How Long Has This Been Going On (74 page)

There was no peace in Danny's letters, I have to say. More and more, they were all hospital, wasting away, and dying. But this letter was suddenly nostalgic, about a childhood Danny, wondering and wishing:

Dear Walt:

Danny is fine on this Sunday. His mom made him his favorite breakfast, French bread à la French toast, with bacon and authentic maple syrup, served with milk coffee, and Danny's eyes have cleared till he can almost tell who everyone is when they come into his room. His mom is so cute, too, jumping up at all the commercial breaks to turn the sound off the TV. And Danny's hearing is fine. I always run about the house mornings, to keep it all quiet so he can sleep late. The others in the house smile as I go by, because well what is a bear doing in our house and so on. But they obey. Danny's dad even gave up smoking. I know he already wanted to give it up but it's kind of sweet that he could only do it now, when he thinks he might help Danny fight the ailment.

That's what they call it. They are afraid to say its name, as if that would lure up a devil to take Danny away. They are only thinking of what happens next, while Danny is thinking of his past.

This is what Danny told me: When he was fourteen, he went up to summer camp in the north woods. It was one of those fishing camps. Ugh, how terrible they are. Thousands of innocent fish die just so your dad can tell his friends that you're a man, you hooked a fish.

But the thing on Danny's mind is his little brother Gene was so darling when he was young that he was the mascot of the camp. Everyone was hugging him all the time and saying how cute he is. He was exempt from any bullying or hazing. And one day, after breakfast, two of the older kids just kind of followed Danny and Gene back to Danny's bunkhouse, and Gene had his little pal with him, Ronny Miller. And Ronny was going on about something and one of the big kids decided to make a show of himself, how he's the boss of things, and he banged his hands against Ronny's ears very hard. You know, like saying, Shut up you little spaz. But Ronny really started to cry, one of those soundless sobs that really bounces off the walls because he is so hurt in his feelings.

Well, the other big kid didn't like this much. He knew what an obvious culprit his friend really was. But it was Danny who should have done something, or said something, and he didn't. He was afraid.

I keep telling him he shouldn't dwell on the past, but he keeps talking about it, how he should have acted in a strong way to defend the weak. He curses himself, because a gay man should know about protecting minorities from violence. And Danny didn't know, because he was afraid. Danny doesn't want to be afraid any more.

Love,

Claude

"They don't just kill us!" Walt raged. "They rip us apart, limb from limb!"

Shreve said, "Your boy friend socializes with the enemy." And Walt replied, "Oh, he takes their money, that's all. Blue doesn't care what a Republican thinks."

Carson said, "You're always fighting with Blue now. But you're always forgiving him." And Walt replied, "The fights are mostly my fault."

Spider said, "You are correct to fight. Everyone who doesn't work with us works against us." And Walt replied, "I'm trying to convert him." But Spider snapped right back with "What if he converts you?"

Poor Walt: so happy with Blue, and so frustrated. Why do we always seek to change the people we love? Reform them, cure them? Sure, there's tension when two don't agree. But is it not more advisable to learn to live in peaceful disagreement than to war over who shall be brought to book, forced to "agree"?

Listen to something that David J. Henderson told Chris, when he pointed out that he had, in effect, been proposing marriage to her for nearly a year and began to press her for an answer. At first perplexed, then flattered, and at length as captivated with him as when she had first laid eyes on him (and thought, What a handsome, virile, probably intelligent, and in any case absolutely
heavenly
man!), Chris officially responded, "Yes, but."

"No buts, Christine. Yes or no."

"Golly. Well, what are the terms?"

"You
know
the terms, we've been negotiating for months. I'm the husband, you're the wife."

"You mean, You're the man, so I'm the employee."

"I mean, I'm the worker, we're the partners."

"Do we have to... Can't we just marry and then work it out? Let it evolve?"

He shook his head.

She said, "I thought love conquers all."

"That's the mistake battered women make. They think love is the primary ingredient in marriage."

"So it's
not?"

