Message of Love (13 page)

“Darling, we’ve found our dream house,” Everett whispered as our host chattered on about some university trustee. “Let’s not fuck it up.”

“Did I say anything?” I shrugged.

Mrs. Kukka led us through the living room, which managed to be cozily cluttered with what appeared to be African and other ethnic antiques, and more built-in bookcases in a dark wood that matched the trim and mantle. Below the front bay window was a large sofa.

Everett rolled ahead, spun around back to the hallway, then instinctively sought out a door. He pushed it open.

I froze, but Mrs. Kukka called out as she followed, “Yes, that would be the bedroom. The bathroom’s on the left across the hall, and a washer and dryer in the storage room by the back door, which has steps, so...”

We trailed behind Everett, who had already wheeled around to the other side of the low, surprisingly simple bed and spartan furnishings. The current resident’s belongings included stacks of papers, a stereo, and what I first thought was a chair, but it was a waist-high suit holder.

Through the window, a florid back yard beckoned. Beyond that, the back of the drab apartment building we’d just visited was thankfully blocked by an ivy-covered fence.

Mrs. Kukka stood in the doorway. “I’m upstairs. I’ll be out of your way, and I mostly stay in the front rooms. I have a little kitchenette, but I’ll use the big kitchen down here sometimes.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“I have a gal who comes by to clean once a week, but she’ll stay out of this room, if you prefer. Oh, and my daughter might come for a visit every now and then. She likes to check up on me; thinks I shouldn’t be alone. But I’m not in agreement. I host little dinner parties and gathering in the front rooms. You’re not obligated to attend, but certainly welcome; mostly retired faculty and their widows like me who still like to prattle about primitive cultures.”

She seemed to have finally run out of patter. I didn’t bother to add anything, but nodded mutely.

Everett smiled, said something in Latin, “
Domum dulce domum.”

“Which translates to?”

“Home, sweet home,” Mrs. Kukka said. “I think we’re going to get on just fine.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kukka, But, you see…” Everett glanced at me, his eyebrows raising, as if to say, Here it comes, “This isn’t just for me. Reid and I are together.”

She stopped, blinked. “Oh. You mean
together
together.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She pondered for a brief moment, as if distracted by something else. “Well, I guess that, unlike a few previous gentlemen, there won’t be any problems with ladies coming by.”

By the time Mrs. Kukka had trod upstairs and back down after having dug up a copy of a lease, which noted that payment was due upon signing, a demand she shrugged off, Everett and I had already imagined moving in.

“I can park in the driveway,” he marveled as we departed. “It’s ramped. This kitchen kicks ass, and there’s no dead grandma feel in the bedroom.”

“Well, no. She said she’d been renting it since–”

“Yeah, plus, maybe she’ll cook for us.”

“She’ll probably kick us out if we make too much noise,” I muttered. He knew I meant sex noise.

“Maybe she’s a little hard of hearing.”

“We can hope.”

Chapter 18

June 1981

Since I’d started college, I hadn’t helped Dad work on any house projects. When I was younger, he had taught me some of the basics about plumbing, electrical wiring, and other small projects that didn’t require professional help.

So when I casually mentioned over dinner that I would once again invite Everett to stay over for a few nights between our trips to and from Philadelphia and the summer camp, and that a small removable ramp might be a good idea, he immediately said, “Sure. How about we make one for the kitchen door in the garage? Then we can just store it there.”

His enthusiasm heartened me, signaling in his quiet way that he understood Everett and I had remained more than close, that we were together, and that that wasn’t going to change.

When I found him that Saturday morning kneeling by the kitchen door taking measurements, he offered a chipper, “Get dressed. We’re off to the hardware store.”

Picking out two-by-fours and a sheet of board, we kept the conversation in the abstract; my plans to make more ramps for parks as a sidebar to some as-yet undefined career, his mention of a disabled employee at one of the stores where his company distributed food. We were talking around Everett.

Mom welcomed us back as we unloaded the lumber, then took a bag of peat moss she’d asked for. She continued working on her vegetable garden in the back yard, where I was looking forward to assisting her.

As the band saw rang loudly in the garage, Dad and I donned goggles and sanded the parts, and re-cut them to fit. Once he finished cutting the wood, I saw this as the time to ask him things I had never considered aloud.

