The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (22 page)

“No heterosexual wedding I have ever been to, whether traditional with trappings or hippie-style on a mountaintop, could match the sweet and forceful love that emanated from Michael and Philip that day, three months before Philip died. Radiating from those two men was a love so powerful that it fundamentally contradicted the notion that gay people are somehow less capable of living relationships than straight people are. Everyone there was affected, from the jaded queer radicals to straight colleagues and family members who experienced profound new respect for gay love. A straight guy, a friend of Philip’s, said to me, with a shy smile of embarrassment crossing his face: ‘I am thinking this would be a kind of gay theatrical spectacle or something, not anything relevant to my own suburban heterosexual life. But my mind is blown—in fact, today makes me think about my own marriage, my level of commitment to it. I get to take marriage for granted; these guys have fought against bitter odds for it. Here’s my old pal Philip near the end of his life. His love for Michael has clearly kept him alive longer than anyone expected, and this ceremony today is the high point of his life. I have a lot of thinking to do after this.’”

A photo is taken immediately after the ceremony: My mother is caressing Philip’s face with both of her hands, looking into his sparkling eyes. They are both thrillingly in the moment. How could I not love her for that?

For most of the guests assembled that night, this was the last time they’d see their friend alive and they knew it. As each of the guests said their good-byes, the subtext was lost on no one, not even Philip. The evening was not only a Renewal of Promises; it was a Renewal of Friendships, which catapulted Philip into a state of bittersweet ecstasy.

Rose Welty’s friendship with Philip never abated, from their connection at the Norton Simon Museum, when they met in the mid-Seventies, to his dying days. Rose was the most steadfast member of a team I assembled to visit my husband—“so he could see a familiar face every day,” Rose remembers—when I absolutely had to fulfill a contracted job.

Philip’s post-party deterioration was as swift as it was vicious. He went completely blind; he could no longer walk; the dementia and the diarrhea escalated. At some point in early September, the doctor gave him “a few days” to live and ordered the morphine drip. I’d lived through this scenario and knew that the morphine drip was a prelude to death. What was amazing and seemed to be part of the ritual, was the way in which the nurse who set up the equipment explained precisely how to increase the dosage. Although it was not part of the nurse’s script, she was clearly suggesting how to help move things along.

He did not die in “a few days.” He did not die in a few weeks. I felt it was my duty to report to his parents that the end was near. They arrived within twenty-four hours, keeping their distance, even opting to stay at a motel in spite of the fact that I’d made it clear they could stay at the house.

His father, reeking of beer in the early morning, left religious pamphlets on Philip’s bedside table, presumably knowing that his son was blind. Who did he think was going to read them to him? Not me, honey. His mother seemed more intent on shopping at the mall than spending time with her soon-to-bedead son. I simply could not forgive them for not accepting him for who he was—what’s religious about rejecting your dying flesh and blood?

Often the parents’ visit will precipitate the death. I felt certain that it was the unfinished business that would release him. It didn’t.

The night before the folks were scheduled to leave, I was carving a pumpkin, pulling out its guts with all my might, while Philip’s Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. I was standing at the sink with my back to her.

The only sound was the squishing of the pumpkin’s mushy face being carved. Then, without warning, she said, “I guess you’ll miss him the most.”

I froze. This was as close as she could get to acknowledging that I was her son’s partner, her son’s mate, her son’s husband. It was a sincere attempt. I turned around to catch her wiping tears from her eyes. “Yes,” I said and tried to thank her with my eyes.

Even though I knew his parents didn’t approve of cremation, it was what Philip and I had decided. “Can you send some of his ashes?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll send you half of them.”

During the final days, Philip would repeat, over and over and over again, how much he loved me. He’d tell anyone who’d listen. Even if no one (except his nurse) was in the house, he’d mightily announce it. Morning, noon and night.

It was Dale who said, “Everything in his world has been eliminated except you. You are clearly the only thing that’s important to him. He’s lost his family, his dignity, his sight, control of his bodily functions. All that exists for him is, ‘I love Michael.’”