"It's one of several. What about responsibility, trust, understanding? Frankly, I think respect is more important than love. Loyalty, too."

"But love is... It's..."

"A bird, Christine. It's here, it flies away. You know what is the most important thing in a marriage?" It is this next statement, reader, that I wish to emphasize. "The most important thing is Getting the Rules Down in Advance and Holding to Them. You know my rules, Christine. Accept them or release me."

"Release you? Who am I, Guinevere?" Chris struck a Camelot pose. "Go, Lancelot, and never darken my towels again."

"You're joking because you're scared."

"All right, what are your rules again?"

"I make the money, you mother the children, we share the chores."

"What about my rules? My
career?"

He shook his head.
No.

"You prick."

"Christine, you
know
these live-together-work-separately showbiz relationships never work. Because there's no home in them, wouldn't you say? That's what I say. One of us has to give it up."

"Why not you?"

"Because I'm doing better than you. Do you know how much I made those two years on—"

"The soap-opera king! Right! So why aren't you a movie star?"

"I'm idealistic. I wanted my year of rep."

"J., this isn't rep, it just calls itself that. Rep is, like, you play Laertes on Monday, Cyrano on Tuesday, a Restoration cameo on Wednesday, and the youngest Tyrone in
Long Day's Journey
that night. It's not for people who are in it for the money, J."

He shrugged.

Enough of this. Now I want to ask Walt and Blue a comparable question: You think this is love? One fight after another, and always the same fight? You think you can go on indefinitely without getting some rules down, as J. suggests? Without trying to respect each other's differences instead of whacking away at them, the way Walt mashes Blue with politics and Blue scorches Walt with his many varieties of intolerance?

They'll be wiser when they're older, you think: but I'm not certain they'll last that long, the way they tear into each other. Naturally, Tom and Luke dote on Walt and Blue's fights. Already, Walt has moved out on Blue and back to Tom and Luke's several times, once for two straight weeks. Walt was very determined that time. "I'll never, never,
never,"
he was saying. "Never in a
million."
Tom and Luke said nothing, afraid it was too good to be true. The Kid, too, held his peace, throwing up his hands at the theatre whenever Walt went into a dithyramb about how impossible Blue was. "I've been very forgiving of Blue in the past," Walt announced. "But this time I'm made of ice."

Then Blue visited backstage after the show one night, and Walt melted immediately if not sooner.

"Check-in time is first thing in the morning," the Kid cracked out; but Walt and Blue went right to Tom and Luke's and moved him back in with Blue that same night.

Okay, boys, now stop re-creating vicious patterns and
get the rules down.

They didn't, alas. Blue is thirty-three and Walt is twenty-nine going on twelve, and both still think that life is for winging it. For instance, as the New Year approaches and Blue's Republican asks if Blue's "fine young lad" will be attending the party, Blue doesn't stop to consider how Walt might feel—and act—when surrounded by the people he believes he loathes. Blue is so dependent upon the stipend his Republican disburses that Blue fears to protest. And Walt wants to stand by Blue. Blue says it's important for Walt to come, so Walt says he will come.

That, of course, was their fatal mistake.

Listen. Just after Christmas, during intermission at the theatre, the Kid told Walt that they were definitely taking the show to New York—his replacement was stepping in in early January, and the Kid and Chris would fly out for auditions that weekend. There was room for Walt if he wanted to see the big city.

"Blue is my savior," said Walt. "I will not leave him."

Then came the package from Danny. Not a letter this time—a box. Luke phoned Walt, and Walt was very excited, absurdly so, as if he thought that Danny himself might be inside. "Don't anyone open that box till I get there," he warned Luke and Tom.

"Sauerbraten, mashed, and red cabbage?" Luke asked.

The box stood on the kitchen table and Walt went right for it. "Golly!" he said. "This is some ultimate thing, I know!"

"Maybe we should wait for Tom," said Luke.

"But how could I wait?" Walt sitting at the table, clutching the box. He examines the mailing label, written out in Danny's mother's now-familiar curlicue. "It's incredible of Danny to send me a present," said Walt. "Christmas. With all he has to worry about."