“So, you and Mom.”

“Yes?”

“You both really get along.”

“We do. I’m lucky.”

“How does that work?”

Sensing that a ‘discussion’ had commenced, Dad put down the saw, shifted to picking out screws, then chose a compatible drill bit for the battery-powered screwdriver. “We talk about things. We have had arguments. Just, you usually aren’t around.”

“About what?”

“Well, getting a bigger house, having more kids.”

“Which you didn’t do.”

“Well, I like this neighborhood, so I won that one, and your mother pretty much has to bear the burden for the other …discussion, so I left that up to her.”

“So, you don’t…?”

“We do. I got a vasectomy, which took about ten minutes, and it didn’t hurt, and we figured if we wanted more kids, we’d adopt. But we were so happy with you, we left it at that.”

“Come on.”

“No, really. You were just a wonderful kid. You still are.”

“Thanks.”

“Is this about Everett?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you having problems?”

“Not exactly. I just… We’re going to be living together. And it’s different than the dorms. How do you get around, you know, the daily stuff, the ‘Put the dishes away like this,’ or being around other people he doesn’t like, or that I don’t like but he does, or doing things–”

The specifics of our unusual sex life, the feeling that we might just become mere friends if the passion drained away; these worries I couldn’t explain to him.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Dad said, a bit too glibly.

“Okay.” I had expected a few platitudes.

“No, really. Half of getting along is just letting go of things that don’t matter. You got along in the dorms last year, didn’t you?”

“Pretty much. It was a little cramped. I just basically let him have his way. We have this joke about who’s the alpha male. But we’re moving into an apartment, or part of a house. It’s really… I just want to… make it perfect for him.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Look, I know you have to make accommodations for him. That’s what we’re doing here.” He tapped the board in front of him. “But I don’t know if your… relationship is any different than anyone else’s. I see you…you’re really devoted to him, and that’s fine. But, you have to make yourself happy, too.”

“But I’m happy if he’s happy.”

“But if you’re not, he won’t be. Sometimes, you have to think of yourself, too.”

“Well, see, he wants me to work at the summer camp again, but the nursery’s just more money. I love those kids, but I don’t know if they’ll take me back again in August, and he pays for stuff, but I just want to make my own way, you know?”

“Exactly my point.”

As he returned his attention to a plank, I assumed the conversation was over, but he said, “Also, I like to surprise her, remind her that I don’t take her for granted.”

“Ah ha.”

“You know, our twentieth wedding anniversary’s coming up next year.”

“You going to get her something nice?”

Dad nodded.

“So?”

Dad offered a sky grin. “Keep a secret?”

I mimed zipping my lips shut.

“Five days in Hawaii.”

Mocking a gasp, he shushed my little hummed hula wave with a finger to his lips, which failed to stop me, so he revved up the saw, which worked.

But after a few deft board cuts, he pulled up his goggles once again, and said, “Anyway, you should know about making things grow.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t just plop a plant into the ground. You care for it, nurture it, right?”

I nodded. “You’re pretty smart for an old guy.”

Chapter 19

July 1981

Returning to the camp at Pine Grove gave me a sense of anticipation and belonging, combined with the mild apprehension about returning to the ‘rustic’ cabin with Everett.

Some of the kids hadn’t returned, because their parents couldn’t afford it, or because of health problems. And we learned about the new campers’ needs.

I was relieved that “Amazing!” Kenny had returned, his affection for me as sweet as ever.

During our recreation and therapy in the small pool, Kenny was at first nervous about the water. I held him carefully as he paddled about in his unique way, his inflated life vest glistening under the sun.

It was only after the second week’s work, with a few other staffers relaxing over some snacks and a discreetly shared bottle of red wine, that any sort of problem came up.

Two of the kids’ birthdays were celebrated within a few days of each other, and Everett had pushed the boundaries of standard activities. He’d bought a few boxes of sparklers at a store in town, leftovers from July Fourth. Just after sundown, we taped the sparklers to the kids’ wheels, and they giggled and hooted as the swirling sparks lit up around them.  

