be okay, Mother."
"Yes, you will. You are a strong boy. A cutie and I've had my eye on you since you stepped across that threshold years ago. But I know my limitations."
Thank God for that, I thought. But it was an unkind thought. This dinosaur --- this refinement gone to seed, still flowered across my bosom. Is this what we have to look forward to? Wisdom set in an ashtray.
"A penny for your thoughts, Martin, because I can read them anyway. But it will help if you spit them out."
"Then you know that my lover has . . ."
"He is not among the angels, Martin. He waits somewhere for you. He needs you, foolish lad. When he no longer needs you, you must decide then. But until then, you must set your course to survive whatever this world has set down to crush you. Look at me and remember. I'm still a pretty thing. There was a time when I was the Queen of the Jersey Shore. Now . . . well now, I'm a mere Dowager to the many sparkling things that strut the runway and lip sync."
He kissed me, the smear missing my forehead as the lipstick had missed his lips.
"Martin, a penny for your thoughts?"
"I need that penny, so I'll tell you. I lost my job today."
Mother smiled. It was a no big deal smile
"Bruce, dear," she croaked. "Martin needs a job."
"Really?" Bruce asked.
I rocketed about.
"You have a job opening?"
"Yes," said Bruce. "Busboy. Nick took Bobby's place when . . . well, I need a busboy."
"But, I'm afraid I'll be unreliable. I mean, with Matt in the hospital, I can't keep to a set schedule."
"No problem. Work when you can. I'm sure he'll be out and about soon and then you can double up."
I sighed and forgot the kitchen drawer. I turned to the frail drag queen who cocked his head, the wig slipping further. I planted a big kiss smack on his lips.
"There's hope for me yet," Mother said, and then pinched my bottom.
4
"So what will you do without a job?" Leslie asked.
"I got one. It's part time and maybe full time, when Matt comes home."
Ginger raised an eyebrow.
"That's lucky."
"It is," I confessed. God and Mother cut me a break, and a big old bear named Bruce. "At The Cavern. I'm busboy there. Stop by sometime."
"Will that cover your rent?" Ginger croaked.
"No, but Viv is going with a sugar daddy, who, as it turns out, likes me. She's taken over the lease."
"She's living with you now?" Ginger asked.
"Viv has always lived with me after a fashion." I laughed. "She comes and goes, but it's still my place. I mean, now that Matt's coming along and will be home, I need to decide whether to move him to my place. Save on expenses. Our finances are so entwined, I don't know up from down sometimes."
"You'd better settle that, in case . . ."
Leslie's comment trailed off. She was a lawyer and thought like a lawyer. I knew where she was going.
"Fortunately," I said. "The Kielers will never create a legal quagmire for me."
Ginger shrugged, just as the Kielers appeared. I was never sure whether they heard my last comment. Never sure.
1
I could see at once on Leslie and Ginger's faces that Matt's gaunt visage took them by surprise. They had certainly been in sick rooms before, and in the presence of this plague. However, the radical change in my cowboy's appearance since their last encounter with him, gave them a start. They quickly recovered.
"So this is where you're hanging out now," Ginger bellowed through the mask.
Matt smiled. He was free of the tubes and masks and tents, but he appeared small in the hospital bed.
"You look funny in that get up," he said.
"I'm surprise you recognized us," Leslie said. "After all, we could have been the new nursing crew."
"Not a chance," he said. "They're a skinny lot, and . . . well, you're not."
"If you weren't sick, I pound you one," Ginger said.
They surrounded him. He attempted to sit up. He was supposed to rest. He had been up and in the chair when Louise and Sammy visited. Now he was supposed to stay in bed.
"Wait," I said. "I'll get it."
I dove at the switch and the mechanical bed rumbled quietly, levitating him. He looked like the Queen of Sheba --- a very pale and thin Queen of Sheba.
"Do you want to see my tattoos?" he announced.
"They've branded you in here?" Leslie asked.
"Probably to track you down if you tried to get away," Ginger added.
He laughed, but I wasn't happy. He was glad to show his lesions now, but when they first appeared, he wasn't so fast to reveal. If he had, his entry into the AIDS ward wouldn't have been so dramatic. He leaned forward cocking his head and exposing a purple bruise, almost inviting the girls to touch it, which they didn't.
"He's got a few more," I said.
"I can't show you those," he chuckled.
"Too much information," Leslie said.
"I'm thinking of renting him out as a sideshow," I remarked. "Only if he keeps it up, he'll have black and blue ones to go with the purple ones."
Leslie hoisted herself onto the end of the bed.
"Get comfy," Matt said. "Is it still snowing?"
"Snowing?" Leslie glanced at me. "It hasn't snowed in weeks."
"Oh. I keep forgetting."
There were no windows in his room. Even when I took him for short walks, the lounge was windowless. Maybe there was some parasitic condition caused by light. Maybe he'd melt like a vampire. Who could tell? Still, Matt was starved for sunlight.
"How could you tell, snooks?" Leslie said. "This place is quite confining."
"It's my own private hotel room, right, Pumpkin?"
"It's a cell," I said. I shouldn't have said it, but reality was quicker at hand these days. "All we need is the padded walls."
"You're terrible," Leslie said.
Ginger sneered at me as if I had no heart.
"What?" I said.
"Where are your bedside manners?"
I laughed. "They've run away with the dish and the spoon. Matt's used to it by now."
Matt shrugged. "He tucks me in at night, that's bedside manner enough."
Leslie and Ginger kept the conversation going and going and going. Nothing was said --- nothing of interest. There were a few medical queries, which Matt answered himself. He was getting as smart as the doctor, for all the good it did him. I just shut up. It was a surreal scene watching two lesbians in surgical garb chattering through masks about the turnover at the Bed & Breakfast and how Matt needed to recuperate on their front porch when spring kicked in. Matt just nodded, punctuating their comments like can I pee on the cats. Then his eyes suddenly pleaded. That was for me. He needed to sleep, either that or a trip to the bathroom, which wasn't always a successful mission. Timing was everything.
"Matt," I asked, stepping up to the mound. "Do you need . . ."
"I think I do, Pumpkin." He smiled at his company. "I hate to be rude, ladies, but if you stay here much longer you'll get to experience a sight that you will not soon forget."
Ginger and Leslie bowed out like Geishas. They gave me reassuring hugs. Anything you need. And we mean anything. We exchanged kisses through the masks, and then they were gone.
Alone. Matt heaved a sigh, and swung his legs over the side.
"It was good to see them."
"Too many visitors in one day," I said.
"Maybe you're right."
He gasped, his eyes shutting. I sniffed. I didn't smell anything.
"It's just the gas," he said. "But I think it won't be with the next one up."
I gave him my shoulder. He stood precariously.
"Dizzy?"
"A bit. It's just from being in bed so much."
"That'll do it." Although I didn't believe him for a moment. He took a step and nearly fell. I anchored my hands about his waist. I could feel his hipbone.
"Steady me, Pumpkin."
I gripped him, moving him toward the bathroom. I only needed to get him to the door. The room was outfitted with bars and other contraptions that he could use to maneuver himself. He made an odd sort of shuffle. As we progressed, he twisted his head back.
"Make me a promise, Pumpkin."
"Anything."
"Get me the hell out of here and don't let me ever come back."
There was nothing I could say. How could I promise such a thing? I'd been reading. This was only an episode. He might have a string of them this year, and as long as the bankers kept pushing the Kielers further into debt, this hotel room at Robert Wood Johnson would stand in readiness for him. Still . . .
"I promise."
"Good, because I'm holding you that one. I never want to sleep in a room without windows again."
I got him to the door, where he grabbed the handrails.
"Okay from here?"
"Okay."
I let him go, and then stepped back toward the bed. I trembled. It would be the first of many shuffles to bathrooms, but it was that promise that I dreaded most. I knew I had just committed myself to the full bull of nursing. I tore the mask off and used it to dry my tears.
"Pumpkin," Matt called.
I replaced the fucking mask over the chaff behind my ears.
"Yes. Are you okay?"
"Okay," he said. "Just wanted to say that I love you."
"Okay," I said.
If I had returned the favor, I think I would have collapsed.
2
Matt was able to walk out of the hospital ten days later. I had talked to him about staying at my place, because of the stairs at his apartment, but he insisted that he could still climb them. He could, with my heart attack nerves behind him. I was becoming a wreck. Sammy and Louise had been there to greet us, and Mary had baked a pie. Mary wasn't much of a baker, and it wasn't much of a pie . . . cherry I think, and sour, but it was the thought that counted. Hank dropped by, and Jasper too. For the first week, there was steady company, including Doug Lynch from Axum Labs. He brought work --- not prime programming work, but data entry and some sub-routines, he called it. I was pleased with Doug and his understanding. He knew that Matt couldn't return to work, yet they kept him on the payroll and gave him what amounted to busy work. Matt didn't complain, although he did mention to me that a newbie programmer could handle this shit. Still, it kept his hands on the keyboard on the good days. Doug even gave him deadlines. Matt responded well to deadlines.
I was grateful that Matt was occupied, because I needed to work. Bruce Q. was goodhearted, and he didn't pay me when I didn't work, but he didn't penalize me on those evening when I called off. In many ways, The Cavern kept me sane. It was smoky and loud --- numbing at times, but a good numb, the kind that lifted you to another world and spit you out into oblivion. Bussing was mindless work, especially when running behind a queenie waiter like Nick. I also got see people again. Most of the Jersey Sparrows stopped by to water on a Saturday night. I was guilty of partying more than working when they showed up. I even danced with John ducking when the Zippilin made its flight. Laughter. I needed laughter, and I had some. Mother never gave me a maudlin speech again, but he always winked at me, and sometimes would blow me a kiss. I never looked upon her in the same light again. She was beautiful --- an old icon like some feminine version of a wooden Indian.
I heard all the gossip and even got to peruse the music for the Spring Concert. Jasper tried to get me to come to rehearsal, but I doubted I would even get to the concert. The Cavern was an escape, and I was paid to do it, which plied me guiltily. However, I never forgot that Matt was home, working or reading or settled in with a visitor --- Mary, Hank or even Viv. Viv was regular in this. She popped in to lighten her Harpooner's heart, although Frank never came. I was surprised that he stuck with her. In fact, Viv might have considered settling down. Now that would upset the heavens. I think that Matt's condition made Frank nervous. Still, he was generous, paying on my lease; and he never leveled any harpoon at Viv's Harpooner. I suppose that all people have a level of comfort. I mean, I do and did. I also know that comfort levels change and sometimes not for the better. For instance, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't bring myself to visit Russell in his final days. I had known him since the ninth grade. He was a constant companion and a pain in the ass. We were sisters. Still, the falling out over Matt and his cynicism in Denver changed my feelings for him. I was afraid that he'd break my heart, and I only had one, and its breaking was reserved for someone else. I guess I had developed a callus there when it came to Russ. I listened to the reports and when he finally passed in late April, I couldn't bring myself to go to the funeral. Matt wanted to go, but I was adamant. You take yourself then. I don't think he understood. I suppose he thought I was sheltering him. However, I was sheltering me. It seemed Matt was getting along with the old Grim Reaper. He spoke about death with the ease of a preacher. The sickle that sometimes stood between us was as ghostly as Luis' trace. Although Hank offered to escort my cowboy to Russ' services, Matt declined. No reason given. But I was glad that he stayed at home, clobbering his computer with busy work. I just sat Sphinx-like on the couch, staring at the wall and drinking a six-pack of beer.
3
Activism was in the air. I suppose it was always in the air, but I hadn't noticed it. I mean, I sang at gay cause rallies and marched in Gay Pride Parades, but none of it struck home. Hank was always handing me brochures on this organization and that. I generally browsed the first line or two and then halted. Too much anger, I thought. Some organizations were supportive, helping and raising money, but some were downright violent. I guess I was angry too, but it never seemed to serve any purpose to go out in the street and shout how angry I was, because what would that do? Would people open their windows and throw out buckets of cash? Would they join our cause and boycott the pharmaceutical houses until they lowered the price on the meds? I don't think so. The general mood was one of antipathy, which was probably worse than antagonism. At least when someone is coming at you with a placard reading All Fags Die of AIDS, you can stick out your foot and trip them. How do you fight antipathy?
There was one group that Hank praised called Act Up, and that's what that group did. They were near to theatrical performance, disrupting the course of civilization with antics that made me blush. They would stage Die Ins and invade public spaces with shouting and threats. They disrupted a mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Police in droves carted them out. Now I know that the Catholic Church was not supportive in the least on homosexuality, and also objected to AIDS education where it was needed most, but isn't there a separation of political activism and people's right to celebrate their religion?
"No," Hank declared. "They don't listen when you say it nice and quiet. You need to invade their big-ass church, lie down on their sacred floor and blow shit up the Cardinal's dress. There's no other way, man."
"Amen," Matt said.