Tom came home soon enough, and the two older men stood by as Walt cut the strings and slit open the cardboard. Pulling away the wrapping, he reached in, touched something, and drew back, his face clouding as fast as a Kansas sky.

"Claude is in the box," he said.

Luke peered over and pulled out the bear. "Gosh, he must be as old as we are. Our life is in this box."

"Why would Danny send him to me, though? Claude was always a hometown sort of bear."

"Well, here's a letter, anyway," said Tom, fishing it out. Walt took heart at the same old Danny envelope, light gray and square-cut, with a 4-H club stamp sealing the flap.

"Maybe Claude got into trouble," said Walt, "and Danny sent him here till it blows over." "Open it," said Luke.

"I'm just about to," said Walt, beginning to weep. "I will really read this letter, only... What if it is not a
good
letter?"

Tom moved the box to the floor and sat at the table. He said, "Come on, now, Walt."

Luke put his arm around Walt's shoulders, sat him at the table, then sat himself. "We're all with you, Walt."

Walt wiped his eyes, opened the letter, and read aloud:

Dear Walt:

This is not a long letter, because most of the time I am not in my "full capacity," as Doctor Jeros says it. He told me that I should put my affairs in order before I go into the hospital again, and this is part of that. This letter. I hope you always believe that our friendship and our music act and conversations about so many things were all the best time of my life. I have not said that before, but okay I'm saying it now.

Walt flashed through the rest of the letter in silence, then put it down. "I should have known," he said. Luke reached for the letter, but Walt grabbed it back. "No," he insisted. "No, sir. I can do it."

Walt read:

I am asking Mom to send Claude back to you if it turns out that I don't come out of the hospital. You know how bossy and starved for affection Claude can be, and Mom has enough distractions. Please don't tell Claude that I died, because he has become so sensitive and unpredictable.

If you should see a ghost, well it's probably me, trying to say hello or just watching over you or something.

Love, Danny

Walt refolded the letter and put it in the envelope. "Don't look at me as if I'll explode," he said. "I've been doing that so much lately, I'm all exploded out. And, much as I would love to pick Claude up by a paw and use him to smash every glass and plate and head in this kitchen room, I won't do so."

"I should hope not," said Tom.

"I will just go home, now, and—"

"You
are
home," Tom told him.

"This is
your
home. My home is where Blue is."

Tom shot a glance at Luke.

"Uh, Walt, maybe you shouldn't be going anywhere just now," said Luke.

"I'll be going home," said Walt, almost airily. "With Claude. I'll tell Claude that Danny is dead. I will. And if he can't handle it, he can fuck himself." "Walt—"

"Oh no, you don't!" cried Walt. He rose, and Tom and Luke did, too. "I'm not your victim! You just hate Blue and my freedom!" "Walt, that's not it at—"

"So let go of me! I'll
kick
you! I'll never come here again!"

Tom had been about to subdue Walt; Tom backed off.

"You think I'm bluffing?" Walt cried. "I'll smash the place up and start to hate you!"

"Walt—"

"Don't try to force me around!"

"All right, then. Go back to your... to Blue," said Luke.

Walt went to the phone and called Blue. "Could you please come and get me here?... Because... Oh, I got some bad news and... Right now? Okay. Bye."

Then it was like Gary Cooper facing off the
High Noon
gunmen in that kitchen. "This is class war," Walt told them. "It's the decadent bourgeoisie against Blue and me together."

Tom said, "Honey, you're just as bourgeois as we are. Remember, I knew you when you and that teddy bear were peeing in
both
your pants."

"Tom!" said Luke. "For Christ's sake!"

"Well, who does he think he is, anyway?" growled Tom, as he stomped out.

"He just doesn't get it," said Walt, with withering scorn.

"His vision has been blurring lately," said Luke, no shading, just saying it. "He has terrible night sweats and weird headaches and a purple spot on his right foot."

It took Walt a second or two to absorb this.