by F M Land
We slept in the basement that night, locked in each other’s arms. We slept for only a few hours and were awake before we heard Dad’s step on the stairs. I was still very turned on. I knew it was going to be one of those days when I’d have to put a lot of space between myself and Terry.
Before breakfast, we played our tune for Dad. He listened carefully, his eyes on my face as I belted out the lyrics. Then he smiled and nodded. “Wow!” he exclaimed when we finished. “Holy shit, Paul! That’s fantastic! Let’s hear it again!”
After breakfast, I retired to my bedroom, pointedly ignoring Terry’s signals to go for a drive. My desire for Terry at that moment was too unhealthy, too overwhelming, too consuming. With a sigh of relief, glad to be away from Terry and the confused torment that he inspired, I sank face-first into the goose feather pillows on my bed. My anxiety, which held been mounting throughout breakfast – like, what if someone had come into the basement while we were sleeping? – began to subside as I relaxed.
Before I could totally unwind, however, Terry burst into my room, closing the door meaningfully behind himself. With a look of determination on his face, he strode over to my bedside. “Get up! Let’s get out of here for a while!”
“I can’t. I’m feeling too guilty.”
“About last night?”
“Maybe. We’re getting out of control, you know. Too out of control.”
Terry studied my face for a long moment. “I love you.”
Nodding, I replied, “I know. Me, too. It’s just all consuming, this love. All I want to do is fuck you.”
“Yes! Let’s! Come on!”
I shook my head. “We’re taking too many chances.”
“I want to tell him, Paul. I want everyone to know. We need to come out of the closet about this!”
“No!”
Terry began to kiss me then. Hard, so that he bruised my lips. I whimpered a bit, but I didn’t resist. Instead I began to unfasten Terry’s pants. With a moan, Terry wiggled out of his jeans and reached for my fly. We made love then, with a speedy efficiency that wasn’t entirely satisfying.
“Don’t scream,” Terry warned as I neared orgasm. He placed his mouth over mine to make sure.
“Scream!” I exclaimed, when we were finished. “What a great title for a song!”
Terry shrugged and pulled up his pants.
“Let’s write a song about making someone scream!”
Again Terry shrugged.
But I persisted. Side by side, we sat on my bed and tossed lyrics back and forth. Then we began to make out again, working ourselves into a fresh wave of passion.
“Make it work. Make me scream. Make me scream for you, baby,” I chanted as I raised my mouth from Terry’s. “Let’s go down and work it out on the piano.”
When I composed a song, I usually did it with Terry’s voice in mind, with Terry singing lead, because I liked the sound of my voice singing back-up harmony to Terry’s. But, lately, I wrote more choral pieces, using all the voices in my band. All five of us had great voices. We sang well, we understood how to use our voices. And, as I composed “Scream,” I made sure that I took advantage of all our voices.
“Do it, Do it, do
Make me,
Scream for me.
I’m screaming, screaming, screaming for you.”
Terry and I sang the lines back and forth to each other. I made notations as we worked, about who would sing what. I imagined the guys in the band would trade off lines as I screamed into the microphone. I liked the blatant sexuality of it all. The song was ripe with sex. The reaction in the clubs would be electric.
I raised my eyes to Terry’s. Terry smiled at me, broadly, then kissed me. A wide, open-mouthed kiss on the lips. He closed the piano quickly and pushed my back against the closed cover. My heart began to pound wildly. I was so turned on that morning. All I wanted was to make love with Terry. All day. I groaned as Terry ran his fingers, lightly at first, but with increasing pressure, down the front of my jeans, directly over my swollen zizi.
Suddenly the door to the music room slammed shut. Terry and I exchanged horrified looks, before turning to face Maman who stood glowering, her back against the door. Ever so slowly, Terry removed his hand from my crotch and let it rest on my thigh. Maman’s eyes sparked with an ominous warning as they moved from Terry’s hand to Terry’s face.
“What are you doing?” she asked in clipped English.
“Justine, what does it look like?” Terry asked, his voice grim.
Maman gazed at me. “Are you lovers?”
I avoided Terry’s imploring look, answering without hesitation, “Yes, Maman.”
Her face grew quite red. “Sacre fou!” she snapped, her eyes on Terry’s face. “How long has this been going on?
