Jeff
Eva’s heading this way. She gestures to me. I lift my eyebrows. She mouths the words: “I have something for you.”
I follow her off to a spot out near the pool so we can talk. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking around for Lloyd, but I can’t spot him.
Eva hands me a small sealed envelope. My name is written on the front. I recognize the handwriting.
“Where—how . . . ?” I stutter.
Eva’s looking up at me. “He sent it to me in a Christmas card. He asked that I give it to you tonight. He was insistent that you get it on New Year’s Eve.”
I stare down at it, then move my eyes over to her. “Where is he?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Jeff. I’m being honest with you. The postmark was from Texas. But he said he was moving on.”
“And you haven’t asked?”
“No,” she tells me. “If he chooses to tell me where he is, that’s up to him.”
I study her. “You gave him money, didn’t you? That’s how he can afford to travel.”
“He needs to be able to find himself,” she says softly.
I make a little laugh in disbelief. “And you’ve asked for nothing in return? He’s just free to—to
go?”
Eva’s eyes find mine. They’re not the eyes I remember. Lloyd’s told me she’s been doing work, that she’s trying to change, and I haven’t entirely trusted it. But maybe I should. These eyes are very different from the ones I remember.
“Anthony has a chance to remake himself, to start over,” she says.
“And you want to help him to do that.”
She nods. “Don’t you see? It’s what I always tried to do, but was never successful. I don’t know what Anthony’s running from, but I know he’s tired of running. I saw myself in Anthony. I saw someone who wanted to recreate his life, to begin again. It’s what inspired me to look at myself.” She pauses. “I want Anthony to succeed where I failed.”
I study her some more. She’s being sincere. I’m certain of it. Finally, I look into her eyes and see truth reflected back to me. I’ve been the one person she’s never been able to fool, and it’s
honesty
that I see at long last in her eyes and hear in her words.
“Maybe,” I tell her, “maybe you haven’t failed at that.”
She gives me a small, hopeful smile. “We’ll see,” she says.
I embrace her. “Thank you for this,” I tell her.
“Happy New Year, Jeff.”
Then she’s gone.
I open the note. I stand with it under a dim light, being jostled by guys too twisted to notice as they head into the men’s room. I pay them no mind. The note is simple:
Jeff,
One year ago tonight I met you, and my life changed. I want you to know how much the past year meant to me. How much you meant, and all you gave to me. You will always be family to me.
No, more than family.
With love,
Anthony
I look up into the crowd on the dance floor.
No, more than family.
More than the way family is defined by straights.
You can’t describe it because there aren’t words. You don’t set limitations, because you’re always surpassing them. You don’t let others tell you how you’re supposed to be. You’re true to yourself and nobody else. You’re just who you are.
“We’re just who we are,” I whisper, looking into the crowd.
I think of those idiots out on the street, calling us abominations. What do they know about us? What do any of those who look in from the outside know about our hearts and our minds and our souls?
We’re good people. The music is mixing into a song about loving one another. Isn’t that what all the songs are about? Love: finding new love, getting over love. Love, love, love. Too often have we believed the old lie that says we’re bad, we’re perverted, we’re abominations. But those who spread the lie don’t know. They don’t know how we love, how we hurt, how we live.
I look out into the sea of sweaty men in front of me and I think of those gay men who recoil from this, from
any
embrace of our subculture—the ones who don’t like femmy guys or show-tune queens, who turn up their noses at leathermen or circuit parties or Bette Davis imitations or anything that’s simply “too gay.” They carp over all that’s bad, while acknowledging little of what’s good. I think of the critics, forever standing on the outside, forever observing, never participating, never a part of anything. I think of how strenuously they object to being part of the gay tribe—
any
gay tribe—and I remember how desperately Anthony wanted the very thing they reject: to be
a part of us
.
I wish that I could paint a more complete picture of Anthony for you. All those disparate pieces, all those intriguing snippets of his life: that home in Hartford, that basketball hoop, the girlfriends and the football team, the years in prison, the thoughts he must have had late at night staring at the ceiling of his cell, the yearning that led him to me. I wonder how often people come into our lives who impact us greatly and yet remain unknown to us.
Henry’s right: I want to be fully present, fully revealed, to the people in my life. But Anthony will have to remain an unfinished person. I’m sorry about that. I can do no more now than let him go.
“Jeff!”
I turn. It’s Eliot and Oscar, and behind them come Billy and Adam. The extended family.
Anthony once called them cousins.
There are hugs all around, and Eliot holds me out by the shoulders to look at me. “Girl, it has been a long time!” he gushes. “Where have you
been?”
“And you never told us you were a writer!” Adam says. “I saw your picture accompanying some article in some magazine, and I said, ‘I know him!’ I was so
proud!”
I laugh. Yes, I submitted an article to
The Advocate
, and yes, they published it: a short piece, part of something longer, something still growing, about finding one’s soul in the middle of three hundred gay men on a dance floor.
“So maybe you’ll write a book someday,” Oscar chimes in.
“Yeah. Maybe I will.”
“A gay book?” Eliot asks. “Like the great gay American novel?”
I shrug. “I can only hope. But yeah, it’ll be gay. I’ll definitely be a gay author.”
They all hoot, pulling me out onto the dance floor.
“I’ve missed you guys,” I say, falling into their embrace. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I spot Lloyd and Henry and Shane, waving them over as we all move out to dance. “This is my partner,” I say, introducing them to Lloyd. They all coo over him, sizing him up and down appreciatively. “And you know my two very best friends in the world, Henry and Shane.”
Hugs and kisses, lots of hands on chests and grabbing of butts. So maybe the cousins have done a couple bumps of X. But for me at least, the love survives the chemicals. For the moment I feel total bliss. The music mixes into Amber’s “Above the Clouds,” and I get a little emotional.
“I just want you to know,” I say, surprised at how choked up I am, “how very happy I am being with all of you here tonight.” I look over at Henry and Shane and then back at Lloyd, taking his hand. “You are my family. If the past year has taught me anything, it’s that. And how important family is.”
Lloyd kisses me. “That’s very sweet, Cat.”
I look off into the crowd on the dance floor. I see Javitz dancing there. He’s never far away, thank God.
“Seriously,” I say. “I think sometimes we don’t appreciate just how much we all mean to each other.”
“True, true,” Shane agrees.
“And what friendship really means. And how much—”
“Jeff.” Henry’s suddenly in my face. “We all love you, too. But you’re forgetting one thing.”
I look at him.
Henry smiles. “No talking on the dance floor.”
Everybody laughs. Especially me. I throw my arms around Henry, then Shane, and finally Lloyd.
“We’re flying above the clouds,”
I sing out.
“So beautiful and clear,”
Lloyd sings back.
You see, this is my moment. Someday, when they look back and write about these times, I will be able to say that
I was here.
I danced every dance and knew the words to every song.
I wrap my arms around Lloyd.
I can see everything from here.