After church, the crowd lingers. Talking weather, sports. Chester families that go back four or five generations. Heels clicking on cement, car doors opening and closing. Kids running across the lawn. The light smell of summer. And me, with this hollow ringing in my chest, watching my son chat with Josh Clay and pretending everything is fine.
Brian and Josh were in the same grade and played baseball together, but they weren’t friends. They didn’t run in the same circles. I don’t think Josh had many friends, not like Brian. I remember him as an awkward teenager—every Sunday he would sit next to his mother in the front row, watching his father preach, looking sullen and uncomfortable, like he was wearing shoes that hurt his feet. But now, grownup, in gray dress pants and a shirt and tie, Josh looks professional, sharp. He’s in good shape, tan and healthy. Next to him, Brian, in wrinkled slacks cinched with a braided belt, and a drooping pastel purple button-down shirt, looks like a wilted flower.
“It’s so good to see Brian,” Anita Brewer, the organist, says. “You must be so happy he’s home.”
My smile is automatic, a natural reflex. “We all are.”
Neither Lettie nor Brian mentioned that he was coming to church with her today. Travis stiffened when he saw him walk in and shot me a look, as if I’m to blame. Brian sat with his grandmother and Jess, a hymnal in his hands. I’m surprised he didn’t bring his video camera.
Reverend Clay, in a white robe and dark green stole, walks over with Janice, his perfect, always pleasant wife, to join Brian and Josh. Both Reverend Clay and Josh are tall with broad shoulders, clean-shaven faces and neatly clipped hair. They look like father and son.
After my father left Chester, the church went through a number of ministers, and then the Clays arrived. They came from somewhere out west, Montana or Wyoming, and they were a little odd and standoffish at first. Over time, although Dennis certainly never inspired anyone with his clunky sermonizing, the family settled in and became pillars of the community. Dennis joined the school board, and Janice ran various social groups for women, like Bible-study and knitting. After all these years, I still don’t feel very close to them. That’s probably more my fault than theirs—I could have invited them for dinner, I could have joined Janice’s knitting club.
Now Dennis smiles at me—I must be staring—and for a moment, I imagine telling him about Brian, the two of us sitting in the hushed, dark church, where he could pray with me, help me wade through fear and shame, show me the light that I cannot yet see. But we do not have that kind of relationship. I could never tell him the truth.
As Anita chatters about her arthritis, the crowd around Brian grows—the return of the prodigal son. Lettie and Jess, and Josh’s beautiful wife Jennifer, and Gus and Pam gather around. Travis stands off to the side, talking to Jim Drewer, wiping sweat from his neck. I suddenly feel like I need to get over there.
Anita pats my hand. “God answered your prayers,” she says. “You got your boy back.”
Brian’s talking about New York, and as he talks, his hands flutter—wings that never stop moving. But his hair is stuck in place with hairspray or gel or whatever he uses. That earring. Won’t take it out, not even at church.
“I went one time a few years ago,” Dennis interrupts. “I was there for a church conference. It was neat to see all the lights. But mostly what you see is a lot of garbage. A lot of suffering, too—street people, drug addicts, homeless. It’s no place for . . . most people, I don’t think. Definitely not for me.”
“No, if you love living in Chester, Ohio, then New York’s not for you,” Brian says, and Dennis forces a smile—unsure if he’s just been insulted.
Josh says he’d like to visit. “I mean, Dad, if that’s where the suffering people are, isn’t that where we should be?”
Dennis’s uncertain smile stays frozen on his face as Josh, eyes bright, talks about saving lost souls. Jennifer stands quietly beside him, the sleeping baby in her arms.
“Well, there are plenty of lost souls here,” Dennis says.
A scowl of irritation crosses Josh’s face, then he turns to Brian. “You ever go to a Mets game? I’m not really a fan, but it would still be cool to see them play at Shea Stadium.”
“No, but I went to a Yankees game once,” Brian says.
“The Yankees?” Josh makes a sour face. “Why?”
