Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle (53 page)

"I'm going to leave you two alone for a few minutes," she said. "But I'll be back. I'm sure you'll have questions for me."

 

She walked from the room. I hesitated a moment, then got up. "I'll be right back," I told Alan. Dr.

Veasey was halfway down the hall. Hearing my footsteps, she stopped and waited. "What can you do for Alan?" I asked her when I reached her.

"We can probably start him on AZT," she said. "There are some others that have been helpful in fighting CMV."

I then asked her the question I'd been dreading. "Will he get his sight back?"
She waited a moment before answering. "The effects are irreversible," she said. "So he's blind," I said, more to myself than to her. "Is he going to die?"

"Advanced CMV damage is usually an indication of late-stage AIDS," she said. "Based on his white blood cell count, I think Alan is very sick."

 

"But he looks fine," I said. "Could you be wrong?"

"I wish I was," she answered. "But I don't think so. Not everyone with AIDS gets KS. He could look like he always has and still have the virus. That's why it's important for you to find out if you're infected as well."

"I'll take care of that tomorrow," I said.
"I have to go see another patient," she said, touching my arm. "I'll see you shortly, though."

"Thank you," I said as she walked away. I returned to Alan's room. He had stopped crying and was simply staring at the wall, his eyes open and unseeing.

 

"I'm never going to see again, am I?" he asked.

 

I sat on the bed, stretching out alongside him and leaning my head against his. I took his hand and held it in mine. I didn't answer his question.

"If you're sick, I won't be able to live with myself," he said.
"If I am, it's not your fault," I said. "For all we know, I infected you."
Alan said nothing. We sat in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. "I have to tell you something," he said.

CHAPTER 52

When Alan died, I was reading him page 367 of Stephen King's It . We'd been working our way through it for nearly a week, and had reached the part where two of the boys, Bill and Richie, were escaping from a werewolf (actually the Werewolf of horror movie fame) by riding as fast as they could on Bill's bike, named Silver after the Lone Ranger's horse. After a close call, they had finally outrun him, and were now collapsed on the ground in relief.

"‘D-Don't, R-Richie' Bill said, ‘duh-duh-duh-h-h-'" I read, trying to duplicate the boy's stutter. "‘Then he burst into tears himself and they only hugged each other on their knees in the street beside Bill's spilled bike, and their tears made clean streaks down their cheeks, which were sooted with coal dust.'"

I looked over at Alan, lying in his hospital bed, and was about to ask him if he wanted me to go on to the next chapter. Then I saw that his chest had ceased rising and falling. Dropping the book, I went to him and placed my hand on his chest. Feeling nothing, I lifted his wrist, which felt heavy and lifeless in my hand, and searched for a pulse. When I found none, I gently placed his hand on his stomach, kissed him once on the mouth, and rang for the nurse.

They let me sit with him for an hour alone before taking his body away. I sat in the chair I'd sat in every night during his stay at the hospital and watched him. At first, I tried to pretend that he was asleep, but already the coldness of death was filling the room, as if his soul, when it left his body and flew skyward, had drawn all the warmth with it in its wake. I was left with the shell, empty and decaying even as I gazed upon it. But I couldn't bring myself to leave him.

There will be a last time for everything. For eating your favorite cookie, for hearing your favorite song, for making love to your lover. There will come a moment when you will have done those things for the final time in your life. But even when you know that time is coming, even if you can identify the event before it happens, how can you ever be prepared for that last taste of chocolate, that last swallow of bourbon, that last rush of pleasure before it's gone forever? You can linger, and savor, but eventually you will have used up every last particle and there will be no more. I had three weeks with Alan after that first visit to the hospital. During the first, I had to go to school each day and try to forget about him while I administered final exams and graded last-minute papers. For the final two, I'd spent every day with him, reluctantly going home only when the nurses threw me out for my own good, telling me to get some food, a shower, some sleep. Even then I slept badly, afraid that Alan would leave while I was dreaming. In the morning, I was at the hospital before the sun rose. From the moment of his diagnosis, I'd tried to see every moment we had together as the last one. I'd memorized Alan's face, his words, my feelings about him and us and his sickness. I exhausted myself with documenting what I saw as our tragedy. Then one day, as I imagined repeating his last words at some distant juncture in my life, I realized that I was attempting to construct a scrapbook of our last moments together, something I could leaf through later when I was grieving. But the effort was too great, and eventually I'd given up and just accepted every hour he remained alive as a blessing. I had, however, made love to him one final time. That I allowed myself and him. One rainy Thursday afternoon, after trying to recall our last time together and coming up with a hazy memory of a hurried morning fuck before I ran off to school and he to a dentist appointment, I'd shut the door to his room, pulled the curtain around his bed, and removed first my clothes and then his. Alan had laughed like a nervous teenager afraid of being caught, warning me that the nurses would be shocked if they came in to take his temperature or administer medication. I'd ignored him, slipping into the bed beside him and sliding my hand into his pajamas while I kissed his neck.

