Message of Love (14 page)

Chapter 20

August 1981

Everett had asked, then begged, then almost demanded that I accompany him and his father on a road trip to upstate New York to visit Holly and see a closing weekend performance of a summer theatre musical and the elaborate costumes she had designed. It seemed absurd to him that I couldn’t just drop everything, since they would pass by Greensburg anyway.

“So, you really can’t go with us?” his voice on the phone still sounded bewildered.

“I told you,” I said. “I have to work.”

“Fine. See you in a week or so.”

I knew the trip would have provided some nice time with his family, or part of it. Everett’s mother had taken off for the month to Martha’s Vineyard with her sister’s family, I’d been told.

Everett’s dad was more relaxed about spending time with us, I felt a pang of loss to miss the opportunity to see Holly as well.

But economic realities interfered. My scholarship at Temple had not been renewed, due to university budget cutbacks. Sometimes, Everett and his family’s affluence made him seem indifferent to my own situation. I wanted to save up my limited funds. With an additional tuition hike at Temple, plus other potential expenses and the rent on our new apartment, I simply had to work.

The rest of my summer would be spent discussing peat moss with housewives, or so I thought.

“Excuse me, young man. I’m told you’re the gardening expert.”

I turned from shelving a rack of withering baby Petunias on the sale table to see a portly older man in a colorful madras shirt, khaki shorts and sandals offering an expectant glance.

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but… What can I help you with?”

“You see,” he glanced at the plastic nametag pinned to my shirt. “Reid. I bought a few little cherry trees to perk up my back yard, and–”

“What kind?”

“Excuse me?” He took on a haughty tone.

“I mean, are they Cornelian, Bing, Yoshino…?”

“Goodness, you are quite the expert!” He folded his arms.

The Latin terms for the various cherries jumbled around in my head along with an obvious realization; the man was gay.

“They need well-drained soil,” I added. “You don’t want to over-water them.”

“Well, one of them, I’m not sure, but I think it might be…” he sort of whispered it, “dying.”

“Oh, well, if you want a refund, you need to go to–”

“No, no, that’s alright.” His hands fluttered. “I just wondered what I may have done wrong.”

“Well, it could be root shock.”

“Really?”

“When did you plant them?”

“April.”

“That should be okay. Sometimes, too much fertilizer can hurt them, if it has too much high-nitrogen. You might add some B-1.”

“The vitamin?”

“Liquid form; Aisle Three.” I pointed.

“Oh, alrighty then. I was wondering if you could come and look at them to sort of check them out.”

Oh, yes; definitely gay. “Um, Ernie’s the delivery and home guy. I could ask him to–”

“No, no, that’s fine. But I could use some help getting my purchases into my car, at least.”

He turned aside to reveal a cart full of items; mulch bags, a few decorative planters, and other supplies. It seemed odd for him to continue his gardening so late in the season. With another gesture, almost an intentional eye flutter, it dawned on me. I was being cruised. It felt kind of nice.

“Did you want to get anything else before you go to check-out?”

“Well, I suppose I could do with those vitamins you mentioned.”

“Great. Follow me.”

After I led him through checkout, I pushed his shopping cart as he led me to a rather fancy Cadillac. The trunk easily fit all the supplies.

“So, thank you, Reid.” He offered his hand.

We shook. “Thank you…”

“Richard, but you can call me Rich.”

“Rich.”

He withdrew his car keys, and fiddled with them for a moment. “I hope you don’t mind my harmless flirtation.”

I must have blushed. Perhaps it was just a flush from the effort of hoisting the bags into his car.

“No, no, but… did you..?”

“Oh, sweetie, if you’d visit my home, you’d know I live in Forrestville, with my mother. She’s a pip. And we know the Forresters.”

“Oh.” And then I got it. “Oh!”

“We do miss them. That German clan is a bit noisy. We’re just across the road.”

“I see.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” He patted my shoulder.

“Actually, it’s not a secret.”

“Well, then. Give Everett my best. You know, I never saw him after it all, you know…”

I nodded. “He’s fine. We’re…we’re fine.”

“Good. It’s a small town, you know.”

I nodded. “Something I find out more every time I come back.”