“I went with a friend—he wanted to go.” Brian looks extra tired. Pallid and gaunt, he folds his skinny arms over his chest. “My friend Shawn.”
Heat rushes to my face. I watch Brian’s mouth twist, like he’s trying to speak but can’t. He looks like he might cry.
“Shawn died,” he says.
Silence—then a few murmurs, no real words. Everyone stares, then looks away. Not Lettie. She reaches for his arm.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she exclaims. “What happened?”
I can’t breathe. My heart flutters and I feel light-headed. Brian squints, staring into the sunlight. Suspended in silence, we wait. He could tell her, tell all of them. He cocks his hip, tilts his head. Girlish gestures. He must know how he looks. Fairy, queer, faggot. The cruel words drum against my chest.
“Pneumonia,” he says. “He died of pneumonia.”
Lettie, still touching his arm, tells him she is sorry, and Reverend Clay frowns. “That’s a shame, I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t look sorry, just annoyed. Josh studies Brian with piqued interest. Are they all wondering how a young man died of pneumonia? Are they wondering about this word “friend?”
“We should get going,” I say.
Brian huddles under an old afghan of rainbow colors that Lettie made years ago, the television’s blue light washing over him. He scrunches his legs to make room for me and I sit on the end of the couch. His socked feet don’t quite touch my lap. He’s drinking out of the red cup. Every time I see him with it, I feel pinched with shame.
He picks up the remote, runs through the channels, stops on a rerun of M*A*S*H. His video camera sits on the coffee table, a stack of VHS tapes next to it. He’s shown me a few snippets of videos of New York. The city looks exactly like I picture it—dirty and dangerous. He says he has other videos, but I won’t like them.
“I was recording Jess talking about Greenpeace,” he says. “She’s smart. I hope she goes to college.”
“Me too.”
“I hope she gets out of here,” he says.
As Hot Lips and Radar argue, I remember Brian and Travis watching the show together, laughing. It wasn’t always hard between them. When Brian was little, Travis would tuck him at night, and they’d pretend to be cowboys sleeping under the stars. They were buddies. They wore matching Cincinnati Reds hats. They were happy, once, weren’t they? Father and son.
I have not asked hard questions, and Brian has not offered any answers. I won’t be like Travis, I can’t. I make myself speak.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “I mean physically.”
He looks over, surprised. “Fine. Considering.”
Canned laughter from the TV. I force my mouth to move. The words come out in a rush.
“Is there anything you need? Medicine? Should we go to the doctor?” I stop, swallow. My voice sounds loud, strange, not my own. “It’s just, we don’t know what to do.”
Brian pulls his feet in closer, the feet I should touch, massage, but my fingers curl into my palms.
“There’s no cure,” he says. Without emotion or inflection, matter-of-fact.
“Not yet,” I say quickly. “There isn’t yet—”
“There are experimental drugs if you have money, if you know the right people.”
“You’re not taking them? I mean, we could help.”
“There’s nothing you can do.” He sighs. “Also, I’m broke. I mean, I can’t pay you for rent or anything like that, I wish I could—”
“Of course, we don’t want you to—”
“I get Social Security. Medicare. To help, you know, with costs. I probably should go to a doctor but I don
’t know where.”
“Should I call some places?” I say. “Maybe in Columbus?”
“Columbus,” he says. “Kind of far away. But I guess it’s the only option, especially if you don’t want anyone to know—”
“No, I just thought maybe the doctors will be more experienced there.”
On TV Klinger pirouettes in a dress, pretending to be a homosexual, more laughter. Brian’s sweatshirt hangs off him. Underneath, I could trace his ribs so easily. I can see beyond this, and yet I can’t: I don’t know how bad it’s going to get, I don’t want to know.
“New York’s so different. Friends are sick. Dying. Dead. I had to get away. But now, I don’t know.” Brian looks at me, his eyes soft and sad. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
I reach for his hand. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him things will be okay. I want to tell him to stay here with us, his family.
“I’m praying for you,” I say, and immediately I know the words are wrong—it’s not what I meant to say, but I can’t take them back. Brian’s face falls.