We were relaxing in the living room until Hank raised these questions. Well, they were more answers than questions. I didn't agree with him. Matt, however, was listening more and more. He seemed to think that the world needed a slap on the head to wake it up. He was right, of course, but wasn't that why we vote?
"Vote for what, Martin?" Hank continued. "Do you see a measure on the ballot for gay folk? For AIDS?"
"But more than queers have AIDS," I said.
"Yes, but America has made us the owners of this disease. If they stick it to us, can't we push it back and say no thank you?"
"Well, how can we do that? I mean, I agree with a protest on the pharmaceutical industry, but to swoop down on a Sunday morning and disrupt people's prayers."
"What are they praying for, Martin? They're praying that we keep this disease away from them." He stood, and then began to pace. "They ask God to keep the faggots away from their door. That's what they pray for."
"I think some might pray for our souls and comfort."
I received a sardonic, toothy grin. I thought Hank was going to eat me. He waved his hands about.
"I give up on you."
"How can you say that?"
"Hank, he's got a right to his opinion," Matt said, but it didn't make a difference. Hank just grabbed one of the many brochures he toted --- the one for Act Up. He pointed to the Pink Triangle on the cover.
"Read this, Martin. Read it to me. I dare you."
I was angry now, but Hank was passionate. I had to allow for that. His passions were more helpful and endearing that not. So I sucked in my growing temper tantrum and read:
"Silence equals Death."
"Right," Hank said.
"I don't get it."
"I think I do," Matt said.
He scratched his chin. He had been sitting wrapped in a blanket --- he sometimes got chills. He also wore one of his cowboy hats, which didn't fit him now, but his hair was falling out and it covered his vanity.
"You do?" I asked, too sharply.
His blue eyes pierced me, and I softened.
"Of course, he does," Hank said.
I pointed to the chair. I wanted Hank to sit. I then hunkered down in front of Matt and held his hand. It was icy.
"I don't want to upset you," I said. "Neither does Hank. Right, Hank?"
"I guess so. If you insist on it."
"You should know better."
Hank grunted.
"Don't be hard on him, Pumpkin. He's seen so much and when you see the flowers wilting and no one comes to water, you get a bit anxious."
"I understand." I glanced at Hank. "I understand."
"Do you?"
I did, and I didn't. However, these were not combatants here. We were victims, although if anyone at Hyacinth heard me say that, I'd be corrected. There are no AIDS victims. They are people with AIDS and friends. Then why did I feel like a victim? Why did Matt look like a victim?
"I understand anger, Hank. I do. I just don't fully grasp a concept like silence equaling death."
"Pumpkin, if no one says anything when the sick pass on, if everyone is in denial and all backs are turned in silence, death will take us all."
I stared at him, and then rested my head in his lap. What made him so wise? The activists could shout until the Pope turned green. I didn't believe that either the Holy Father or the Passionate Activists knew just how wise this disease made you. Matt's fingers filtered my hair.
"I'm sorry," Hank said. "I get carried away sometimes."
"That's okay," Matt said. "Martin understands."
I did, and I didn't.
1
Matt was becoming house bound, and that worried me. In early spring either Hank or I got him into the car and took him for drives. We spent a few days at my place so he could sit on the beach, but the weather wasn't optimum --- the wind blowing and the sand carrying who knows what. I even got him to The Cavern twice. He loved that, although the Zippilin gave him a fright and Mother hovered about him like a gypsy moth. I got him a booth and went about my bussing. One after another of the regulars took turns with him and I let him have one beer. I was afraid to introduce yet another chemical into the mix, but what the hay. I remember clearing off a table and glancing at Matt through the smoke. He appeared happy, but in an ancient way. At this distance he was quite different from the man who I first saw hiding in the jacket rack at A&S', stalking me for a date. The cowboy hat was enormous compared to his head, his eyes peering out, but just. His cheeks sunken, he had a slight shake in his hands as he managed the beer mug as if it were the best piece of candy in the shop. He nodded to whoever was chatting with him. Perhaps he heard them over the music. Perhaps not. However, he wasn't confined to the apartment. As shitty as the bar air was, it was different air. I was taking a chance. The PCP had left his lungs spongy. The second hand smoke could bring on episode three, and then I didn't know what I'd do, because I had a promise to keep.
While I had Matt at my place, Hank made arrangements for a hospital bed to be installed in Matt's place. It wasn't a surprise and I certainly didn't want him out of my bed. However, I wanted to be ready. Matt wouldn't like it, but I decided it was a symbol of the promise --- a covenant that would keep him out of the hospital. I picked up the rental charge for now. I figured once Matt knew about it, we'd transfer the monthly payment to his account. We had cut back on many things --- things we took for granted . . . cable TV, for example. Who needed to see reruns of The Mary Tyler Moose Show anyway? However, Matt's salary covered the rent and the basics. Mine covered less than the basics --- a modest contribution from tips to the upkeep of the two places. The AZT was subsidized by Hyacinth, but the rest of the meds took whatever remained. Matt's bank account, which was not shabby at first, was shabby now. With Frank Perkins paying my lease and the Kielers covering Doctor Farrell and two whopping hospital bills, I thought that Matt deserved at least one beer.
Ginger and Leslie addressed the housebound issue by inviting us to the B&B, but on the day we were to go (a long Memorial Day weekend), Matt had a bad day. It was the first weekend he used the new hospital bed.
"Just let it run its course, Pumpkin," he said. "No 9-1-1. No 9-1-1."
My fingers hovered over the buttons. I called Hank instead, and he assessed that Matt might just weather this bout. It was PCP, but I had oxygen installed now on an as-needed basis and all sorts of medical toys --- a blood pressure monitor and a thing called a pulse-ox, which measured the amount of oxygen in the blood stream. That was a handy device and brought me much solace. When Matt was dizzy, he'd lay in the bed and stick his finger up waiting for me to clamp on the little plastic gizmo. Then we'd wait until we saw the magic number, which was 97.
"If it's lower than 85, I'm dialing the phone," I would tell him.
I swear that when I said that, he'd use his mind to trick the damn pulse-ox to reach the magic number.
The other number that was crucial, I couldn't see. It was the one that measured the state of his immune system --- the T Cell count. As Doctor Farrell explained it to me after I had failed to understand books on the subject, The retrovirus attacks the T Cells, crippling the white corpuscles. The more T Cells measured in the test sample, the stronger the immune system.
Matt's T Cell count had been as low as 2.
Shit, Pumpkin, I think I'll name them Fido and Dido.
I'm glad he could joke about it. However, with care and med cocktails it rose to 150. 200 was the magic number here. People free of HIV had normal T Cell count of 750 and higher. I never made it a point to ask Doctor Farrell anything beyond the T Cell count. My questions had fallen off, because I could see Matt's condition with my own eyes. Besides, I didn't want any moment of truth from the medical professional or a glossed over vein of hope. Simple explanations would do. I would keep my silence, while Matt joked with the receptionist and wisecracked with the doctor. I even ignored the body language. It was one step before the other and the rest was blissful ignorance.
2
How I was convinced to take up the activist cause is beyond me. Perhaps it was the simplicity of a petition to Glaxos-Wellcome to lower the cost of the meds. It wasn't like throwing eggs at the local church or burning my bra on the steps of city hall. Just a mere signature, and perhaps it would do some good. It would keep Hank off my back, at least. More pronounced and daring was to join the AIDS Walk New Jersey that Hyacinth sponsored. At first, it seemed radical for me --- a ten-mile jaunt through downtown New Brunswick, but Matt was excited. It was a chance to get out in the fresh air. Those who I consulted, including Louise and Sammy, thought it was a good bet. Perhaps some good can come of it, Louise coaxed. Nothing like putting a face on it, Sammy said. So I rented a wheel chair, wrapped Matt up like a mummy and drove down to Eagleton Institute of Politics at Rutgers where the walk commenced and we were off and running . . . or pushing, so to speak.
"I'm a pusher," I joked.
"Push me to heaven, Pumpkin," Matt said.
He was so excited. We had raised fistfuls of cash. I had three pages of sponsors, mostly the tribe at The Cavern, to the tune of eight hundred dollars and change. Hank met us in the parking lot.
"You'll need help," he said.
I didn't think so. I could push this thing, I was sure of it. However, Eagleton was an old colonial building set on parkland. There were stretches of lawn to negotiate. Have you ever pushed a wheel chair over grass? I hadn't, nor could I. Matt managed to get out and walk beside me.
"If you're going to walk, I wouldn't have bothered with the fucking chair."
"I think we'll be needing it," he said.
He nodded toward the starting point, some hundred yards away over prime hill and dale.
"It's sidewalks after that," Hank said. "We'll manage together."
The grounds filled up quickly. I stood on a line with sponsor sheets and money. There was a special queue for last names between P and S. The volunteer tent was filled with staff, taking sheets, counting heads, issuing badges and, for those who raised over five-hundred dollars, a gift windbreaker with the event emblazoned on the front and a dozen sponsor logos on the back.
"Look what I have for you," I announced to Matt.
He was holding court --- at least five walkers bubbled over him as a reason for the event --- a cause in the flesh. Sammy was correct. Matt put a face on activism and it was making a difference.
"For me?" he asked, hoisting himself out of the wheelchair. He had help. His courtiers steadied him and helped him put the windbreaker on. Even zipped it up for him. He was eating it up, and that pleased me. It had become more than just a day out.
"Snooks," came a voice.
"Leslie. Ginger."
The girls were fully running-suited and sunglass-shaded, both carrying a bottle of water in one hand and an event windbreaker in the other. Leslie let one of the jackets slip to the ground. I picked it up.
"You keep it," she said. "We went over the thousand dollar mark and got two each."
Hank got the other extra.
"And a mug," Ginger said, presenting that to Matt, who received like an Academy Award.
"Over a thousand?" I said. "Impressive."
"I have the attorney connection," Leslie said.
"They're good for something," Ginger said, getting a smirk. "Well, there's only one lawyer that I have ever loved and there are days."
"There could be more days like that, if you keep it up."
Leslie tickled Ginger, and my Matt roared. My heart was filled to the brim. There was something inspiring in this activism stuff if it could bring joy to my cowboy's heart.
We moseyed over to the water tent. There were speeches being delivered by the local politicians, who had to compete with the local rock radio truck that blared out over the early morning mist. The sun was just making its presence known. Matt walked gingerly to the tent, and then sat in the wheelchair, just as the Kielers arrived. If anyone deserved to be gay activists, it was the Kielers.
"Did you check in, Mom?" Matt asked.
Louise waved her windbreaker and smiled.
"We collected up a storm, Newt," Mary said, bending down, kissing her brother's forehead. It was nice to see Matt get all these maskless kisses.
"Looks like the sun will shine after all," Sammy said, shading his eyes.
"Are you going to make the whole walk, Dad?" Matt asked. "Your back's a bit . . ."
"Don't you worry about my back," he said. "Besides, if it kicks up, I'll evict you from that wheel chair."
"I really don't need it," Matt said. "Pumpkin's fussy."
I smacked him --- a love tap that got me a love punch --- a weak love punch. I straightened his cowboy hat. I had padded the inside so it looked fuller than it was. At least it stayed on his head now.
"Can I walk with you guys?" came a voice.
It was Jasper and a handsome stranger, who I took to be his latest squeeze. Well, his only squeeze. I was glad that someone had recognized the wonderful qualities in Jasper's heart, ignoring the goofy cover of this most enchanting book.
"Sure, guy," I said.
"This is Rudi," he said. "He's German."
Rudi extended a hand. German Rudi. How eclectic.
"'Sgood ta meet ya," he said. "Jazper haz good thingz about you said."
I smiled. I bet, I thought. Then I realized that Jasper was beaming. This was his trophy date and they both wore windbreakers, so we represented quite a bit of ca-chink.
"I think it's beginning," Louise said. "Where do we go?"
"Follow me," Hank said.
We proceeded at a slow pace, Matt carefully, and me pushing the wheelchair over the bumps and grinds of the downhill lawn. There walked beneath a rainbow arch made of balloons --- quite triumphal. Matt squeezed my arm, although Mary and Sammy maintained his balance.
"Welcome to AIDS Walk New Jersey," came a shrill, Nancy voice over a bullhorn. "You are all angels today. Walk with pride. We'll have cars for those who can't make the whole circuit and there will be water all along the route. You are the special ones --- the ones that care. In your hearts the Hyacinths bloom. Good bless and have a great walk."
A cheer went up and we were off, moving in a procession down to the sidewalk at the base of George Street where we would promenade through downtown New Brunswick up to the Rutgers University campus, and then on a circuit through Buccleuch Park. Two thousand of us --- friends, family, the well and the ill, babes in arms and in strollers, wheelchair bound and the walking wounded. Down to the road we went.
When we reached the road that ducked under US Hwy 1, Matt mounted his wheelchair like a buckaroo yahoo on a holiday. As I moved forward fulfilling my role as the Pusher, Louise stayed me with a hand on my shoulder. I turned.