“Well, don’t make my mistake.” He leaned in, as if offering a secret. “Get the hell out while you can.”

As he drove away out of the parking lot, another hand flutter emerged from his rolled-down window, and I felt a combination of feelings; proud that I had been able to help him, worried that I had somehow betrayed myself by acting or looking gay, even though he knew who I was. But he had a point. It was a small town, and getting smaller.

“Oh. My. God. Richie Gunders?”

Everett was more than amused by my encounter with his neighbor. He had called me to apologize for being snippy a few days before, and to regale me with his description of “the only motel in town. It makes our summer camp cabin seem like the Ritz.”

“So you do know him.”

“Of course. He was always barging in pretending to share recipes with Helen. But I knew he just wanted to ogle me whenever I was home.”

“Sounds a bit odd.”

“He is.”

“How’s your dad?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Fine. He and Holly are having drinks at the only bar in town, settling old scores, I guess. I’m just here in my bed, thinking about you.”

“That’s sweet. So, are you gonna swing by my house before we head back to Philly?”

“After we get back. What’s up?”

“Mom and Dad have invited you for Labor Day; backyard barbeque, the works. Your dad and Holly can come, too.”

“Dad’s probably otherwise engaged with some real estate swindle back in Piss-bar, but Holly might.”

“Cool.”

A silence followed, where I listened to his breathing, longed for him.

“Do you ever…?”

“What?”

I paused. “Nothing.”

“Come on. Wait; do you have your hand in your pants?”

“No! I’m in the kitchen.”

“So. I recall our first New Year’s there.”

A popped cork, kisses. I felt a surge in my heart.

“Ev, do you ever… think about us, a long time from now?”

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid of becoming a lonely spinster living with his mother and hitting on stock boys?”

“I’m not a stock boy! I’m a ‘gardening expert.’”

Everett’s laugh was so loud I had to pull the phone from my ear.

But then his tone went soft, as if it were one of our quiet nights in bed. “Reid, Giraffe, my hunky spunky man child. I don’t think about the future...”

“You don’t?”

“If you’d let me finish; I don’t think about a future without you.”

“You always know the right thing to say.”

His voice called out, away from the phone, “Hey, Dad!” then closer, “Gotta go. See you… in the future?”

“Okay.”

Two days, later, half a dozen postcards from upstate New York’s “Scenic Catskills!” arrived, each one from him, with a comical series of tiny drawings. My favorite was a depiction of what I assumed was an aged version of he and I in a pair of wheeled and non-wheeled rocking chairs.

Chapter 21

September 1981

“Ugh; Jerry’s pity-fest.”

My father nearly dropped a tray of uncooked burgers on his way out to the back yard. Everett’s comment had obviously confused him.

“Don’t care for it?” Dad asked, trying to keep things light. “Gimme a minute. I’ll turn it off.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, it’s fine. Reid, can you get the buns?”

He set the tray of meat down on the brick edge of our fireplace, shut off the television, then fiddled with the stereo, settling on one of his old jazz albums. It was hardly Labor Day-appropriate, but the melody calmed us.

“Much better,” Everett said as he gave me a concerned glance, then smirked, “Nice buns.”

We joined my mother and Holly, who were sitting at a table and chair of patio furniture on our back yard, sipping colorful drinks with a good portion of rum probably mixed in. They too raised an eyebrow as Dad and Everett continued their discussion. Everett bumped down the one step off the porch, settling his chair on the lawn.

“What is it about that telethon that upsets you, son?”

“Dad,” I said, feeling defensive.

“No, it’s okay,” Everett said, waving me to silence. “It’s just… it creates an industry of pity, not empowerment.”

“I see.”

The burgers sizzled as Dad slapped them onto the grill. I stood, unsure where to place the tray of buns. The nearby table was full of speared vegetables mom had arranged, each of them proudly plucked from her nearby back yard garden.

“Are you going to offer a lecture again, brother dear?” Holly said. She wasn’t exactly soused, but working on it. While I was glad that she had made the time to visit with my parents for the holiday, I didn’t appreciate the sibling friction she and Everett seemed to share.