We also realized that his ability to express love, finally, was likely the reason that he refused to die. He lived seven weeks longer than the doctor had initially given him.

As the first of November approached, I remembered our day at Père Lachaise in Paris, four years prior: the brightly colored umbrellas in the drizzling rain, the feathery flowers we put on the graves of our heroes, the aching sound of Piaf singing “La Vie en Rose.”

Philip died on November 1, 1992. I was holding his hand and whispering everyday words that seemed to turn into love songs. His mother was right; I would miss him the most.

What, I asked myself, are you going to do with the rest of your life?

ACT THREE: FATHER
               

CHAPTER 40
               

I toast to the life and accomplishments of my daughter, but I am also saying good-bye to her. My daughter will be leaving me—or will I be leaving her? I must let go either way.

While most plays written in the Twenty-First century have only two acts, I have been given an improbable third act, in which I concentrate on playing the role of a father.

I’ve never been as surefooted on a movie set as I am on the boards of a theater, but in my autumnal years, I’ve begun to acclimate more organically to working in film. I’m often cast as a father and always the dad of a girl or young woman, perhaps because I’ve been playing one in real life.

My daughter, Tia, was fourteen when I was working on an indie in Northern California’s sprawling wine country, playing a father with cancer whose daughter is going off to college. It wasn’t until I spoke to Tia on the phone, moments before shooting my farewell speech in the movie, that I was struck with the parallel lives I was living, onscreen and off.

Tia had received news that she was accepted to LACHSA (the L.A. County High School for the Arts). This news, delivered over long-distance lines, was thrilling to me but also a reminder of how precious—and short—life is.

When did my tiny baby girl decide to become an actress? And after high school comes college and then what? And how much longer would I be alive to play the most important role in my life?

A few hours later, I did something I have never done in my long career: I asked the director for “a little time” before beginning the scene. There seemed to be a collective inhalation of breath—among the assembled crew, other principal actors, extras—as I took a few moments to focus on my relationship with Tia.

Flashback: My “Act Three” began in the months following Philip’s death, coinciding with my forty-third birthday, when feelings of relief and despair vied for first position in my heart. If I remained maniacally busy, as I had for most of my life, I was able to ward off the duet of pain and fear. But if I stood still for a second, my very own morality demon would tap me on the shoulder and ask me what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

In spite of fluctuating T-cell counts, my health was stable although I remained rigorously realistic about the possibility of a sudden, unexpected turn. I took inventory of my dreams and desires, juxtaposed with my accomplishments. I had enjoyed a mature relationship; I had achieved artistic prowess beyond my expectations; I had traveled all over the world; I had made some good friends and cultivated some enriching artistic partners.

Not too long after Philip died, I met with an attorney to examine the details of my husband’s will. I was most concerned that his parents, who had been written out of the will during the final months of his life, might try to contest.

Wholesomely handsome and impeccably groomed, Joseph Ferry would be cast in the role of the sympathetic but emotionally guarded professional gay attorney in a television movie. In real life, he was the perfect authority figure, which made me feel like I should have worn a spiffier shirt.

As he reviewed the paperwork, I surveyed the room in an attempt to gather more info on Mr. Ferry. There were several tasteful frames on his desk, but I couldn’t see the photographs since they pointed in his direction, not mine. I wondered if he was single.

“Since Philip very explicitly included a clause that spells out his intention not to bequeath any of his estate to his family,” Ferry said, “there should be no problem.”

Half listening, I found myself leaning so that I could see who was in the photo. It was Ferry with a robust-looking man who also looked like a professional. But what made the picture jump out at me was the little boy snuggled in between them, smiling impishly.

“Is that your son?” I said, unable to stop myself even though I immediately felt I’d crossed some boundary.

“Yes,” he said, a bit taken aback but showing certain warmth that I’d not yet experienced. “My partner and I are in the process of adopting Jake.”