"Wait for me, Shithead," came a voice.
There she was, pounding down the lawn in platform shoes, quite the wrong thing for walking. But when did Viv ever recognize such little things like the law of gravity. I didn't care. A windbreaker fluttered behind her and also, trailing her at a small distance, was someone I didn't expect. Frank Perkins --- Insurance Broker turned Gay Activist.
"Well, will you look at that," I said.
"You shouldn't be so surprised, Martin," Louise said. "Mothers come in all varieties, but are mothers nonetheless. Go greet her. Sammy will push."
"Bad back and all," he said.
At that moment, I finally understood the true spirit of this activism thing. It moved me to my mother's side as we followed thousands of windbreakers, angel wings that lifted us all to see face of God.
1
I first noticed that Matt was having eye problems during the AIDS walk. He squinted that entire day and, at times, twisted about looking for his Mom and Dad. I didn't say much then, because that was a good day --- the best. However, I soon discovered that the busy work that Axum gave him was returned for correction. His usual productivity was off and that was to be expected. I never connected it with his eyes. He rested them more often, but computers are villains when it comes to vision stain. I suggested that he take a few days off from whatever project he was working on, but he was resentful, snapping at me like an old turtle. I needed to divert him away from the work; give him some entertainment. His birthday was coming up on September 5th, so I thought a little cake and a few bowls of mixed crap would be a fine gesture. I would have just a few people over --- Hank, Leslie, Ginger, Mary, Jasper and German Rudi. Only the young crowd. I didn't need the parents there, his or mine --- although Viv could certainly liven things up.
"So Pumpkin, will this be a surprise party?"
"It will be, if I survive it," I said.
I did not intend to try to follow the forms of surprise. I planned a simple menu and went to the party store for decorations. However, I couldn't go much beyond that. In fact, I hinted that everyone should bring a covered dish. I had nightmares thinking what Leslie and Ginger would concoct, and I envisioned one of Mary's sour Cherry pies. However, Hank baked a mean Lasagna and Jasper didn't need to bring anyone but himself and his guy-Strudel. He did bring the baked beans.
Unfortunately, there was a string of bad days, Matt resorting to the hospital bed for the last week of August. Some days he was so weak I barely got him into the bathroom in time. We had that choo choo train walk down to a science --- him in front and me, gripped to his waist, pushing like a back engine. I had outfitted the bathroom like the hospital with handrails and hoists. You should have seen me wielding a screwdriver, which I always thought was an orange juice cocktail until that day. I also had fun with epoxy, installing rubber foot grips in the tub and a shower seat. I also got a pulsating showerhead, the kind that can be removed and hand held. So once we would do the choo choo train walk, I usually could leave him alone in there. However, he fell once and once forgot to lower the toilet set and wound up in the drink. One morning he shaved and came out covered in cuts. It was then that I put two and two together.
He can't see his face in the mirror.
We discussed postponing the little get-together party, but he wanted it. I kept everyone away on bad days. So Matt was hankering for the company.
"I'll pull it together, Pumpkin."
"You'll go to the doctors before it," I commanded.
"Of course."
But I knew he wanted to argue with me on that account. He hated doctor visits --- all the poking and prodding. However, I was also due for my quarterly HIV test, so I gave him no choice. The doctor never said much anyway. It was as if he was measuring a downhill race and the finish line was already set. On this visit we faced the news that Matt's T Cell count was under fifty. I assumed a change in the med cocktail was in order, but the doctor didn't change a thing. He gave Matt another prescription for the skin lesions, which were as plentiful as asparagus in May. He also had him follow his finger --- first left and then right. Matt told a joke about how many fingers do I have up where, but Doctor Farrell, who usually chuckled at Matt's quips, just smirked, and then placed one hand on each of Matt's shoulders.
"Rest your eyes as much as you can, son," he said.
"But how can I see to work."
"Can you see to work now?"
Silence. That was a bad day.
Hank helped me move the hospital bed into the bedroom. The thing was massive and barely got through the door. With our queen-size bed mid floor, the hospital bed made for an obstacle course. However, if we were going to have company, we couldn't very well have the bed in the living room. They would understand. But what kind of a celebration would that be with the evidence in full view.
Then Matt came around. He slept with me and even ran the gamut between the hospital bed and the dresser without breaking anything, especially his toes. No choo choo walk to the bathroom either. However, I noticed that Matt was doing this by counting steps. I needed to remember now not to move anything or he'd go ass over heels, and he was too heavy to pick up when he was out cold. I knew that from first hand experience.
2
"Come in," I said. "The door's open."
I saw the cars pull up, so I got Matt to the sofa with Hank's help. It was a tepid day --- good and bad becoming a blur now. I wanted Matt to look his best, but he still needed guidance that day to the place of honor. The door creaked open.
"It's party time," I said.
They were all here en masse --- the whole subdued group toting little gifts and gazing at my cowboy as he doffed his hat from the sofa.
"Hi, guys," Matt called from the couch, although I suspected he couldn't give me a head count. "Glad y'all could come."
"Hi, sweetie," Ginger said.
There was a general round of kisses and hugs. The parcels were stacked on the kitchen table. Hank dragged some chairs in. Mary sat beside her brother. He sniffed.
"Hi, sis," he said.
"How's my Newt, today?" she said. She left out the tickle. I think she knew that Matt was beyond tickling and a good old-fashioned sibling wrestling match.
"We had a good day today, didn't we?" I said from the kitchen counter.
"It's not crappy," Matt said. "And now that you're here, it's great. We do need a party. I miss the club shebangle." He frowned, slightly. "I miss many things." He brightened. "But not today. You'll are here."
"Mom and Dad send their love."
"Are they coming? Pumpkin, are my Mom and Dad coming?"
"They'll stop by tomorrow, Matt," I said. "We talked about that. Remember? Only the young crowd today."
"And who's that with you, Jasper?" he asked.
"Itz Rudi," German Rudi said. "Remember me from zie AIDZ Valk?"
"Yes, I believe I do. Sit down. Have a drink. Everyone have a drink on me. Welcome to my home. Mi casa is su casa."
"Lots of good eats," Hank said.
"I brought a pie," Mary said.
"Cherry?" I asked.
"No. Strawberry-Rhubarb."
Was she trying to kill us?
"That's different."
"Oh, I didn't bake it myself. I'm not good at that shit. I went to the Orchard for this one."
I smiled. I loved Delicious Orchards, but hadn't shopped there in a while. There, price matched quality and we were hovering over cat food after the Pharmaceutical companies came through our budget.
"Hank made Lasagna," I said.
"My world famous Lasagna."
"Why, what's the secret?" Leslie asked.
"Leftovers," he announced.
Everyone laughed. Hank leaned in as if to tell a secret.
"I never serve it until it's leftovers," he said. "I use a special blend of cheese --- ricotta, two eggs and mozzarella with salt and pepper to taste. In fact, black pepper is a part of the secret." He winked, punctuated by an ivory grin. "Then after it's baked, I let it cool and then reheat it. Leftovers. Something happens with the gluten when it's baked twice. That's the big secret."
"Mmmm, mmmm," Matt said. "Slice me a piece of that Italian casserole."
Hank bowed. "I's do so in a leetle bit, but the magic she still works now and I's never meddle with de magic."
"Stop that," Matt said. "I'll have some pie in the meanwhile."
"I made a Strata Salad," Ginger announced.
Leslie frowned.
"She was going to make some Greek puff pastry dish."
"Spanakopita."
"Spam, what?" Matt asked. "Sounds good."
"Greek Spinach pastries."
"Zounds healthy," Rudi said.
"Both going in and coming out," Leslie said, receiving a Lesbian pinch. "Ouch, that hurts."
"No S & M at this party," Matt quipped.
He was full of the old Harry today, which delighted me.
"The Strata is safer," Leslie said. "Nothing cooked. It's assembled."
"Sounds yummy," Mary said.
"Beans," Jasper said, hold up a crock. "Old family recipe."
"Does it need to cook?" I asked. "Because Hank's leftovers are still in the oven."
"They be good leftovers, they be."
I arched my brow. I didn't think I could take a full day of his Jamaican clown act. He took the hint.
"Hot or cold," Jasper said. "Bean magic works always."
"I bet," Matt said.
"Ginger," Leslie commanded. "No beans for you."
"Drinks! Eats! Help yourselves," I proclaimed.
The party began. Chatter and errant conversation, all trying to engage Matt. That was the point of this shindig anyway, and it was working. He responded well to it, but I remember at one point standing over Hank's secret deep-dish lasagna watching Matt chatter with Mary and the other gals. I shuddered. From this distance, he reminded me of an old frowsy uncle, draped in shawls and a cowboy hat, half his former size and a quarter of his former vigor. He was melting into the couch like ice cream in the sun. I stifled a tear, not to poop the party. Instead, I put on some Bette Midler.
"Das ist der Divine Miss M," Rudi said. "I loved Bitches."
We all knew what he meant, but refused to correct him. Even our resident lawyer let it go.
"The critics hated it," Ginger said. "So why does everyone I meet say they loved it? I don't understand this at all."
"It's jealousy, you know," Leslie said.
"I couldn't watch it," Mary added. "I found it so sad." She shivered. "Why do we need to talk about that picture anyway?"
"Why not?" Leslie said.
"Why, indeed," I said.
If I had known that the act of playing the Divine Miss M would lead to a discussion of a three-hanky film, I would have put on Michael Jackson.
"No, go on," Matt said. "I saw Beaches. It was great. Loved the Titslinger scene. That kid who played Bette, the younger, she caught every nuance of the older Miss M. She almost stole the show."
"No. She didn't," Ginger said. "No one could have stolen the show away from Bette."
"Not even droopy Barbara Hershey," Leslie said, "with the disease of the month."
"That's a good one," Matt said. "The disease of the month."
"Pleaze," Rudi added. "Can't we change zie zubjekt?"
Jasper cocked his head.
"We can," he said. "I mean, it's depressing and we are trying to be . . ."
I gave Jasper a stare, and then glanced at Rudi. Odd moment that.
"Vhy don't ve talk about a comedy movie," Rudi suggested. "Maybe, like zie Boyz in zer Band or zumding like dat."
"Well there's an upbeat movie for you," I said. This conversation was rasping now. "Why not Torch Song Trilogy or As Is, while we're at it?"
Silence. There was no conversation now. Everyone stared at me, and then at Matt, who shrugged.
"Get some food, all of you," Matt said. "And Pumpkin, I think I could manage a little of Jasper's old fashion, family recipe baked beans."
"Just what you need with the AZT --- little exploding pop-tarts covered in molasses and bacon. Stick to Ginger's salad."
I dished him a nice plateful of the Strata Salad and the conversation restarted --- no more weepy movie talk. Just back to a fritter of chitchat mixed with light politics and religion --- safer subjects.
3
"Are these whole peas?" Matt asked, searching through the Strata.
"Yep. And Muenster cheese," Ginger said, some pride in her voice as if she had personally knew the cow that gave up the curd.
"A regular Martha Stewart," Leslie said.
"Martha who?" Martin asked.
"You haven't seen her?"
"Is that the woman that goes into her garden to pick the lettuce and makes her own pots and pans before you can cook?" Mary asked.
"What a hoot," Matt said. "I'm afraid we don't watch too much TV."
"She's a fad," Leslie said. "Won't last the season!"
"Anyway, if you guys want the recipe," Ginger said. "I'll print it out."
"Pumpkin," Matt said.
"How about some pie," I suggested. "You can only have so much of the salad." I turned to Ginger. "Digesting greens can be tough now."
The things you learn when you need to learn them. I hadn't known a green bean from a parsnip until I needed to navigate them through Matt's plumbing.
"Sorry to hear that," Ginger said. "If I had known . . ."
"No," Matt said. "I don't ask to be babied. My Pumpkin does enough babying for ten and sometimes spanks me when no one's around."
"I do not."
"And I love it," he smirked, but then frowned. "But I need to say something to you all. Gather 'round."
This didn't bode well and was impromptu. However, if Matt was going to poop his own party that was his affair. I had a nice ice cream cake in the freezer, which couldn't be returned. However, if he wanted to have it crown a pity party, that was his business.
"You are my closest friends," he said, scanning the company, unwittingly setting his glance on Rudi, who must have felt excluded from the remark. But no matter.
"Here we go, folks," I said. "He's going to poop his own party"
"Hush, Martin," Leslie said.
"Do you have something to say, Newt?"
"Let's hear it," Ginger said. "I don't like long speeches. Someone turn Bette off. Rudi?"
Rudi eased over to the stereo, and then clicked the power switch. Matt sighed. He took his hat off. That had a chilling effect. He wore the hat to keep some sense of identity --- a man in a cowboy hat equaling Matt Kieler. However with it off, with his scraggly hair, once thickly raven and curled, now thin and wispy, his only claim to Matthood were those eyes, and it was those eyes that formed his comments now.