Having finished her job as the costume designer for a summer theatre company in upstate New York, over appetizers and a first round of drinks –we ‘men’ had stuck with beers
– Holly had regaled us with the gossip of the various philandering theatre professionals’ not-so professional behavior.

“I’m not lecturing,” Everett said, although he did seem prepared to wait for our attention. “Sister, dear,” he added with a light tone of sarcasm. He turned to my dad, who listened, standing sideways at the grill so his back wasn’t turned. “I just think it’s a kind of pageant of condescension that doesn’t really help disabled people.”

“But they raise millions of dollars,” Mom said.

“Sure, but for what? Administrative costs for nonprofits that spend most of their budget on advertising and more fundraising. How much of it goes to research? A cure? Or even job placement, skills training? They just parade these kids out for a has-been comic to make you cry. It’s a self-perpetuating industry.”

“They are kind of pathetic,” Holly muttered. “No offense,” she hoisted her glass toward Everett.

Everett offered a bemused scowl at his sister, who pretended to ignore him as she sat under the shade of the lawn furniture umbrella. These were the kind of almost cruel comments Holly seemed allowed to make, knowing Everett understood and even appreciated her caustic wit. I never joked about such things with him, except when we fumbled in bed, where things often became a bit comic.

“You’re an accountant, right, Mister Conniff?”

Even though Dad had repeatedly asked Everett to call him Hal (not Harold, his dorky full name), he never did. It was one of his many respectful gestures toward adults that I admired and tried to emulate. Even dressed in a casual shirt and khaki shorts, he carried himself with that private school formality. It was one of those rare days where, in the company of family, he didn’t appear self-conscious about his legs. They’d thinned considerably, but his dark fuzzy hair maintained the nearly simian masculine physique underneath his clothes.

Dad flipped a few burgers. “Well, yes, but to compare, every can of peas we distribute doesn’t actually cost more than a few pennies. We sell it, and the grocer sells it, and people make money. That’s how it works.”

“But donations shouldn’t work that way,” Holly added.
“Ev’s right. Shouldn’t it be the state or the government’s responsibility?”

Everett sighed. “But that’s the argument that we’re a burden, millions of people paid off to get out of the way, not contribute to society. The kids at the camp where Reid and I work; if they don’t get a chance, that just leaves them at the mercy of charities. How can they make lives for themselves?”

“Do you get,” my mother asked, “I’m sorry if it’s not, if it’s a private matter, but don’t you get Social Security? Disability?”

Everett shook his head. “My parents make too much money. When I’m independent, then maybe, but I’m too rich. But for others, that’s just an incentive to not work. If I wasn’t ‘a Forrester,’ I’d want to get a job, but if I do, then I don’t qualify. The entire system’s set up for a victim status.”

Dad had added the buns to the grill. The smoke churned up, wafting too close to me. I stepped away, feeling the impulse to add something to the conversation, but I wasn’t sure how I felt. I knew Everett was excited about returning to school, getting back in the world of being busy, part of something. He sounded as hungry for yet another debate as he was for the food.

Although we’d spent most of August apart, except for one weekend visit, I knew he was anxious, about more than school.

While it was great to hear him inadvertently stating a kind of purpose, a focus he might want to take with a career after school, it seemed he had yet to figure out where or how to accomplish that. Would my being with him become a mere afterthought?

His van, parked in the driveway, and nearly packed with both of our belongings for fall semester, fortunately didn’t include any furniture. My parents were enthused about our return, although assured that we didn’t need them to travel with us.

They were understandably curious about our new apartment, and Mrs. Kukka, our eccentric-sounding landlady. I was just looking forward to spending a cozy night with him in my old bed, then heading off the next morning to Philadelphia to restart our life together.

“Well, I can’t imagine you taking charity,” Mom said. Her gesture back toward the woods behind us, beyond the open field, implied a reference to Everett’s former home and his wealthy Forrestville history.

“Well, no, of course,” Everett answered. “I’m not like the veterans, you know.”

“Like the guys on your basketball team?” I said.