“I want to adopt,” I said. Maybe I blurted—part announcement, part confession, a statement of fact that I hadn’t allowed myself to say out loud for twenty years or so.

CHAPTER 41
               

Ferry warmed up. We were, in spite of our differences, connected. Without ever questioning my motives, Ferry took it all in. He did not suggest I was overreacting to Philip’s death, nor did he bring up my HIV status, which I had revealed earlier in the meeting. He didn’t mention my age, or the fact that I was single. He had a good idea of my financial situation but didn’t lecture me on the high cost of raising a child. It became a conversation between two men, no longer lawyer and client, who simply happened to share the fundamental and overwhelmingly powerful desire to be daddies.

Even though I’d divulged my secret to one person, it would take some time before I mustered the courage to tell another. Besides, as 1993 began, I had to hit the road with performances of
Rock
in Chicago and then rush back “home” to film
And the Band Played On.

Even before officially checking in with the AD (assistant director), I stood with Ian McKellen on the outside steps of a classic Victorian house near downtown chosen to replicate a San Francisco dwelling. It was chilly by local standards.

“Philip died November first,” I told him. In my mind, I could see the two of them, drinking champagne in Ian’s dressing room, backstage at the London theater where he was appearing in
King Lear
.

“Oh, darling,” he said, embracing me tightly as burly grips and nondescript “atmosphere” (actors who would be seen but not heard in a party scene) brushed by us. “I’m so sorry,” he said, holding me close. “You know I am.”

At moments like these I wondered how the scripted material we were about to commit to celluloid could possibly be any more cinematic than real life. I half expected to hear a voice shout, “Cut and print.”

In spite of the somber subject matter (or perhaps because of it), the mood on the set was anything but sober. The first scene we shot recaptured one of those heated meetings that took place at the beginning of the plague; it involved Ian as Bill Kraus, Lily Tomlin as Dr. Selma Dritz and B. D. Wong as Kico Govantes, in addition to actors David Dukes, David Marshall Grant and Richard Jenkins. I played Cleve Jones, the founder of the Names Project and the AIDS Memorial Quilt, although you wouldn’t necessarily know that considering the scant amount of Cleve’s dialogue.

While I wished my contribution to the film could have been greater, I felt blessed to be in the company of these actors, many of whom were gay, on this rarified set. Ian took the lead in turning the tables, making gayness the norm rather than the secret that no one dared acknowledge.

Instead of minimizing who we were when the cameras weren’t rolling, we maximized our queer selves, taking our cues from Ian. No matter how many times we called each other “darling” or “honey,” there would be no macho grips rolling their eyes or nudging each other behind our backs.

At lunchtime, the boys in
The Band
gathered in one trailer and carried on like high school girls at a slumber party, sharing juicy gossip and squealing with laughter. Free at last.

I had never felt such a degree of comfort on a Hollywood movie set. The queers were the majority for a change and behaved accordingly. It had been an arduous fight but it was a sweet victory. While we never lost sight of the film’s profoundly sad storyline, it was a day of triumph with an undercurrent of tragedy.

Certainly more amusing than tragic was a titillating phone call I received from one of the cast members after the day’s shoot. “I have a proposition for you,” he said breathlessly. “When I was a teenager, I went to a porn movie—the first porno I’d ever seen. And I’ll never forget seeing you on the screen.

“I’ll never forget that moment because it felt like it was my coming out. You were part of my coming out as a gay kid.”

I was curious where this was headed; flattered in some perverse way, but also a bit unhinged. “So,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “I’d like to set up a scene where I’d hire some hustlers and re-create the scene from the movie. In a motel room somewhere.”

“Huh? You want me to re-enact the sex scene I did on film, in a cokedup haze, more than ten years ago?” I confirmed.

“Please,” he said, all trembling supplication.

“I just couldn’t,” I said, trying not to be judgmental or snotty. I could not believe that I was having this conversation with a respected Tony-nominated actor, turning down one of the most unwonted propositions I’d ever received.