In the made-for-TV movies Lettie watches, if there is a struggle or an obstacle the mother faces, her love for her child always wins. I didn’t realize I was unloved until I had children of my own. For so long, I thought something was wrong with me. Then, after I held my babies, I knew what maybe I should have known all long—it was my mother, not me. Something was wrong with her. I would not be that kind of mother.
“I’m tired.” Brian stands up. “I’m going to bed.”
A mother’s love is unconditional. Trembling, I pull the soft, stretched-out afghan over me, and watch the actors on TV talk and joke and laugh as they heal the injured, and the war around them never stops.
I’m not outside for more than a few minutes when I hear the door. Afraid it’s Jess, I stub out the cigarette. I don’t want her to know I’ve started smoking.
But it’s Travis. Still in his work clothes, smelling of cheap beer and sweat. He squints, sounds hurt. “You’re smoking? Since when?”
“I don’t remember. A month or two ago.”
I relight the cigarette, and Travis lifts his eyebrows and makes a “sss” sound, surprised. He doesn’t look good. Heavy eyes, the skin around them pinched. Gray-black stubble, thick mustache. He needs to shave. I don’t know what I’m sorry for exactly, but I am. We have not made love since Brian’s been home.
“I made you a plate,” I say. “You want me to heat it up in the microwave?”
“No, I had a burger at the Refuge.”
I can’t force them to spend time together. I’ve mentioned to Travis that maybe they should go to a ballgame, but he just says, “We’ll see.” I’ve seen how Brian looks at him, the longing in his eyes.
The sun flattens into a thin red line. Next door the Pentecostal girls’ prairie dresses hang limply from the clothesline like drabber versions of themselves. Travis comes closer, doesn’t touch me. The evening light spreads cloud-like across the yard, turning trees into tall still shadows. I feel his body tense next to mine, the hushed silence. The weight of what he wants to say.
“Today at work, Wayne asked me what was wrong with Brian.” Travis pauses. “Wanted to know what is really wrong with him.”
He can’t stand the thought of disappointing his big brother. Can’t stand the thought of embarrassing—or disgracing—the family.
“Did you tell him?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? Do you know what he’d do, what he’d say?”
I remember not very long ago, Wayne said that people with AIDS should be sent to a far-away island, and every one of us, me, my husband, my nephews and nieces, we all agreed whole-heartedly. Protect the good from the bad, the normal from the abnormal, the innocent from the infected.
“They know something is going on, Travis. Maybe we should tell them.”
He has not said the word yet. Maybe he never will, and I’ll continue to go along with the charade, because what else can I do? My son is sick. My son is dying. No, no, no. If we don’t say these words, they will not be true. But I can’t keep hiding, not like this—
“No,” Travis says with finality. “We can’t tell them—nobody can know.”
Brian
June 9, 1986
Shawn told me to document everything, the good and bad. He was scared our lives would be forgotten.
When he first gave me my first camcorder, I didn’t know what to do with it. It was a hefty, bulky thing he got from a dying friend who was giving away all his possessions. At first I just recorded Shawn making funny faces, or Annie telling me about her latest lady crush. Then I started to fool around—teaching myself how to take different kinds of shots, about lighting and editing. Rewind, pause, record, like making a mix tape. I screwed up all the time, and still do—I’ll forget to change out the tape and record over my footage, or I won’t have enough tapes with me to last through the shoot, or I’ll forget to label them. But, still, I’d found something I was pretty good at, or could be good at. I started thinking about art school. Thinking I had a future.
A lot of the videos I made in New York were documentation of my friends just living their lives. Talking, kissing, dancing, or flipping off the camera—always a favorite move. Footage from clubs and bars. Drag queens sashaying down the street. Glitter, rainbows, feathers. Nobody wanted to talk about AIDS or death, and I was relieved—I wanted to capture the joy, the life.
But, Shawn—he wanted me to document the harder stuff. Even wanted me to record him in the hospital, dying. I couldn’t do it.