This time I consulted Terry’s eyes before answering. Terry nodded, as if to say “Go ahead. Tell her the truth.” I turned back to my mother. “Four years, Maman. Over four years.”
“Merde, Terry! He was just a boy! We trusted you, Terry! How could you do this?”
Terry sucked in his breath quickly, but I beat him to a response. “Maman, it’s all my fault. Blame me. Terry didn’t want any part of this. He didn’t, Maman. I seduced him, Maman, really --”
Maman cut me off with a furious wave of her hand. “You were just a boy. He took advantage of you when you were a child.”
“Maman, for Christ’s sake, listen! I was eighteen. I knew what I was doing. Terry put me off for a long time, Maman. I caught him at a weak moment.”
“And this--” Maman motioned to the two of us on the piano bench together. “This is a weak moment, aussi?”
Terry shook his head. “No, this is something different, Justine. We, Paulie and I, are in love.”
Her angry stare was replaced by one of horror. It happened instantly. One expression quickly slid off her face to reveal another, more awful, countenance. “Mon Dieu!” That was all she said. Her disbelief left her speechless.
So I spoke. “Maman, I don’t want anyone to know, not Dad, not Drew. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially Drew.”
She looked from me to Terry. Still, she didn’t speak.
Terry cleared his throat. “Justine, I’ve been wanting to come out about this for years. Paulie, here, wants to keep a lid on it. I’m prepared to leave Drew. Sure, it will be bad for a while, but this sneaking around fucking sucks!”
Maman seemed to have found her voice, although it came out in a hushed squeak. “Paul is right,” she replied. “Please don’t hurt Drew. He loves you both so much. He trusts you. Show some restraint.”
In protest, Terry shook his head. “Justine, it’s only a matter of time --”
“No! If you’re careful, if you’re restrained, no one need find out.” Justine looked at me as she said this. “There’s no reason to hurt innocent loved ones. You are young and will move on to another lover in time.”
I nodded and smiled at her.
She didn’t return my smile. Her eyes looked darker than I ever remembered. They smoldered. They made me shudder. Without another word, she left us.
We regarded each other sheepishly after she closed the door behind herself, both too overwhelmed to speak. I placed my hand over Terry’s hand, the one resting on my leg, and gave it a squeeze, our fingers intertwining. We looked into each other’s eyes, without speaking. This was our fate then, or so it seemed to me on that dismal November morning, that we would always love each other, but always in private. Always in secret.
The next morning, I hesitated in the back hallway, outside the kitchen door, reluctant to face my mother, who had pretty much ignored me the day before. Her disappointment was hard to deal with. I felt extremely guilty, knowing that her hurt and disappointment were minor compared to what Dad’s and Drew’s reactions would be.
I paused to listen to the conversation in the kitchen. Drew was speaking in French, as usual, telling Dad something about Terry. I held my breath so I could hear better.
“---
well, you know, he’s only 45, right?”
“Yeh. But everyone is different.” Dad sounded as though he were standing with Drew by the breakfast table.
“Yeh,” Drew replied, “but do you have trouble getting it up?”
“Sometimes. Not now, though. Feel this.”
Drew giggled. He murmured something to Dad, which made Dad laugh his funny laugh, that funny laugh that he and Dizzy shared. “Seriously, now.”
“How long has it been?” Maman asked, from somewhere across the room. Near the sink, I guessed.
“Several years now. It’s not all the time. But, you know, sometimes, he goes through periods when he just can’t get it up.”
Dad laughed. “What? Even your magic lips can’t get a rise out of him?”
“No,” Drew replied grimly. “Maybe he’s bored with me.”
“Tell him to get a lover.”
“I have. Got a match?”
“And?”
Maman didn’t give Drew a chance to respond. Instead, she clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Why don’t you two smoke that rock somewhere else? Your son will be down shortly, Davy. Do you want to expose him to this?”
“No,” he told her, his voice light.
“Go!” she ordered. “Out of my kitchen!”
I heard them cross the kitchen in my direction, and I ducked down the stairs into the basement to avoid encountering them. I waited impatiently for them to go upstairs, so I could be alone in the kitchen with my mother. Davy was belting out Eric Clapton’s tune “Cocaine” in full voice as they climbed the stairs. I stood there, listening, entranced. God, I loved listening to my father sing.