Karen, a rather enthusiastic new staffer, had expressed concern about “bedtime irregularities,” preferring more traditional entertainments.

She had brought a box of children’s books, and read to the kids on a few afternoons. They seemed rapt by Karen’s enthusiastic oration of a few fairy tales. But something about them bothered me; Everett, too.

With the kids all in bed, we were free to discuss adult topics as we enjoyed the warm night air on a back porch for a well-deserved break. But our talk still came back to the kids.

“They really liked your story time,” Alice, the senior staffer said.

“Thanks,” Karen smiled.

“Are there kids’ books with disabled characters?” Everett asked.

“What do you mean?” Karen asked.

“You know, stories about kids in wheelchairs, blind kids.”

“I haven’t found any,” she said.

“We should write some,” he suggested. “Let the kids write stories.”

“Well, most of them don’t have motor skills for that.”

“I meant, they could tell the stories and we could write them. And then they could illustrate them,” Everett added.

“What’s wrong with the fairy tales? They’re classics.”

As Everett started in, I felt a burst of pride, and held back a smug grin, knowing he’d just been given the easiest bait for a debate.

“Sure, they’re classics,” he said. An expert tactic; agree with your opponent before unleashing the attack. “But don’t you sense, underneath it, a rather consistent form of sexism in the role of women in those stories?”

“Because they want to find a prince?” Karen sounded confused.

“Because they need a prince to save them,” Everett countered. “Snow White’s basically a quad in a coma until some prince kisses her. And think about the representation of disability, or deformity, if you will; dwarves, witches who use canes, people with physical abnormalities are always depicted as evil.”

“But that’s what they wrote,” Karen countered. “You’re saying we should ban them?”

“Not ban them; rethink them. Why do we have to tell them the old way? I mean, these stories were written when kids like the ones here were locked up.”

“Tossed into ovens by witches,” I joked.

“Who are always depicted as disabled or disfigured seniors,” Everett piled on the last smackdown.

“So you agree with him?” Karen asked me.

“I…”

She pushed out an exasperated sigh. “Of course he agrees with him. You’re both…”

“Both what?”

“Well, you’re …friends.”

Everett stated a bit too loudly, “We’re more than friends. Come on, Karen. And you think we don’t argue?”

I stifled a burst of laughter, then added, “Also, sorry, I don’t mean to pile on, but what about the depiction of forests?”

“Forests? You think, along with being sexist, fairy tales are, what, anti-tree?”

“Well, think about it,” I said. “It’s always some mysterious woods; Goldilocks, Little Red Riding Hood.”

Alice inserted a comment. “Actually, she did okay in the woods. Grandma’s house was the danger zone.”

“But still,” I continued. “They all make the woods out to be some dark evil place, when the truth is, like you said, the creepiest dangers are their own families.”

Karen huffed. “That’s an entirely different argument.”

I sipped my wine, tried to sound as eloquent as Everett. “I’m trying to get these kids used to nature, to let them be a part of it, to appreciate it, and then they get a bedtime story guaranteed to give them nightmares, thanks to the Brothers Grimm.”

“Well, maybe you should take over story time. I was just trying to entertain them.” Karen crossed her arms.

“We’re sorry,” Everett said. “Please don’t take offense. It’s just, we could evolve our teaching and entertainment to reflect their lives in an uplifting way.”

Alice stood, waving her empty glass. “Okay, speaking as someone named after a preteen drug addict who consorted with tea-gulping rats and bunnies, I declare the sermon over. Who wants more wine?”

In spite of Alice’s intervention, I sensed a distance from Karen after that night. It kind of soured the remaining weeks, and a sort of turf war for the kids’ attentions began, culminating in a seemingly innocuous drawing.

The idea of a book made by the kids got going once we let Karen have control over its production. That maneuver on Everett’s part was calculated and on-target.

Since the kids’ imaginations spiraled off into a series of stories, it worked out better to separate the contributions into chapters.

Karen got an estimate from a local copy store in town for spiral-bound color booklets. It wouldn’t be cheap, but since the copy shop owner had a soft spot for the camp, he offered a discount.