"This plague hasn't put me down yet," he said. Mary stirred, holding his wrist. "It may just do that. It's trying real hard, but my little army and me are fighting hard. But now I've developed something that's going to make it tougher. Retinitis."
"Shit," Ginger said.
"What's that?" Mary asked.
"Sight degeneration," Leslie answered.
"You're . . ."
"Going blind, sister dear. Not yet, but there's nothing that can stop it. It's bad enough that the meds keep me puking and shitting. Now I won't even be able to see my way to the bathroom. Glamorous, eh?"
"Well, Matt," I said. "I think we should go back to discussing weepy movies. You've managed to poop this party."
"Not really, Pumpkin. When am I ever going to have such a gathering again?"
Chill. The thought was in the air --- on everyone's mind. I could see it on their faces.
"But speaking about poop . . ."
I had been stirring some resuscitating mayonnaise into the potato salad, when he made this second announcement. Matt pushed up and made it to his feet. Hank helped him keep his balance, and then guided him to the bathroom door. The party was near an end now. I glanced toward my cowboy.
"Do you need my help?"
"I'll call you if I shit on the wall," he said, disappearing into the bathroom. Hank turned, and then shrugged. I wended my way to the sofa literally plopping down between Mary and Ginger. They both bobbed in my wake. I continued to stir the potato salad, and then began unconsciously to eat it with the serving spoon.
"Maybe we ought to leave," Ginger said, signaling to the others.
"Leave?" I said. "No, it's a party. It's our last party. He wanted to see you all together before he couldn't see you at all. Leave? No. Never leave."
I glanced from face to face, and then scolded them with the spoon.
"No one is leaving," I said. There was meanness in my voice. I knew it. They didn't deserve this tone, but no one does who hears the soul barking. "You know, I considered leaving. Yes, I was going to leave. Do you think I'm made of steel? Metal underwear? I'm young and vibrant. And Matt got this thing from Luis. He never even told me about it."
Ginger clutched my wrist --- a tight clutch that made me wince. Was she trying to see if I was an iron maiden, perhaps?
"What makes you all think that I'm not human? I feel betrayed. Stunned. But how could I leave him? He's my cowboy --- my blue-eyed flower. And now his eyes . . . well, he needs me more than ever. He'll say he doesn't, but he does. He needs me to feed him and wipe up after him, to hold his hand when he sits by the window and cries his heart out. He won't cry for anyone else. Just for me. And he needs to cry. Who else would remember his med schedule? Hank is invaluable, but in the end, it's me he needs. He'd never take the crap if it weren't for me. And who drives him to the park, so he doesn't grow old and moldy in here?"
Mary hugged me. I just protected the potato salad. I stared out at some blank place on the opposite wall.
"In the dark recesses of the sleepless night, I massage his feet to ease the pain so he can get some sleep. They are gorgeous feet; and I lock my fingers between his toes and rub them like a child's. You know, if I didn't do that, he'd never sleep. He needs me, he does. And I can only hold on, because I need him too." I pushed Mary away and shook off Ginger's hold. I waved the spoon about, tears flowing freely.
"I also need you. All of you. Leave? Thinking of leaving? If you leave me, you leave us."
I dropped the spoon and set the salad aside. The party was over, but the guests gathered around me.
4
Matt returned on Hank's arm. Hank gazed at me with a blend of respect and dismay. I needed to get a grip. I didn't want any of this to turn to pity and especially pity from my cowboy.
"How did you do?" I asked. "You okay?"
I stood, relinquishing the place of honor. I resettled the hat on his head and the blanket about his lap.
"Yep," Matt said. "But . . . I'm real tired now."
Weren't we all?
"Martin, maybe we should . . ." Ginger suggested avoiding the L word.
"Perhaps it's for the best," I said. "Matt, you should lie down."
"Yes, Pumpkin. You're right. But I'd like to look at y'all once more, while I can."
Matt turned to Ginger; and before she could object, he placed his hands on her face.
"Ginger snap!" he said. "Such a broad face. You know I can't go to the B&B next summer. Even if I were still here, all your cats would give me the shits and kill me. Think of that. Killed by pussies. There, there. Lesbians don't cry."
"Shit they don't," Ginger stammered.
"And you, Les, the Lez," he said. Leslie stooped letting Matt feel her face. "You know, if they ever write a book about those who love, you'd be the center spread picture. The world could learn a lot about the meaning of the word from you. Let me feel your face. Ah! Ah! I feel it. I feel the warmth of the New Birch sun. I feel in your eyes the gentle breeze from the river at dawn. And I love you, which is something I've never said to a woman before."
"When it comes to love, Matt," she whimpered, "You're no slouch yourself."
He turned to Mary, who was already a weepy mess.
"Well, when I say I've never said I love you to another woman, I guess I lied, sis. Sweet baby sister. Don't you cry. I'll be here for a long time yet. It's my eyes that are dying. I'll be in the darkness. That's why I want to fill my mind with the sunlight of your smile. When I touch your face, I touch my own."
He hugged her and she was overwhelmed.
"Hank. Where be you?"
"I's here, if you think you needs to be touchin' this here face."
Matt reached up and rubbed his fingers on Hank's ebony luster.
"You're my buddy," Matt said. "You bring joy to my waking hours and support to my Pumpkin, which is like touching me twice. Your heart is a good one. A strong one."
"Not so strong," Hank said.
"And my fingers are wet now with your tears. But they are like balm to me. Balm and healing strength. Come. Give us a kiss."
They embraced. Then, Matt signaled for Jasper, who silently lent Matt his face.
"What strong features."
"Goofy, you mean," Jasper said. "Big nose, odd chin, bug eyes and popped ears."
"No, sir. These are the features of classic beauty, because your heart comes through and there's just not enough room for the concern you've shown, so it's got to pop out somewhere."
Jasper chuckled, and then sighed. Rudi hung back. He was, after all, a stranger among us --- a date in process. Still, I waved to him. No one was to be excluded from this line up that fed my cowboy's sense of party pooping.
"Come, sir Rudi," Matt said. "Let my fingers take in your portrait."
Matt felt the facescape and then trembled.
"This is not what I expected," he said.
Rudi sniffed and pulled away, but Matt reached.
"I feel a comrade. You have joined our legions."
Rudi pulled away retreating to the kitchen. Jasper followed him.
"Pumpkin."
"You'll never forget my face," I said. "No need to . . ."
Too late, he latched on.
"Well, what do you see?" I asked.
"Please, Pumpkin. We have company; and what I feel now about you is not for their ears. But I will tell you that when the light is gone from these eyes, it will be replaced with a different light --- the rarest light of all. The light from your soul."
The party was over. No joy in the world existed now for me. The ignorant bug was progressing. In its own natural intolerable way, the virus progressed as programmed. It attacked the helper cells on life's battleground; and soon, all were vulnerable to the invading, virulent bug. A different light was coming to replace the light that was spent. All was falling to this bug, most virulent and ignorant bug.
1
I couldn't sleep that night. Matt was restless and in the hospital bed. An odd autumn full moon shone through the window and my bed was empty and cold. I could see the outline of the hospital bed in the recesses of the room with my cowboy shivering, a twitch in his hand as he banged it against the aluminum railing. I was exhausted, and yet I couldn't sleep. I sat up at the bed's edge --- that vast empty queen-size bed that swamped me. The linen hadn't been changed in a week. The laundry remained in piles in the corner and the musty aroma was not to my liking. What was I to do? Hank was off on vacation --- on a visit to his only living relatives, cousins in Baltimore. He was gone for a week now. I thought to call Hyacinth for a substitute buddy, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate.
The aluminum rail on the hospital bed rattled. I saw Matt's eyes in the moonlight. They were dim now, no longer the Caribbean reefs that I had known. They were empty and lifeless, the pupils muddled to the whites. I went to the railing, and then touched his hand. He was awake, but silent.
"Do you need to go?"
I asked.
"No."
It was a weak sound. A surrender of sorts. I pushed the comforter aside and checked the state of the sheets. They were dry. I was relieved. I was too tired to change his linen just now. I had learned how to change it while he remained in the bed, because at times he just didn't want to be bothered. However, it was dry now. So I massaged his legs and feet. I was gentle, but the exercise was short lived. I needed a massage myself, and Matt dozed off. I sighed and returned to the queen-sized edge, but the moonlight was too disturbing to get me further than just sitting there.
I wended my way through the growing obstacle course and into the dark living room. I sat in the chair, closing my eyes. My mind went through lists of things to do. Dishes piled in the sink. Carpeting shouting for vacuuming. Clothing scattered on every chair arm and surface. Opened mail cluttered. Unopened mail cluttered. The refrigerator near empty. Lists and lists and . . .
2
I stood on the mountain --- that pinnacle in the Rockies. There was a man at the edge, his back turned toward me. He was dangerously close . . . but no, he was beyond the edge, standing in mid-air, the wind blowing his hair. I shuddered, but there was no sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach --- my usual response to height. I moved closer. I, the unbrave, moved closer. A sudden thought overcame me. The man was beckoning me to step out and join him. I knew that if I did it, I wouldn't fall. So I moved to the brink. I could see the range of mountains in the distance, and feel the fresh breeze across my cheeks. I inhaled the cool crisp air not fearing that it was so thin it would not sustain me. The man turned.
"Martin," he said. "It's not so bad here. Not so bad."
I smiled.
"Russ," I said. "I'm sorry."
"I wasn't there. Did you miss my funeral?"
"I'm sorry."
"But I'm here and wasn't there. That was a terrible place to be, so I came here, where I could let go of it all. Not so bad . . . here."
I poised one foot over the ledge. I knew that if I stepped out, the air would buoy me.
"Not yet, Martin," Russ said. "Hold on still. Hold on until you need to let go. There will be a letting go. Tell him that it must be. Not so bad here, after all. Not bad."
Still, I stepped out . . .
3
"Martin."
I awoke. It was daytime. When did that happen?
"Martin,"
She was at the door, knocking and calling. I wasn't dressed, just my BVDs. Groggy, I grabbed for one of several blankets that draped on the sofa, made an impromptu toga and bungled toward the door.
"Martin."
I opened it.
"Louise. You startled me."
"Sorry to wake you, but it's ten o'clock already."
"I'm off my schedule with Hank on vacation and . . ."
She crossed the threshold and surveyed the place. I could see she was shocked by the condition. I was shocked, so why shouldn't she be?
"I can't believe this place," she said. She shucked her coat. I grabbed it as she marched into the kitchen and then back to the living room. "This is unlike you."
"I haven't been me lately," I stammered.
She gazed at me with eyes first of accusation, and then of pity.
"Of course, you haven't. And with Hank in Baltimore, I should have known. I should have come sooner."
"No. It wouldn't have made a difference. I've been trying to get stuff done and also to work. Managed to get to The Cavern two days ago, but I think I'll be among the missing there until Hank gets back. So much stuff to do here."
"Nonsense," she said. "I'll help you. Does Viv know?"
"Yes."
Viv was up the night I worked, but clutter was a natural state for her, so I was just thankful that someone could watch Matt.
Louise took me in her arms. The blanket slipped away.
"Oh, lamb, don't be a hero. If you need help, speak up."
"I think you and Sammy have helped quite enough."
"Money is one thing, but it is not everything."
"Well, it sure helps."
"Maybe so, but there are other things." She gazed about the apartment again. I covered up. "I know you are proud, but he is my son. Is he up?"
"I don't know," I said. "I fell asleep here and haven't been in there since late last night. We had a rough night."
"I don't mean to be bossy," she said. She hugged me again. "You know, I have never known a man so brave in my life as you."
"Me? Martin, the unbrave?"
"Unbrave? Nonsense. I know that this isn't the only time people are faced with caring for loved ones. God knows, I watched and cared for my own mother as she died of lung cancer. But to watch men in their twenties and thirties waste away. And to lose a son."
"You haven't lost a son, Louise."
"I know. But dear, Martin, unless someone comes up with a cure . . ."
"I'll not give up hope. That cure could be around the corner. We just need to get him around that corner."
Louise sighed, and then collapsed on the sofa, the tears welling and brimming. I joined her both on the couch and in the weeping. It was as if we were mourning already. However, my cowboy was still alive --- not kicking maybe, but certainly breathing the shitty air in the bedroom. It was my turn to console and believe it. I had little consolation for myself. To share it was a mighty task.
"We'll have courage for two, Mom. You should come to a Hyacinth support group. You might find some answers there."
"Have you, dear?"
"No."
"Then I am afraid I would find them depressing. In fact, I might depress them. I just don't understand it all. It's not right that those who die are but a mite of a sweet boy . . ."
"And poor Russell," I said.
It was the first time I had mentioned Russ to anyone since his passing. However, I had just met up with him on a mountain ledge, so his message was fresh in my memory.
"Russell went too fast. I just could not believe it."
"Russ was flighty and full of life," I said. "He was like a butterfly feeding on life --- flower to flower. Little did we know that too much life could be . . . death."