I didn’t understand then, but I think I do now. The world is ignoring us. We’ve got to document, even if it’s just me talking to the camera in my parents’ basement. At least I’m here. A face, a voice. The world wants to silence and disappear us. Well, here I am. Look at me.
June 10, 1986
Look at them.
Jess was in here earlier and while we were listening to records, she kept staring at the pictures on my wall. Shawn, Alex Morales, John Ziegler, Troy Benton, Jason McDonald. We’re all too young, don’t you see?
She asked me who they were, and I said they were my friends. I wasn’t going to say anything else, but then I don’t know—I couldn’t hold back.
I told her, They’re all dead.
Her eyes went wide. She wanted to know how. Were they in a car crash or something? How did it happen?
It was a reasonable question. She looked shocked—and I remembered, before AIDS, when young, healthy, handsome men just didn’t die. I remember—barely—a time when all of us weren’t so sad or scared.
Different ways, I told her.
Jess, all quiet, sank into the beanbag chair. Maybe she could tell I was lying.
But “Rebel Rebel” came on, so I told her the story of buying my first Bowie record. I know I’ve probably told her before, but she listened patiently. I was twelve years old when I heard the song on the radio, and I begged Mamaw to take me to the record shop in Madison. They’d sold out of Diamond Dogs, but they had one copy of Hunky Dory left. I’d never heard anything so strange and perfect. Later, I saw Bowie on TV performing with Cher, the two of them singing a crazy medley of songs, from the Beatles to Bing Crosby, long-legged, feral creatures in white pants. I was rapt, my body burning, and the edges of Chester exploding: there was a bigger world and I wanted to see it, to be in it.
Bowie showed me that there was another way of being, you know? Like, he broke all the rules about gender, and just like life. I tried to explain all this to Jess.
She just stared at me. She was wearing a shirt that matched her Jams, pink with blue palm trees, and a pair of shades with mirror lenses pushed on top of her head, which killed me—trying so hard to look cool, but still such a nerdy kid. She’s not like I was at her age; she doesn’t skip classes, or smoke or drink. Lately though, she’s starting to worry about what she eats, calories and grams of fat, all that—an inevitable teenage girl thing I guess.
She asked if I missed New York. Jess
is the only one really wants to know about the city.
Of course, I told her. Here, everyone worries about what everyone else thinks. Once you escape that mentality, you don’t ever want to go back.
But you did, Jess says, you came back. She’s sharp.
Well, I said, sometimes you have to go back to the place you left.
She goes, Why?
Why, indeed? To understand who you’ve become. To reconcile. To say goodbye. I turned the record over. I don’t know, I said.
June 13, 1986
I’m doing okay. The same, really. I’m still taking antibiotics the doctor prescribed after my bout with pneumonia. And, I’ve been able to eat without throwing up or endlessly shitting. Right now, I don’t feel incredibly ill, and I certainly don’t feel like I’m dying. But the body plays tricks. I’m feeling practically normal, except I don’t remember what normal feels like.
I’ve had a few bad moments, nothing debilitating. Mostly, I just get so tired. I’ve thought about trying to find a doctor to do my blood work and check my CD4 count, but nobody in these parts will want to examine me. Does it really matter? Like I told my mom, there is no cure.
Yeah, there is always talk of possible breakthroughs—drug trials, new medications. AZT is the brass ring. Men with money and connections get the drugs first. I’ve heard about guys going to Mexico for new drugs that may or may not work. There are those who believe positive thinking will make them healthy. Whatever. Everyone’s desperate for the pain and fear to go away. There’s no cure now, but there has to be one one day, that’s what we’re all thinking. Because if not, then what? The other option is unthinkable. Death, death, and more death.
I know how ugly it gets, but I wasn’t a caretaker, not really, not like Shawn. He nursed a few of his friends, sat with them on their deathbeds, wiped their brows with a cold washcloth, listened. He’d tell me about them as we were falling asleep, holding each other in the dark, believing—hoping—that it wouldn’t happen to us.
The Prettiest Star Page 9