The first day, we got the kids to make drawings of any creature they wanted, which resulted in a lot of cats and bunnies. Karen’s creative idea, days later, was for the kids to draw their favorite monsters, which unleashed some surprising results. Dragons, balloon-like Great Pumpkins and a giant snake were among the contributions. But Kenny’s drawing caught my attention.

“What’s that?”

“Doctor Monster,” he whispered with a wary tone, as if the mere mention might conjure the big-headed green-faced man-ogre in a lab coat with knives for arms.

“Pretty gruesome.”

“He likes to operate a lot.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m spozed to get another one, but I don’ wanna.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You been to hozpitals?” Kenny looked at me with a wide-eyed concern.

“Yep, when I got my tonsils out. I was about your age.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No, but I don’t remember much. I got ice cream.”

He looked away, returning to his drawing. “Ebrett said he had two op-rations.”

“Yep, and I visited him a bunch of times.”

“Did you feel bad?”

“I cried buckets,” I nodded.

His little arm reached for me, and I held his hand, what there was of it.

“Are you guys friends?”

“The best.”

“Best friends?”

“Best best friends.”

“Then don’t let him go back.”

“I promise.”

Karen hovered nearby, offering a wary glance. “Let’s finish up before lunch!” she announced.

After the monster drawings were collected, she instructed everyone to pick someone from the camp and make drawings of themselves or each other. I felt a bit too much ‘childhood therapy’ in her tone, but it seemed like a good idea.

Our staff cook asked for some help hauling boxes of food, so I ducked out and assisted him on the loading dock for a while. When I returned, Everett was beside Kenny, beaming in appreciation.

“Check out our junior Matisse,” Everett pointed.

“Who’s that?” I asked Kenny.

“It’s you and Ebrett!” he grinned.

In the drawing, a big-eared bespectacled version of me with really long legs stood next to a curly-haired Everett in his chair. We were holding hands.

“Aw, that is so sweet!” I leaned in and hugged Kenny.

“You can have it,” he said, almost casually.

“Don’t you want it for the book?”

“Okay.”

But then Karen’s clapping hands signaled a summing up, and as she scooped up the various drawings, we had to get the kids ready for lunch.

“Were the two of you acting … inappropriately in front of the kids?”

The way Alice said it, sitting behind the cluttered desk in her office, as if she were already exhausted by the absurdity of the situation, should have calmed us. But Everett was understandably upset, and I was disgusted.

Karen sat on the edge of a chair, lips pressed together, eyes on fire. She had seemingly forced Alice into this meeting just after lunch, and this little scandal she’d cooked up couldn’t wait.

“No. We were not,” Everett simmered.

“I think we need to think of the parents, and what they would think. Surely I don’t have any problem with you two being–”

“Really, Karen?” I let Everett take the reigns of our defense.

“No, I don’t! It’s just that, how did Kenny come up with such an image?”

“We hold the kids’ hands when they’re scared of getting in the pool. I hug. Is that a crime?”

“Well, no, but you two–”

“We two,” he almost snarled, “have respect for the camp, and don’t do anything in public that would be ‘inappropriate.’”

“Well, it’s not going in the book. I have to limit the pages anyway–”

“Fine, Karen,” Everett snapped. “Maybe we can ask Kenny to redo one with us, far apart.”

“This is absurd,” I muttered.

“Well, I’m sorry if you think I’m over-reacting,” Karen snipped.

“Perhaps you should take the drawing and keep it for yourselves,” Alice suggested.

“Gladly,” Everett reached for it. “I know a nice frame shop back home. It’ll look great over our bed.”

The books made great gifts for each of the families, and the kids liked them, too. But as our time there drew to a close, Everett and I knew we had finished our service, and with Karen having dug in and pretty much spoiled any sense of innocence, we were done, just like in the book, excised and edited out of the picture.

“You think he ever saw us?” Everett wondered as we packed up in the cabin for the last time. He placed Kenny’s drawing of us carefully between two pieces of cardboard.

“How could he?” I replied. “The windows are too far up for him to have spied on us.”

“Maybe he just knew.”

“Pre-teen gaydar?” I suggested.

“Well, you know, he is amazing.”

On our last day, as we bid farewell to our co-workers, except Karen, who was conveniently elsewhere, I wondered how many other people could sense our connection, and what they really thought of it.