It was as if I finally delivered his eulogy. But he didn't care that I wasn't at his funeral. He just told me so, didn't he?
Louise dried her eyes on my blanket toga.
"You should go see Matt now," I said. "But brace yourself. He's so much older looking now. I'm growing old in the passage, in this vigil I keep. I think one day, I'll wake up, look in the mirror and see an old woman. Mother."
"Your mother?"
"No. Mother, a drag-queen at The Cavern."
"Don't be silly."
Once I had been silly. Silly as putty. I had also once been unbrave, but thanks to Russ and a cliff's edge, I was unbrave no more.
4
I followed Louise into the bedroom. Her nose twitched at the aroma. Her son, her sweet baby child and my blue-eye cowboy, slept like an old man, his breath fighting to remain aloft. His face, shallow, cheeks sunken and hair thinning, but his eyes were closed. It would make no difference, as they were almost as dead as stones. She kissed his hands and he awoke.
"Mom," he said. "Is that you?"
"Yes, lamb," she said. "How are you this morning?"
"I praise God I have another day," he said. "It's almost Thanksgiving. I just can't wait to leave this place and be with y'all like old times."
"Well, hon," she said, fighting back the tears. "We shall see. We shall see."
"Is Pumpkin there? I need to go potty."
"I am."
I lowered the rail and eased his leg over the edge. We began the choo choo train stroll that we both had mastered.
"Careful," I said. "The place is getting a little cluttered. Don't want you to fall again."
"Bruises, bruises. I'm all bruises now. Do you think another one will matter?"
"They're not bruises and you know it. The point is, I can't pick you up off the floor by myself. And Hank's in Baltimore."
"In Baltimore? What's in Baltimore?"
"You know what's in Baltimore. His cousins. And if you fall now, I'll just call 9-1-1 and they'll send out some policemen to get you up."
"Maybe I should fall. I love men in uniform."
I chuckled, but not really. I was just thankful that we might just be having a good day or at least as close to good as they come.
"It should be easier. I'm getting lighter."
"You're getting fresher and besides, it's dead weight."
"Literally?"
"Stop it now, or I'll lock you in the bathroom and throw away the key."
We made it, the full round trip. It was like taking a ten-mile hike in the Andes. We choo choo trained back to the hospital bed.
"Arrived at the station," I said. "Sit carefully. Let me get your legs. Do you want to be propped up or lie flat?"
"Propped up," Matt said. "Did I hear someone come in?"
"No one came in. Your Mom's here."
"Mom, you're here?"
"Yes, lamb. I've been here."
"It's time for your meds."
"I don't want that shit anymore," he said. "What's the point? How much longer do you need to suffer with me? We could solve this all right now, you know."
"I don't want to talk about that again. I'm not Dr. Kevorkian. You're going be around way past Christmas."
"Such talk," Louise said, barely holding on. "I'll be in the kitchen, Martin. It needs a little tidying up."
I knew she would work her sorry into dishpan hands. I was glad for it . . . the help, not her sorrow.
"It's so nice to hear her voice," Matt said. "It's like summer in the air. But I want to smell the aroma of her cooking. I need it once more. We are going to my Mom's for Thanksgiving, aren't we?"
"We'll see," I said. Sounded like a lame lie.
"I love Mom's on Turkey day. It's so wonderful there. You know I love it. And you love it too. And they'll love to have us. Right Mom?"
"She's inside . . . cleaning up."
"Where's Hank?"
"Out," I said. "As for Thanksgiving at Mom's. Maybe we can have it here."
"Don't make up stories, Pumpkin. I'm no child. I want you to shove me in a fucking wheelbarrow and push me there if you have to. I mean, there's not much left of me that bones in a wheelbarrow couldn't accommodate. Promise me, Pumpkin. Promise me that we'll go."
"We'll see."
"That's not a promise. That's a no. Especially when you say it that way."
"Matt, wouldn't it be better if they all came here and spent it with us? After all, it's the people that count."
Matt frowned, his cheeks unable to catch the tears from his lifeless eyes.
"I'm not going to make it to Thanksgiving, am I?" he said. "I'll never see anyone again. No eyes. No energy. No dreams when I sleep. I'm a mess beyond all belief. I feel bad for my parents when they get old like me and suffer like me. If I'm not going to make it to Thanksgiving, I want to die today, Pumpkin. I want you to go out and buy the biggest load of medical shit possible and shove it down my throat so I can end this nightmare. I'm only twenty-five years old and now I'm not going to have another Thanksgiving or feel another snowfall or get fucked again. Pumpkin, let me go. Let me fucking go."
I hugged him, weeping along with him. But I heard another voice.
It's not so bad here. Not so bad.
"You'll live today," I said. "You'll get to Thanksgiving. You'll see another snowfall. I promise you. I'll carry you myself over the threshold of your Mom's place. We'll be like newly-weds, before the eyes of God. I promise you."
"I knew you would," he said. "I knew you would." He sighed. "I'm so tired."
"So am I."
I lowered the bed, and then stroked his thinning hair. He smiled at my touch, and then kissed my hand. He fell asleep muttering.
"I knew you would."
I moved away from that hulk of a bed. I fell to my knees in prayer, in the piles of clothing. I felt the eyes of God and also Louise's peering in at her lost children, I being among her flock.
I kept my promise. On Thanksgiving Day, I carried Matt over the Kieler threshold and placed him on the couch before the picture window. Although Matt couldn't see the landscape, he could sense the light. He had had a series of very bad days. In fact, I considered taking him to the hospital at one point. However, as my fingers hovered over the 9-1-1 buttons, I couldn't bring myself to break the promise. More than one promise. Funny things, promises. They can be easily broken, but in the breaking, they become glass shards that stick in your soul, never to be removed. I wanted no such glass shards. Matt pleaded to go to his parent's for Thanksgiving. If he continued the bad streak, I might be able to convince him to go to Robert Wood Johnson, but I didn't think any supplication could change his mind. After all, this man begged me to end it all. Why would he submit to science's tortures when nature was doing just fine without help?
Holiday aromas permeated the Kieler home. Louise was busy in the kitchen aided by Mary. Ginger and Leslie were invited this year. I was happy that they came and that they didn't participate in the cooking. They were in the den watching the football game with Sammy. Viv was supposed to spend Thanksgiving here also, but called at the last minute that Frank had a crisis at work and she needed to head North with him. Head North? Could there be a crisis in the auto insurance business? I supposed that Frank remembered the assault on his profession from last Thanksgiving and decided to be a reduced target by being no target at all. Probably for the best.
The table was set with the best china and gold ware. The chandelier twinkled with hospitality, twinkling in Matt's memory, because he could only sense it. He wasn't at the table. He sniffed the aroma of turkey and stuffing beckoning him, along with creamed white onions and mince pie --- the remembrance of Thanksgivings past, no doubt. These aromas were leaden to me. They raised no joy or festive glee in my heart. Nor did they stir any thanks. I just hovered between the rooms, staring blankly out the picture window, noting Matt's shadowy reflection from the couch. Then I sighed and came up on him from behind.
"Is that you, Pumpkin?" he said, his voice labored.
"Who else would sneak up on a blind man and kiss him?"
I leaned over the back of the couch and kissed Matt on the cheek, but he clenched me so tightly, I thought maybe some strength still stirred in him. It was the tiger strength of our earlier days when we would wrestle under sheets for the best parts. I hopped over the sofa top and planted myself beside him. We cuddled.
"Well," he said. "Thank you. You got me this far. It's a joy to be home for Thanksgiving. All that food. I once could eat a horse, if it was unsaddled and served with barbecue. Where's my appetite now? I think our sense of smell is hungrier than our sense of reason. I don't have an appetite now, but that turkey and stuffing is driving me crazy. Oh, the aroma. You've brought me to heaven, Pumpkin. This is the place."
"I tasted a bit of the stuffing," I said. "Your Mom's in a generous mood."
"That's her only mood. I'll guess I'll need to dream of that taste --- sausage and cornmeal and onions and seasonings, brown and soft to the palate. Oh, how many Thanksgivings have I said, pass the stuffing, and then chomped on it, bolting it down like dog on a bone? Now I'd kill for the appetite to have just one savory taste."
My heart broke for his longings. Simple longings. After all is said and done, it's the simple things we miss. I propped a pillow behind his head.
"Is that better?" I asked.
He grinned.
"As long as you're near, it's always better. I love your Ivory soap aroma."
"And I still love that coconut shit you use."
"Pumpkin," he said. "I'm so glad my parents love you. You'll be a comfort to them when . . ."
" . . . your Mom's an angel and a helluva cook."
"Did she make the whole-berry cranberry sauce?"
"Yes. It's amazing."
"Did she let you lick the spoon?"
"Yes."
"I love to lick the spoon. I can taste it now. Mmmm."
"Well, we'll see just how much you can have," I said as I gazed into those once beautiful blue eyes --- still beautiful.
"It's a curse to still smell things and not have the stomach for them. But then again, there's no divide when it comes to us."
I kissed him, and then stroked his hair. He pulled on my tie.
"You're wearing a tie?" he asked, and then laughed softly. "It doesn't take a blind man to guess which one. I bet it's that hideous, purple tie. How can anyone look at that thing and eat dinner?"
"It was from a special friend," I said. The words choked in my throat. "My little over-the-counter encounter."
"I should have had it gift-wrapped. You know, they offer free gift-wrap."
"I know. But the cheap bastard who bought it didn't even remove the price tag."
"You could have any tie you wanted that night. Givenchy, Yves St Laurant. Any one."
"I know. But I was jealous of the bastard you bought it for, so I suggested the ugliest tie in the place."
"Jealous. And of yourself."
"I'm not jealous of myself anymore. No one should envy me when . . ."
"We've had a good run of it, Pumpkin. We've had the best of all things; and that we didn't wind up on a porch, on old rocking chairs, balancing our gay checkbooks is just the price. So we didn't have the good old Pink American dream. But we had much better than most."
"We did," I said. "And still do."
Matt yawned.
"Sorry about that," he said. "I feel so drowsy and . . ."
"Here, let me prop you up."
Mary came by with a bowl of chips and dip.
"Martin, some dip?" she asked.
"No, thanks."
"How's my Newt? Sleeping?"
"Sis," Matt said. "Is that you?"
"I'd offer you some dip, but . . ."
"Come here, baby sister."
He reached out for some dip. I guided his hand into the bowl, putting some on his finger.
"Onion, I hope," he asked. "Not veggie or crab shit." He licked his fingers and smiled with great satisfaction. "Maybe I'll be able to have some of that stuffing yet?"
Mary wept quietly. Suddenly, she put the bowl down.
"Shit," she said, looking out the window. "It's snowing."
I gazed out. It was snowing. It was too early for snow. However, it was really snowing, like a shaker ball.
"Snowing?" Matt asked, his lips trembling.
Mary went about the house announcing this unusual weather for this time of year. An early snow was a treat indeed. Soon, the whole company gathered by the window.
"It's snowing, Matt," I said holding him tightly. "Really, really snowing."
"How can it be?" he said. "You're just making that up to cheer me."
"No, lamb," Louise said. "It's true. It didn't say in the forecast."
"Oh, how I wish I could see it," Matt said.
"It's snowing Matt," I said. I rocked him. "It's snowing, Matt, and just for you, because I prayed to God and he's granted me this one small blessing. I prayed to God. I prayed for it."
"I wish I could go out and make some snowballs."
I trembled now. I hugged him so close and sobbed so hard, the others gave us privacy. They retreated, but only to a room away.
"Oh, Pumpkin, I love you. Snowing. It's snowing. I can't see it. I can't see it. I want to see it."
"Oh, how I wish you could. I'll tell you. It's the big flakes, just the kind you like. And they're sticking on Mrs. Bolkonsky's roof, and on Ginger and Leslie's car."
"Did they bring the BMW or the Mercedes?"
"The Mercedes," I said. "I think this snow will pack nicely. Maybe I'll make some snow angels. It's really the most beautiful snowfall I've ever seen."
"No, Pumpkin. No. I can see the most beautiful snowfall ever. Here in my mind. I see it now. You know I can. I looked back at your place. The big flakes stuck to the whole world. It was like in a movie; and then . . . I saw you. You were naked in the doorway, and I said then and there. I will live the rest of my life with that man. That man is my snow angel."
"I remember," I said.
"You wouldn't come out in it. You just stood by the door; and I was so happy. So very, very happy. And I decided to give you a little serenade.

"I wish I were in the lan' o' cotton,


Ol' times there are not forgotten,


Look away, look away . . .


Look away, look . . .


away"

And he was gone. On that Thanksgiving Day with the family an earshot away, my little blue-eyed cowboy left me. He was gone gone.