“Yeah. I mean, they have great support at rehab, but economically, they’re struggling, and their families sometimes have other problems. But I have an advantage as well, kind of a former outsider’s perspective. I never…”

He paused for a moment. Dad continued tending the barbeque, as my mother, Holly and I waited as Everett struggled to explain himself. Holly sat forward, as if ready to offer him something, a hug, perhaps.

“Did you see
Coming Home
? The movie?”

“Yes, of course,” Mom said. “Remember, Hal, we all could barely speak after it, it was so upsetting.”

“Ann?” Dad interrupted. “Could you help me here?”

Although she rose to assist him, stacking the burgers in between toasted buns as if it were nothing, I knew his reason. He wanted to change the topic.

Those few years ago, me a hapless high school junior, before any of this had happened to Everett, or we’d met, as the credits had rolled for the film, I remembered glancing over to see tears glistening from my father’s eyes. It was probably one of the only times I’d ever seen him crying. Later that night, my mother had quietly visited me in my bedroom and explained that two of Dad’s high school friends had gone off to Vietnam and hadn’t returned alive.

I looked at my father’s tall frame, his back to me as he fussed over the grill, and wondered how many dark mysteries he would always keep to himself.

“Well, the guys at Magee, the older ones, said that was exactly what it was like, only worse,” Everett continued. “Things only got better a few years ago.”

“It was very tragic,” my mom added. “But here!” she perked up, bringing a plate of food to the table. “Who’s hungry? Don’t worry, we can still talk seriously,” she assured Everett.

“That’s okay,” he sighed. “I’ll stop. I can be a total downer sometimes.”

“You?” Holly joked. “Never!”

The four of us sat at the table, sharing bowls and plates full of potato salad, seared peppers shucked from spears, corn on the cob, and burgers done to fatherly perfection. We passed condiments, ate silently for a while as the music from the living room echoed softly. Everett squirted a bit too much ketchup, the flatulent sound inducing a few giggles.

“You know what was really tragic about that movie,” Holly said. She sipped her drink, pausing as we waited. “Jane Fonda’s hair!”

After dinner, as dusk swept over the expansive field beyond our yard, and Mom took away the dishes, Dad closed up the barbeque and retreated inside, as if sensing that Everett and I wanted to be alone for a bit.

Holly stood close, grinning and almost whispered, “Your parents are so sweet.” She offered to drive Everett and me to take a nostalgic glance at her family’s former house, but we declined. So instead, she bid us adieu. “I think I’ll walk off my cocktail buzz before heading back home. See ya in a bit.”

We watched her walk across the field, where she almost became lost amid the darkening light and a few errant fireflies. A breeze passed by us, still thick with summer’s weight, the kind that, when I was a child, had filled me with a longing and a nervous anticipation for the coming school year.

Somewhere in the middle of her trek, Holly breezily waved back toward us, taking almost the same path Everett and I had made years before, when we hardly knew each other, but were connected by a sudden passion.

“Funny,” Everett said as he waved back to her, then took my hand.

He didn’t need to explain.

That night, a moth fluttered outside the screen in my window. I had kept my small desk lamp on since Everett was still adjusting himself into my bed. A warm breeze wafted over us from the window as I stripped down to my underwear and stood over the bed. Although he had slept over several times, I still marveled at his presence, so relaxed.

“You’re very lucky,” he said as I lay down beside him.

“To have you? I know.”

“No, I mean your family.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“They’re just so comfortable with us.”

“They are.” I leaned in and kissed him, realizing that despite their understanding, I still felt a bit awkward being affectionate with Everett in their presence. Kissing and touching him held so much meaning for me, but still felt more comfortable in private.

And yet, he had a point. How many other couples like us got to do this? I didn’t know. The few gay people we had met in Philadelphia were all single.

Everett had described the few gay and lesbian students he’d met at a Penn meeting after the attack on a student. He said they were frustrated and concerned, but none of them were in relationships.

Everett’s roving hand pulled me back from my distracted thoughts. Everything might change once we began living together again.

But I had to put such thoughts aside. As we quietly giggled and rustled about, while knowing any sounds wouldn’t bother my parents in the next room, our attempts to soften our caresses made them more intense. Pressing close to him, I felt a new desire, slower but more secure, a new anticipation for our life ahead, while that moth kept fluttering against the screen.