I'd stroked him slowly, trying to prolong the moment. Holding his cock in my hand, I'd brought him to the edge and stopped, waiting for his breathing to slow before repeating the process over and over, each time taking him a little farther. Finally I'd let him come, catching him in my hand and using his warm jism to jerk myself off. Afterward, he'd cried, telling me repeatedly how much he loved me. I knew that he loved me. I knew that he'd loved me even when he'd allowed someone else to fuck him while watching a porn movie at the Adonis Theatre, where he'd stopped on an impulse one night in November while walking to the subway following a show. Just one time. One other man. One encounter that had been fueled purely by lust and meant nothing. But it had taken everything from us. I wasn't able to be angry at him while he was alive. All of my energy went into caring for him. Now that he was dead, though, I felt the anger rising inside of me. I heard it humming in my head like approaching bees, growing louder and louder until I wanted to rip the sheet from Alan's body and hit him with my clenched fists. I knew then that it was time to leave him forever. I called his mother first. A lovely woman, she had accepted her son's gayness long ago, as had her husband. They'd even been willing to come to New York to see Alan, but he had asked them to wait until he felt better, knowing full well that he never would. He'd thought it a kindness on his part, sparing them from having to see him as he was, but I wasn't sure. As I relayed the news of his death, I was certain that it had been a well-intentioned but cruel deception. His mother, reduced to incoherent sobs, had to hand the phone over to Alan's father. More stoic than his wife, but with a trembling voice, Mr. Corduner had given me the address to which Alan's body should be sent and thanked me for calling. I next dialed Jack, who picked up right away.

"I thought you were Todd," he said when he recognized my voice. "I'm supposed to meet him for a movie tonight."

 

"What are you seeing?" I asked out of habit.

 

"We're arguing about that," said Jack. "I want to see Hannah and Her Sisters and he wants to see Poltergeist II . Do you want to come? You can be the deciding vote."

"I can't," I said. "Alan died."
"Oh, shit," said Jack. "Fuck, Ned. I'm sorry. And here I am talking about going to the movies."

"It's okay," I told him. "Actually, it's nice to hear someone talk about having a normal life. It makes me think things might be okay."

 

"Do you want me to meet you somewhere?" Jack asked.

 

I started to say no, then changed my mind. "How about Uncle Charlie's?" I suggested. "I could use a drink."

 

"I'll be there in half an hour," he said.

It took me half that time to walk from St. Vincent's to the bar, and I was well into my first vodka tonic when Jack arrived. He came over to me and gave me a big hug, which I accepted reluctantly. I appreciated his kindness, but I didn't want pity. I just wanted someone to talk to.

"How are you doing?" Jack asked after ordering his drink.
"Why do people always ask that?" I said.

"Probably because anything else sounds strange," Jack answered. "It's not like you can say, ‘Did you see the hot ass on that guy with the blue shirt over there?' or ‘So, what kind of flowers are you going to have at the memorial service?'"

"I guess," I said. "And, yes, I did see the hot ass on that guy. But he has a butter face." Jack laughed at our old joke, used to describe a man with a nice body but who was otherwise unattractive. "You know what I mean," he said.

"But it's a stupid question," I said. "No offense. It's just that how do people think you are? My lover just died. Am I okay? No. Am I managing not to drink myself into a stupor? Yes. But I'm not okay. How can you be okay?"