Part IV
The Mingling
1
The tears mingled with the blood and where they blended, the Hyacinths bloomed. However, I had no more tears. I had shed them while Matt was alive and although he suffered, he was noble in that suffering --- a brave soul, a ride 'em cowboy. After my initial shock, and then grief, I held together better than I could have imagined. Perhaps I had already arrived at the end long before it came --- in my mind at least. How can you stop the tide? I tried. He tried. Can't be done. I shuddered and had a small outburst when the body bag arrived to take him. Matt wanted to be cremated and all I could think of during those first few hours were all the details. So many details. How would I get through them? What would I do?
I turned to Louise and Sammy, of course. Hank was a great assistance, and even Viv was staunch when I needed her. If I were a man of seventy-five letting go of an ailing spouse, perhaps the road would have been clearer. But how does one prepare for this at age twenty-three. How? So I was surprised when the funeral director informed me that the funeral was already arranged --- paid for, even, to the tune of nine thousand dollars. I turned to Sammy in thanks, but he was as stunned as I was. In fact, I soon learned that Matt paid for it himself. It was the first thing he did upon arriving in New Jersey, even before we met. It raised some specters in my mind, but if I had no room for tears, I certainly did not have room for anger. I chalked it up to thoughtful preplanning.
Leslie had insisted that Matt and I draw up a will since I had no rights in these United States as next of kin. We, however, did not do it. I saw no need for it, and as it turned out, I had no fears. Although I had nothing more than emotional and moral rights to all of Matt's little kingdom of furniture, computers, books, clothing and bank account, the Kielers, as the legal inheritors, assigned it all over to me.
"But, Sammy," I said. "The hospital bills and the second mortgage and . . ."
"We'll not hear of it, Marty."
"No. You are our family," Louise said. "Matt was our son, but he was your husband. If times were different, and who can tell that things will not change, there would not be a question."
"But, Louise. The memories."
"He is in our hearts as he is in yours. We shall select mementos. Don't worry. However, you are the next of kin in the eyes of God and in the heart of the Kielers."
That made me weep. In fact, that was a catalyst for much weeping, but it came from the love of a family and not the grief for my cowboy.
I decided that the funeral would be a proper send off. Leslie and Ginger helped me pick out a suit for him, while Hank and Jasper went into the apartment and supervised the clearance of such things as the hospital bed, the diapers and wipes, and the meds. The remaining AZT went back to Hyacinth for redistribution. Don't think me cold. I had my moments, but they came on me without warning. I didn't sit in a corner and bawl. I remember when I was putting his clothes away, I espied his hat. It came at me on the periphery like a knife. I doubled over. I held onto the wall and wept for a good ten minutes. Then I retrieved it, sniffed it and put it on my head. It was too big for me, but I felt him again. It still held his aroma, but I had stopped crying by then. I strutted about the room. Even felt like singing Dixie, but then put it aside. I decided never to part with that hat. I also had a blanket I took from the Kielers --- the one that he was wrapped in when he passed. It got into my head that his spirit passed through that blanket on its way to God. When they came for him, I latched onto it and was holding it for the next day. I took to sleeping with it, as morbid as that sounds. It still held his essence and it helped me sleep. And I did sleep. I slept the sleep of the ages. I dreamt of him every night. Sometimes I never wanted to wake up listening to the soft sounds of his laughter and his call to me. Pumpkin. Pumpkin.
If anyone tells you that losing the closest thing to your heart is a turbulent, unending trauma, they are misleading you. It's a numbing experience, as if nature built a response to it and kicks in --- a combination of release and relief, holding on and letting go, disbelief and denial, but with a taut sense of reality. That taut sense got me through the funeral, although I couldn't deliver a eulogy. It wasn't expected from me. I was just pleased that Matt looked restored as he laid there, those precious fingers laced into one another. I thought he would open those blue eyes again and wink. When I kissed him, I could almost hear him say Goodbye, Pumpkin. However, I wouldn't say goodbye. I said, "Until we meet again. Look away silence."
Then it was over. My little over-the-counter encountered had lasted much past Christmas, it had. Longest run ever. Still running.
2
Keep busy.
I cleaned Matt's apartment from top to bottom. It took me a week just to restore it to its former glory. I had decided to pay down the lease. There was enough in Matt's bank account to cover it and I meant to get the security back for Sammy and Louise. My name wasn't on the lease, but Sammy, as the legal next of kin, was ultimately responsible, so the transaction filtered through him. I then invited everyone in to select a memento. I had purchased a silver urn and decided I wasn't going to spread his ashes to the four winds. He would stay with me until my ashes could be commingled in that breeze. I would decide on a good place for the scattering. I wasn't sure how long that would be, because I was still periodically testing for HIV thinking each time my time would come. Never did.
Hank needed some furniture, so I let him take the couch and sofa, and since death didn't permeate Matt's bed, Leslie and Ginger took it for the B&B. Some pieces went to Mary --- she was in a new apartment, while Viv got the kitchen table and chairs. I kept all of Matt's clothes. We were the same size and I was wearing them anyway while he was alive, and he mine.
I was going home --- well, back to my apartment by the ocean. I couldn't concentrate in Matt's place. Too many memories. I wanted the memories and they would follow me back to my place, but it was for the best. I couldn't expect Frank Perkins to pay my share forever. Besides, I would be within walking distance of work.
Work? That was a question. I wanted to work, work, work. Working prevented me from thinking too much. However, so many people were kind and with each kindness came reminders. I also considered returning to retail. Christmas was coming and, although there would be no Christmas for me this year, the stores were doing their seasonal hiring. However, the thought of standing at a counter, thinking, thinking --- contemplating the jacket rack and the Tie and Tux and the Old World Coffee Shop, wasn't to my liking now. Too soon. It would be better that I tote beer kegs up from The Cavern's cellar or rattle over the snow between the back bar and the shack with burgers and fries. Bruce Q, as usual, was very accommodating, allowing me to do a host of jobs. He even let me tinker with the fabled Zippilin.
Jasper was pushing me to come back to the chorus, and I considered it. What better way to honor Matt's memory than to sing praises to heaven? But I was a child of Christmas no more. I couldn't even brave a rehearsal. Too soon. Breaking up Matt's apartment was sufficient to tucker me out so that each evening I would flop into bed exhausted. I was too tired even to cry myself to sleep and I would sleep late, since I wasn't needed at The Cavern until two in the afternoon. Some days I stayed in bed just to waste the day. One such day, there was a knock at the door. I ignored it. Then I heard a key scrapping in the hole.
"Not today," I whispered, getting up and reaching for my robe.
It was a cold December day. I had left the window open, the snow spilling in across the carpeting. I closed it and sauntered into the living room to greet her.
"Shithead," Viv said.
She wasn't alone. Frank was with her, standing on the threshold, his hat piled with snow. He toted a square package. I smiled dimly.
"Come in, Frank," I said. "Coffee. I'll put some on."
He came in, setting the box against the couch.
"I thought you'd be up by now," Viv said.
"Why?" I asked. "I sleep late. I don't need to be to work yet."
"It's Christmas Day."
I shuddered. It had completely slipped my mind. I mean, on some plain I knew it was coming, but I just ignored it as best I could. I stared at the box.
"Shit, Viv. I hope that's not a present, because I just didn't . . ."
"Now, don't fret."
"No, Martin," Frank said, sitting, brushing his hat off on my carpeting. "We didn't expect that you would be festive."
"I'll be a minute," I said. "Coffee'll be on. I think I have a cookie or something. Nothing fancy. Oreos."
"That'll be fine," Frank said.
"I'll make the coffee," Viv said. "You sit down with Frank."
I looked at her incredulously. I didn't think she knew how to make coffee. I didn't resist. I just sat down beside Frank.
"Have you ever had her coffee?" I asked him.
"Yes, I have."
"I haven't."
"It'll move your everlasting bowels."
"I'm looking forward to it."
The man was always direct, which was refreshing. We weren't pals, but he saw something in Viv that kept him permanent. I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't tie the knot somewhere down the line. It would be a different experience for Viv, and even though Frank wouldn't be my father, he would be a relative of sorts. I glanced down at the box.
"What's in the box?"
"Don't tell him," Viv sang out. "Is this your coffee, shithead?"
"It's the brown powdery stuff in the Maxwell House can."
"Smart-ass."
I looked at the box again.
"It's your Christmas present," Frank said.
I had already guessed that much.
"I've never seen gray coffee before," Viv announced.
I tried to see what was in the box.
"You know, I didn't do any Christmas shopping this . . . oh shit."
I flew out off the couch.
"Not that," I shouted. "That's . . ."
Viv retuned holding the silver urn.
"Gotcha," she said. "Although the Harpooner would have made a sweet cup of Joe."
"Put it down."
Viv set the ashes on the counter.
"Silly place to keep it, in the kitchen," she said.
"I haven't decided just where yet."
Viv smiled, and then nodded to Frank. He held the box up. It was heavy and he juggled it. From the picture, it looked like a candy dish --- a heart-shaped candy dish.
"What is it?" I asked.
"You'll see."
They worked together on opening it, while I circled them. It was a strange thing and needed assembly. However, Frank whipped out three spindles that looked like legs --- beautifully shaped table legs. He screwed them into the top piece, and then added a shelf and three more, shorter legs. Didn't take long. He flipped it over standing it before me. It was a table, about two and half feet high --- a heart shaped table, with a glass top --- a heart-shaped glass top. Viv lifted the top.
"It's a case," she said. "You can display the Harpooner's favorite jewelry --- his belt buckles and stuff inside on the velvet and you'll be able to see it." She closed the top, and then ported it to a corner --- the corner where I would usually have set up the Christmas tree. "Bring him here, shithead. Bring my harpooner here."
My heart was full --- pride full. I lifted the silver urn to my lips, and then kissed it. I glanced at the glass top --- that heart reflecting Viv's pasty face. I set the urn on top.
"Home at last," I said.
I espied Frank grinning and wondered just how much of this was his idea. Somehow, I suspected he might have been the instigator. I was glad.
"Thank you . . . Mom . . . and Frank. How thoughtful."
I felt the tears welling and I feared that this was the cathartic moment when all the mingling would pour forth. However, I was stronger than that. I had built a mighty dam around my soul. So I turned to Viv, who was pleased to see me so affected.
"So," I said. "Where's that coffee, now that he's safe from your percolations."
Finally, I knew about Christmas.
1
Hank was the first person to suggest a quilt panel. I had always known about the NAMES Project. The Jersey Gay Sparrows warbled many a GALA melody over portions of it. I recognized the significance --- even the gravitas of these panels sewn by loved ones to commemorate the life of one of their fallen. However, I never dwelt on it. I sang, moving the audience with my renditions, and then sauntered past the display never venturing close. Hank said he would help me with it and the next thing I knew, I had Leslie and Ginger at my door.
"We were just in the neighborhood and we heard that you're sewing a panel for Matt," Leslie said.
They were just in the neighborhood. Like hell they were. I was among the missing and they guessed my mental state, with a little help from Hank, and perhaps a chirp from sister Mary. They invaded my space like the Russians taking Hungary.
"I really wasn't thinking of . . ."
"Of course you were. It's only natural," Ginger said.
Natural. Nothing could less natural. I mean, I was handy with a vacuum broom, but a needle and thread was as foreign to me as season football tickets. Still, my lesbian godmothers took over the place, regarding the state of the apartment. I had been focusing my time at The Cavern and still slept late.
They paid homage at my little Matt Kieler shrine, and then inevitably returned to the subject.
"We're making a quilt for Russ and we need your help," Ginger announced.
"You do?" I asked knowing where this was going.
"Hank tells us that you have much too much time on your hands, Snooks," Leslie added.
"Helping us with Russ' panel would fill in those blank hours."
My mouth opened wide. What was I to say? They didn't give me a chance.
"And while you're helping us with Russ', we'll help you with Matt's."
"They're displaying the whole quilt --- all ten-thousand panels," Ginger said. "That's a rarity."
"Down in Washington, D.C. Right on the president's front lawn."
"He can't ignore it then."
"Spread right out there on the Mall."
"In the shadow of the Washington Monument."
Suddenly, they stopped. They folded their arms and cocked their heads like mechanical dolls. I supposed they wanted my answer and that answer had better be yes.
"I'm not that creative," I said.
"Not creative?" Leslie snapped. "You sing."
"Anyone who can warble like you do can sew an old photograph onto a piece of cloth."
Old photograph? I shuddered. I had an album of photographs. It was put away. I couldn't bear to look at them. Too soon. Now these two well meaning loony birds wanted me to not only to look at them, but handle them --- sacrifice a few to a quilting bee.
"I don't know whether I can get off from work to go down to Washington D.C."
"If Bruce Q doesn't let you go," Ginger said, "he'll have a contingent of Erastes Errata singing at his front door, and it won't be Sweet Adeline."
I was running out of excuses. I guess somewhere inside me I knew that it was the thing to do. Not that I had given it much thought, but I was becoming a hermit. Spring had come and I was still mopping in my winter sweaters. I had even skipped the annual cleaning. I think what I needed most was to leave the apartment and commune in human society again. I had become fragile. Hank wouldn't bully me, but Ginger would.
"So?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"No," they said in unison.
I shrugged.
"How do I start?"
"This weekend in New Birch," Ginger said.
"At The Lantanas."
I swallowed.
"I'm not up to partying."
"This isn't a party, young man," Ginger scolded. "It's a fucking quilting bee."
I smiled.
"Bring some stuff," Leslie said.
"Needle and thread?"
"No, you ninny," Ginger said standing. "We have all that under control."
"Bring photos of Matt, dear. And some articles of clothing for the quilt and perhaps some letters and other remembrances."
I sighed, and then Ginger tackled me, pounded my back.
"You're going to be okay, Martin. Trust me."
Leslie gave me a more civilized hug, at least one that didn't break my back.
"Snooks, you have friends. Think about what this quilt is and why we're sewing it. You'll find strength in that. You will."
They left. I didn't even offer them an Oreo. I just stood there pondering in their wake. I stood there for an hour staring first at the door and then at the silver Urn on the heart-shaped table.
"Hon," I said finally. "Any thing you want to say to the President of the United States?"
I knew what Matt would say, and it would have moved any heart to action. Action. Wasn't that Act-Up's slogan? Action Now or something like that. No. It was Silence = Death. Well perhaps Matt should finally have a voice, now that death didn't look away. Perhaps silence would.
2
It was raining on the day I arrived at The Lantanas and ran the first box of mementos from the car up the porch stairs and into the parlor. I had taken an assortment of photos and ties and clothing. I had originally included the blanket, but at the last moment returned it to my bed. To cut it up seemed to me a desecration. I'm glad I left it intact, as I still pull it up to my chin each night, even on the most humid summer nights. I deposited the box on the couch, and then Hank helped me unload my own kit from the car. There were a few cars parked in the driveway --- some that I recognized. The rain teemed and I could espy the cat eyes in the bushes, a host of sated felines pondering the madness of the lunatic gay men who darted between the raindrops.
"We're in here, Snooks," Leslie called, as I shook out my wet hair.
In the dining room sat the quilters --- Leslie and Ginger, Mary and Louise, Jasper and Rudi, while Sammy came in from the kitchen with two beers --- one in progress and one for me.
"I've become a seamstress," he said handing me a Bud. "Glass?"
"No," I stammered.
On the table were two cloth panels, one with Russ' name embroidered across the top. The other was pretty much in a blank slate. I assumed that was Matt's. Louise had begun tatting the edges.
"Martin," she said. "Sit next to me. Come think of a design. What did you bring to the table?"
I set the beer on a side table and sat beside her. The rain riced the roof and I was chilled. Mary winked at me from across the way. She held up a doily with the word Newt painted across it.
"In the corner, I think," she suggested.
I nodded, and she went to work with a needle and thread.
"Now I'm proficient at embroidery," Leslie announced. "If you tell me what words you want on Matt's panel, I'll run them up. This is for Russell's."
She held up a swatch that read One brief bright flame. I smiled. Yes, I thought. One brief bright flame and Russell was his name. Perfect.
"Let me think about it, Les," I said. I did have an idea that I tripped over last week. "I brought some of Matt's old ties. I thought I'd spell his name out with his old ties."
"Brilliant," Ginger said. "And you said you weren't creative."
"He would have loved that, dear," Louise said.
I glanced across the table to Jasper. He and Rudi were pasting appliques onto Russ' quilt --- little musical notes. That gave me another idea.
"I think I want something musical on Matt's."
"I'd thought more a computer," Sammy said. "I have a few pictures. We could mount a small portrait framed in a computer screen."
"I like that," I said. "But he loved music."
"He loved your voice," Mary said. "He was as tone deaf as a frog."
"Perhaps," I said. "But I think I'd like to see the lyrics of his favorite song maybe."
"Well, just let me know," Leslie said.
And I did. However, we could also write things on the panel, because they had these indelible markers that did a fine job --- didn't run or smear and if the ink got wet it would hold up. I watched Hank as he drew a little black faced figure at one edge of the panel.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I's wants him 'member me in alls my ebony glory."
Then he grinned and I was flooded by memories of Hank and Matt bantering in mock Ebonics --- a game that cast aside shame and discrimination, leveling their spirits into one glorious blend of friendship. Louise had a marker now. Her hand was steady --- florid and elegant. She wrote A day never passes without a thought of you . . . She pressed the last period firmly, and then wiped away a tear.
"He'll always be my lamb."
And thus it went. I arranged his ties in the center of the panel. At first I spelled out Matthew, but then decided that I never called him that, so Matt it was. Sewing them on was a chore. Threading the fucking needle took forever, but Ginger's big mitts helped. For a chubby fisted lesbian, she threaded a needle like Tinkerbelle in a lantern. My first stitches were too loose and needed to be ripped out. I soon learned that it would take me a good three hours just to attach the letter M, but as I stitched I listened. I listened to Louise recall the baby boy in the bathtub and at the circus. There were stories of fights in school and one from Mary about how her brother set fire to the tree house and broke his leg jumping from the top bough. And then Sammy bubbled about how he tried to get Matt interested in baseball.
"It was like cutting off an arm, but I insisted."
"You bullied him," Louise said. "I remember, you came inside and kicked the chair. Said you'd teach him how to cover first base or take a strap to him."
"I did not. I wouldn't."
"Well, those were the days before we understood."
Silence
"No vun ever unterstandts," Rudi said, filling the silence utterly.
He had been quiet, sewing away at the musical notes, Jasper at his side. It was evident that Rudi was also ill now, his face drawn, a purple lesion chevroned on his neck.
"Your Matt, he unterstoodt. He touched my face und he knew. He velcomed me as his komrade, to der legions." He sniffed, his hand covered by Jasper's. "Ja, your Matt knew, he did."
"I guess it takes time to understand these things," Louise said. "I guess it takes the sewing of quilts to make us all equal, both those here and those gone."
I stopped sewing and touched the letter M. Would I ever understand? Were we meant to understand? I supposed if I reflected on this panel for a thousand years, I might need another thousand to fathom it out.
3
The panels were complete, or nearly so by Sunday morning. The rain had never ceased. It sang accompaniment to our chatter, our reminiscence, our silences, our restless sleep and to those moments of retreat when we clustered in corners, on the porch, in the kitchen or over the work at hand. The rain hummed and thrummed like a vamp to the soul. No better balm could there be to those who seek some peace. Whenever I need an ounce of serenity, I let my mind drift back to the Lantanas, to the rain on the roof and the cats in the bushes and it comes. What's in a quilt, I thought. How can we repair a life gone by sewing their pictures on cloth, their names in old ties or scribble our hearts from our sleeves? We cannot. But in the striving, the sewing and the knitting, we embroider some peace --- some ever stirring, ever swaying tranquility forever lost in the rain drenched lantanas. And I may have understood.
Russell's pink and white panel was splendid, flashy with musical verve and queenie pictures --- living and forever blooming as he was in life before the haste of living tripped him up like a stone in the river. Matt's panel was green and gray, the ties leaping from the background. The Newt and the homilies from Louise and Hank and Mary and Sammy and Leslie and Ginger rang true to their remembrance of him. There were three clusters of photographs --- his baby shots and his first cowboy suit and, at my insistence, a portrait of Matt and Luis, the only photo Matt had of him. Then there was Matt and I on leather Santa's lap on that fabled first date at The Cavern. Another cluster had Matt on the porch of the Lantanas surrounded by cats and one of him in front of The Crow. There was a little montage of our Rocky Mountain romp, and finally Matt at his computer and, at Sammy's inspiration, framed with a computer screen.
At the panel's crest was Leslie's embroidered swatch. It was perfect, although the quilters did not understand it. They knew the significance of the first two words, but the third word eluded them. Louise hugged me as we admired the finished work.
"It will stand proudly with the others in Washington."
"Thanks to you all," I said.
There was a communal sigh. My eye ran the gamut of this thing --- this extension of my grief. I knew there was more to be done, but I couldn't bring myself to complete it just now. There was still time. The panel would go to the local NAMES Project chapter to be attached to seven other panels. It would be tended well. I wouldn't see it again until it would be ceremonially unfurled with thousands of others on the Mall.
"It's lovely," Louise said. "Perfect, in fact. And that embroidered saying just crowns it all, Martin."
It did. I was proud that I had thought of it. As I read it, I could hear my cowboy's bullfrog voice croaking it out in the snow.
Look Away, it said.
Look Away Silence.
I understood.
It stopped raining.
1
I waited curbside under the copse of trees that lined the Mall in the shadow of the Washington Monument. Hank was parking the car and I promised I would wait for him. The girls were already out on the sea of panels that spread as far as the eye could see, but I dared not view it yet. In fact, when Hank told me to wait, I didn't argue. If he never returned, it would be soon enough. I paced, my legs urging me to cross the street and walk in the opposite direction. There were hosts of visitors and yet above the quiet din came the reading of the names. They were read slowly and steady, as regimented as if they were the names of the combat wounded, and who was to say they weren't? Their panels faced the sky, but their names rang toward heaven. Louise and Sammy were scheduled to read a brace of names, and then say a few words of encouragement. Louise was nervous. In fact, I had never seen her so unnerved. However, she left the hotel with renewed conviction, her man on her arm and her daughter in tow.
"Ready?" Hank asked, coming up behind me.
"No," I said.
"Take your time."
My heart raced and my breath hitched. Suddenly, gentle hands braced my shoulder. Hank's lips came to my cheek, and then to my ear.
"It's almost over, Martin," he whispered. "He's in your heart and he goes with you today."
I clutched him and gazed out at the throngs --- the silent throngs that walked between the panels, between the boxes of tissues that were set at each corner. I stepped out. Numb, but I stepped.
At first, the world was brightly colored --- a vast ocean of cloth as varied as the many lives that winked at God. The lanes were even and I had a strange thought that I was on a newly ploughed field in cotton country. Slowly, with Hank guiding me, I walked. Other mourners walked and watched, gazed and read --- in pairs and in clutches and solitary. Some hovered at one panel, while other stood transfixed at a single point, reading or remembering. All the while, the names came over the PA system. Name after name.
I had walked onto this living symbol of shame and remembrance afraid to cast my eyes downward. I knew that at some point I would come to Matt's panel. I heard some people whispering. Did you see Rock Hudson's panel and someone else referred to Keith Haring's. Was this a museum? A place to gather mementos? I noticed people photographing individual panels as if they were making a scrapbook and these were works of art. Art? No. This was the fabric of our grief that we sewed together to get a government to recognize that here was the unattended business in the land, business that stole away the young. This was not a cemetery. This was the graffiti of the heart. It shouted quietly over the landscape from the Capitol Dome to the Washington Monument --- ten thousand expressions of remembrance all shouting in a whisper Listen to me, for I am gone and could be still here if you did not ignore me.
Finally, I gained enough courage to look down and see them --- to appreciate my fellows in kindred threads. There they were as I passed --- photos of young men and hearty couples. Their jackets and jeans, their merry life-filled faces enjoying what I had now in abundance, but they had not. Teddy bears for infants with short shrift date spans and firemen and police. There were architects and dancers and actors and poets and lawyers and even a nurse. I walked and walked until I scarcely noticed those who walked with me, beside me and between the cotton bounded lanes. It was so huge, this quilt --- this field of waste that lay before me. I thought of the hours I spent caring for Matt and it was now multiplied in the thousands and tens of thousands. There was fellowship here among those who shared my peregrination. Still the names came.
The names were read from the podium some distance away. Suddenly, I recognized the voice --- sweet and motherly. The quilt disappeared as Louise's list was read. I listened and listened well.
"Raymond Adams," she said. Her voice was steady, but I knew she was holding on for dear life. "Raymond Adams," she said again, having lost her place. "James Wise, Kevin Marsters, Buddy Havran, Rob Frobier, Sgt. Andy Andersen, Riccardo Sanchez, Rob Hackett, CD Smith, Steven Coates, Nicolas Alesandro, Jon Eriksson, Russell Hay and my son . . . my son, Matthew Kieler."
"Matthew Kieler," Sammy said, leaning into the mic. He supported her as she unfurled her own paper. She took a deep breath, and then held onto the mic. It reverberated, but no matter. She would have her say. This woman who had been my mainstay would have . . . her . . . say.
"When my husband and I were asked to read a portion of the names, we were hesitant. There are so many names --- so many fallen --- more fallen than in all the wars we have ever fought. Yet, our government. Yes, I must say it; our government ignores this devastation, because they do not value the lives of our children. They think that because our children live their lives as they are, and because the upper echelon do not approve of our children's life-ways --- their natural, normal life-ways, it gives Washington a right to watch them die and not even shed a tear or even to bring themselves to say the word . . . AIDS. There, I've said it. It's been said in the shadow of these great monuments. But here is another monument that spreads further than anyone could imagine. This crop of death embarrasses them, because these angels, like all angels, are different. I am sorry to say that, because they are different, those who rule us are indifferent to them and their plight. I am sorry, but our fingers are sore from sewing their names into quilts."