"I remember when Brian died," Jack said. "Everyone kept telling me it would be all right, and I kept wondering how it could ever be all right when men were dying everywhere and nobody was doing anything to stop it. Now that seems so long ago."

"It's only been five years," I said.

"That's what I mean," said Jack. "You think it's going to hurt forever, then one day you wake up and realize it's not quite as bad as it was the week before. You know, sometimes I look at Todd and I think about what he was doing when I was living in San Francisco. I had no idea then that I would meet him, and he didn't know anything about me. But we did meet, and now we're together."

"You're making me sick," I said. "Seriously, if you say another word I'm going to throw up on your shoes."

"It's not like I'm telling you to start looking for someone new," he said cautiously, as if I might be serious. "I'm just saying that good things happen when you let them. Look at you, for example. What were the odds that you wouldn't be positive? But you aren't."

"Not yet," I said grimly. "They don't know how long it takes for the virus to show up." "Still," said Jack. "You're probably not."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" I said. "Alan has sex once with someone else and he gets sick, but I have sex with him a hundred times since then and I don't? That just shows you how fucked up this disease is."

"Are you sure it was just once?" Jack said.

 

"He just died , Jack," I said a little too loudly. "And you want to know if I think he cheated on me more than once?"

 

"I just meant that maybe it wasn't as random as you think it was," he said. "It just came out wrong."

 

"Please," I said. "Try again. Tell me how you could possibly say it right? I'd love to hear that one."

 

I stood looking at him, waiting for him to say something else. He hung his head. "Ned, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just trying to help."

"Like you helped Brian while I was gone?" I said.
His head snapped up. "That's not fair," he said.
"Life isn't fair," I shot back.
"We both lost him," said Jack.
"But you stole him," I said. "That's the difference."

Jack put his unfinished drink on the bar. "Maybe I should go," he said. "I think you need to be alone."

I reached out and grabbed his arm. "Stay," I said. "I'm just talking."
He didn't move. "You're right, though," he said. "I did."

"It wasn't like he wasn't willing," I told him. "Besides, it probably would have ended anyway. He wanted to see other people, and I wasn't into that."

"I think that's what probably killed him," Jack said.
"I doubt it," I said. "There were a lot of guys before us. It could have been anyone." "Then why aren't you or I sick?" he asked.

"Hey, I'm bulletproof, remember?" I said. "I've dodged it twice, apparently. For all I know, I'm immune to the goddamned thing. I don't know about you."

"Maybe I haven't," he said. "Maybe it's inside, waiting, like one of those things from Alien ." "You need another drink," I said, signaling for the bartender. We had several more drinks, until we were so stoned we had to get a cab to drive the four blocks to my apartment, where Jack was dropping me off before heading uptown. Before I got out, he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.

"I love you," he said drunkenly. "I don't think I've ever told you that before."

 

"You tried once," I said, remembering the time I'd called when Brian was sick. "But I wouldn't let you."

 

"Well, I do," he said. "You're my best friend."

For a brief moment, looking at his sleepy-eyed smile, I almost asked him to come in and spend the night with me. Then I noticed the driver's impatient stare in the rearview mirror, and I gave Jack's leg a pat.

"Thanks for staying with me," I said.
"I'll call you tomorrow," Jack said as I got out.

I managed to find my key in my pocket and let myself into my building. Navigating the three flights of stairs was another matter. It took me a while, and even then I had to think hard about which door led to my apartment. Fortunately, I picked the right one and eventually got the lock to open. Sometimes your body knows what it needs better than you do, and that night my body wisely demanded the numbing effects of alcohol. I think had I walked into the apartment sober, Alan's absence would have struck me like a hurricane. As it was, I had only to stumble to the bedroom, remove my shoes, and collapse on the bed. Before I had time to register that I was alone for the first time in more than five years, I was asleep.

I dreamt that I was riding a bicycle, the kind every 10-year-old boy has, with a bell on the handlebar, and playing cards tucked into the spokes. Alan was seated behind me, his hands wrapped around my waist. I was pedaling furiously, and at first I thought we were trying to gather enough speed to fly. Then I realized that something was chasing us, something big and bad that wanted to tear us to pieces.