She soared, her voice a power over all whom heard her. I thought of this woman who had stood weeping over the Thanksgiving dishes, the woman who held her thoughts together for her son and the family he had cobbled together. This woman who gave me the Pope's nose. I was never so proud of anyone in my life.
"I loved my son," she said. "I love him still. I am proud that he lived his all too short life as the man he was, living with another man, the love of his life. Their love was good --- still good." Her neck stiffened. Her chest heaved. "And because the dragons in the palaces of alabaster do not know what love is and have forgotten that this country was founded on the principles of freedom and good spirits. It is because of their neglect, our children die and posterity is supposed to forget about them. No. I am proud of my gay son --- my brave, gay son, who told me who he was and let me share in that great gift.
"Mothers," she caroled. "Mothers, do not shun your sons or deny that great gift, because you never know how long you have to revel in it. I shall revel in the great joy of Matthew Kieler's life for as long as I breathe. For as long as I . . ."
Sammy gathered her into his arms. There was a silent wave of applause, but her words burrowed into their hearts where most of the applause was kept. I just stood transfixed before someone's panel and read the tag line.
I miss you Daddy . . .
I lost it.
2
The names began again. Hank shuffled me along in the direction of our destination. I fumbled in my pocket to assure that I was prepared. Suddenly, some one called to me.
"I know you," a man said.
He stood beside a pearl white panel along with a cluster of other men. He looked familiar and then . . .
"Yes," I said. "From The Crow. You were a colleague of . . ."
"Not really a colleague. I worked at Gamma Rex. Is Matt here?"
I shook my head, and then remembered the flirtatious cutie that was with this man that night. I regarded the panel.
"I'm sorry," the man said.
"I don't recall your name," I said.
"Perry Chaplain."
"Martin Powers."
"And this is my partner, Marlin."
"Marlin Fiske," said the partner.
"Glad to meet you," I said, grasping his hand. "Is this . . ." I gazed down at the panel again.
"Bobby's," Perry said. "He's finally at rest, although it was a mighty feat."
I perused the panel. Other men approached.
"It's lovely," I said. What else could I say?
"We all contributed," one of the others said.
"Martin, this is another Gamma Rexer. He knew Matt."
"Luke," the man said. "Luke Oliver. I didn't know that Matt was . . ." His sighed. He touched his partner's hand.
"Martin?" asked Luke's partner.
Now that man was more than familiar. He had worked at The Cavern. Branch. In fact, he took the picture of Matt and I on leather Santa's lap.
"Branch?"
"Branch McPherson."
"Small world," I said. "Where's my manners. This is Hank LaCrosse.
"Nice knowin' you."
"Can you believe this?" Branch asked.
"It takes my breath away," Luke echoed.
"I agree."
"I guess," Perry said. "I guess we are the survivors."
"And we must survive," came another voice.
A tall man, who had been lingering with a shorter fellow at the far end of Bobby's panel, approached.
"We must survive," he reiterated. "Like that lady just said, this is a quilt made with love, but shame on us all for letting it get made in the first place."
"Kev," his partner said. "I don't think this is the time and place."
"What better time and place to draw this story to a close."
I smiled. He was a little firebrand, this one --- a true activist in the best sense of the word. A clear reminder why we stood on this ground. I extended my hand.
"Martin Powers," I said.
"Kevin Borden," he replied. "And this is my better half."
"Louis Lonnegan."
I was glad to meet them. It was New Jersey here on the Mall.
3
Ginger and Leslie waved to us. I said my farewells to Perry and his crowd and continued toward the place where I belonged. Viv and Frank hovered over the panels. Viv was a mess. She clutched a box of tissues, her mascara ruined, her face clown like. I do believe this was the first time the enormity of the crisis had hit her. Frank was moribund, swaying on his legs, his head cocked, inspecting first Russ' panel then Matt's. Jasper and Rudi were a few rows down, but were coming home to roost as were Louise, Sammy and Mary, strutting across the lawn from the Monument.
I felt like a magnet. I knew that this would be graveside again, only Matt was not under that panel. He was looking down somewhere, maybe even laughing at me. I was the magnet now. These people --- these wonderful people were here for me, with me and once again, it was all about me. It's all about you, Pumpkin. And I was glad for it, because I needed to hold this little passel of hearts together on the threads of my cowboy's quilt.
"So many," Viv said. It echoed Bobby's crowd as they wafted in his trace. "I didn't know that there were so many. How can it be? How could they let this happen?"
"Yes," I said. "But here is the panel that matters to me."
Louise reached us. She was out of breath, but immediately gave me a hug.
"That was a wonderful speech, Mom," I said.
Viv hugged Louise.
"Be brave, dear," Louise said. "We must all be brave."
She gathered us all into her arms in turn. Even Rudi let her hug him. Then we all fell silent and pondered Matt's panel.
"We did a good job," Sammy said.
"We did," I said. Then I fumbled in my pocket again. "It's not quite finished."
"What do you mean?" Leslie asked.
I took from my pocket some gauze.
"What's that?" Louise said.
I unwrapped it. Needle and thread.
"Is there a repair needed," Ginger said, inspecting the edges.
"No," I said.
I reached into my pocket again and retrieved another item --- two other items.
"What are you up to, son?" Sammy asked.
"Mary," I said. "I need you." I hunkered down. "Steady me."
She placed her hands on my shoulders.
"No. Really hold on."
Leslie and Ginger helped.
"What on earth?" Louise asked.
I opened my hand. In the bright sunlight gleamed two golden rings.
"I'm sewing these on," I declared. I could hear them whimpering already. "It will declare to the world that I married this man, despite what the law says. Martin loves Matt and Matt loves Martin and these rings will say that to everyone who walks along these never ending lanes."
Mary reinforced her grip while I perused the panel.
"Where should they go?" I mused. No one had a suggestion. I glanced back and forth until it came to me. They could go no other place. So I laid the rings flat and began to sew --- the tight stitches that I had learn through practice at the Lantanas. And so it was. I did it. I sewed those symbols of our eternal love onto that tie --- that ugly, neon purple tie that no man should ever wear, but I shall wear forever.
Epilog
The Vigil I Keep
Life moves on, as they say, one day at a time, one step after another, one Christmas in succession until the holidays disappear into the oblivion of time. And I managed fair and even returned to my retail life at a different mall --- in Woodbridge --- bigger, better and further. Still Hank badgered me to stay connected to what he called the work. I was tired of it, the work. I thought to enter Buddy services, but if I did, it would need to wait. Too soon. I knew the wonderful and thankless things that Hank did, and I needed to be away from it, away from The Cavern, away from the singing and even my apartment. Woodbridge was far enough to consider a change of address. I wasn't committed to it, but it was a distinct possibility.
Finally, because I thought it would shut Hank up, I agreed to join the Hyacinth speaker's bureau. All I would need to do was meet with people and answer questions about care giving. It sounded simple enough and uncomplicated. In fact, for the first few months I did nothing at all in that capacity. Then I was asked to attend an orientation meeting. What's that? I asked. I assumed it was for me. However, it was for new volunteers --- a day of indoctrination. I was expected to do what? Say what? Be yourself. Just tell your story. I could do that. So I didn't give it another thought. I turned up on a late Saturday morning at Bayard Street. Hank escorted me up to the second floor, where there was considerable activity. It unnerved me.
"How many people are at this thing?" I asked.
"About a hundred and fifty," he said.
"I'm gonna kill you with a clean heart. I thought this would be a small circle of chairs."
"No, Martin. Orientation is only held once a year for a full day. You're the keynote speaker."
"The keynote speaker?"
"Yes."
"The keynote speaker? I don't so much as have a note prepared. I was going to . . . wing it."
"Wing it then. Just tell them like it is."
"Like it is?"
I was suddenly terrified. I felt duped. Hank was setting me up for a pie in the face. When I entered the big hall, there was a table set with a place for me. I glanced out at all the faces --- a variety of anxious faces waiting for the golden advice that I had to impart. What golden advice? I nodded to the crowd, and then sat in my duly assigned seat of prominence until I was introduced. It was an abrupt intro as if they all knew who I was and had flocked from all quarters of the State to hear me. I was again a magnet. Well, I guess I had faced worse things, and you can say that again. So I acknowledged their applause, but remained seated. I figured if I had a table for a fortress to hide behind, when they realized that I was woefully unprepared, I could duck the rotten tomatoes.
"Well," I said. "Where should I begin? I'm Martin Powers and I was a caregiver for my . . . my partner, Matthew Kieler. He was from Texas. Had a sweet drawl, y'all . . . and sang like a bull frog." I noticed every eye riveted to me. That calmed. "Yes, from Texas." My mind wandered. The room began to disappear. "We met when I worked in retail on a Christmas Eve. I was the salesman and he was the customer. He had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen and ever will see. I sold him a tie, I did. And he didn't have it gift wrapped."
I was lost in this memory. I could see that cowboy hat in the back of the room. I could sense him there and through it all, I knew all the rookies in the room listened to my every word.
Just tell your story. Just tell it.
"He was trying to pick me up and I was trying to be picked up. So the fates were either with us or against us. I think more with us than against us. He was shy and I was a bold minx. There was no stopping me. It was Christmas Eve and he . . . he was my little over-the-counter encounter and I was . . . I was his Pumpkin."
Over the Counter Encounter
Reprinted from Ties and Rings in The Closet Clandestine by Edward C. Patterson
He was an over-the-counter encounter. His smile won my heart;His wink my soulAnd little did I know then,What I know now.A coffee break, a dinner or two,Then to the blossom of my virgin sheets,This little guy, this blue-eyed soulWould be the one for me;In his arms and his heart so deep.This is the vigil I kept and keep.
We were engaged; And shared some trips,Some clothing and a chair, a lounge;Then somehow after fervent years,A house, the cooking, the cleaning chores;The wonder of how we ever survivedThe money, the bouts, the touch and feel,The reconciliation after ordeal.Never apart; always float,Some days freshOthers rote,Yet, balance it all under the sunAnd happiness is that heart I won.
Into to the hills, to the pinnacleWe camped for weeks and managed colds.Then, home for a month my cold subsides;But my little guy's chest all cures defy.Suddenly, into my sunshine world,I held his hand as he seemed to sink;I learned that the plague was here.My angry soul, who knew not why,I shared a world, but not this one;And I wanted to die and suffer tooInto this horrible harvest reaped.And that is the vigil I kept and keep.
I quit my job to be with him As better and worse and better and grimIntruded on each waking hourAs I cared for my little blue-eyed flower.I helped him walk and rubbed his feetSo he might find the peace to sleepAnd that is the vigil I kept and keep.
The day it snowed I carried him To a place where he could see.The snow he loved, and was meant for himBecause God knew from me.But he could not see because the plagueHad torn away his eyesAnd so I sat beside my loveAnd told him of the scene.Then, his family cameAnd they saw and knew;Each touched my loveAnd wept anew.It's snowing Matt --- and just for you.They went awayBecause they knew.And my little over-the-counter encounterSnuggled me close and went to sleep.And I am always alone with him.That is the vigil I kept and keep.

If you wish to contact Hyacinth AIDS Foundation for information or a donation, they can be reached at


Hyacinth AIDS Foundation


317 George Street Suite 203


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Edward C. Patterson has been writing novels, short fiction, poetry and drama his entire life, always seeking the emotional core of any story he tells. With his eighth novel, The Jade Owl, he combines an imaginative touch with his life long devotion to China and its history. He has earned an MA in Chinese History from Brooklyn College with further postgraduate work at Columbia University. A native of Brooklyn, NY, he has spent four decades as a soldier in the corporate world gaining insight into the human condition. He won the 2000 New Jersey Minority Achievement Award for his work in corporate diversity. Blending world travel experiences with a passion for story telling, his adventures continue as he works to permeate his reader's souls from an indelible wellspring.
Published Novels by Edward C. Patterson include No Irish Need Apply, Bobby's Trace, Cutting the Cheese, Surviving an American Gulag, Turning Idolater, Look Away Silence, The Jade Owl (Jade Owl Legacy Series Book I), The Third Peregrination (Jade Owl Legacy Series Book II), The Dragon's Pool (Jade Owl Legacy Series Book III), and Southern Swallow Series (Book I -- The Academician). Coming soon: Southern Swallow Series (Book II -- The Nan Tu; Book III -- Swan Cloud; Book IV -- The House of Green Waters), Belmundus, The Road to Grafenwöhr, and Green Folly. Look also for The People's Treasure (Jade Owl Legacy Series Book IV) and In the Shadow of Her Hem (Jade Owl Legacy Series Book V).
Poetry books available are The Closet Clandestine: a queer steps out and Come, Wewoka & Diary of Medicine Flower. Also Are You Still Submitting Your Work to a Traditional Publisher?
Dancaster Creative www.dancaster.com
From my mind to your imagination . . .