Suddenly Terry’s voice rang out in the kitchen, breaking the hold that Dad’s voice had on me. “Justine, I’m looking for Paul.” There was a silence. “Have you seen him?”
I emerged from the basement stairway and hurried into the kitchen.
Terry’s face lit up when he saw me. “Paulie!” he called.
I nodded to him, feeling a bit self-conscious under my mother’s scrutiny. But she shrugged and turned her back on us.
“Did you sleep well?” Terry wanted to know.
“Yeh.” I crossed the room to Terry, hungry for his mouth. We kissed and embraced. “I hate sleeping without you,” I whispered.
“Mmmm,” was Terry’s response. “I know. What’s up for today?”
Shrugging, I stepped out of Terry’s arms. “Music? Jeff will be here the day after tomorrow. I can’t wait to work out these new tunes with him!” I poured myself a cup of coffee, then gestured to Terry. “Coffee?”
“Yeh. Thanks.”
We sat, side by side, at the table, reading the morning paper together, not the French paper, but the New York Times. It was very quiet in the kitchen. In fact, it was very quiet in the house.
“It smells like Dad and Drew are up there smoking that crack that Drew likes so much,” I remarked to Terry.
Maman spoke up. “If you took better care of him, Terry, he wouldn’t be upstairs with my husband at this moment getting high first thing in the morning.” She sat down at the table and confronted us.
“Shit, Justine. He gets all he wants from me. The trouble is with me. I can’t seem to perform, with Drew. But, Drew gets as much as he ever did. What? Has he been complaining?”
Maman sniffed, then shrugged. “If you gave him what he needed, he wouldn’t be turning to co--”
Terry cut her off. “The same could be said for you, madame, eh? Where is your husband right now?”
Before Maman could respond, Dad called down from the top of the stairs, “Terry? Hurry! Oh, Jesus! Hurry! Justine?” Dad sounded frantic.
My first thought was that Maman had changed her mind and had told Drew about my relationship with Terry. But, the look of concern on her face didn’t jive with my suspicion. As we raced upstairs, I glanced at Terry’s face. He, too, was pale with worry. He smiled weakly and winked at me.
Dad stood in the doorway of his bedroom. His eyes had a wild look in them, the way they darted back and forth, his pupils widely dilated. “Drew passed out!” he told us, in excited tones. “I can’t revive him!”
Maman rushed past Dad, with Terry close at her heels. “What happened?” she asked as she approached Drew’s still figure on the bed.
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. He just clutched his neck, tried to say something, then fell back on the bed.”
“He’s out,” Terry observed faintly. “Drew? Drew?”
“Is he breathing?” Maman grabbed Drew’s wrist to feel for a pulse.
Drew gasped for air, startling us. Then he seemed to stop breathing.
“Oh, no!” Terry cried. “No! Drew, breathe, breathe!” He pushed down on Drew’s chest and waited for a moment. He had taken CPR lessons with Jade at the Men’s Village Community Center that summer and seemed to know what he was doing. He raised his eyes, full of tears, to Dad. “Call an ambulance! What are you waiting for?” he screamed. Then he pinched Drew’s nose closed and placed his mouth over Drew’s, exhaling forcefully into Drew’s mouth. Drew’s chest rose, then fell slowly. “Does he have a pulse?” he asked Maman, a bit impatiently.
She nodded, her large dark eyes on his. “Yes, but it’s fluttery.”
“Fluttery? What kind of word is that?” I asked.
No one responded to my question. Maman and Terry were bent over Drew. Dad was on the phone, his left hand covering his bad ear. Feeling useless, I stood in the center of the room, my eyes on Terry’s back. Oh, God, I don’t want Drew to die, I told myself. I moved to the bed to see if I could help.
Terry continued to breathe for Drew. In between breaths, he raised his tear-streaked face, closed his eyes, and seemed to be praying. He didn’t look at me.
“Terry,” Dad said to him softly.
“I don’t want him to die,” Terry whimpered.
“I know.” Smiling down at Terry, Dad squeezed his shoulders with both hands. “The ambulance will be here momentarily.” He turned to me. “Paul, open the windows in here. Let’s get the smoke out, clear the air.”
Terry filled Drew’s lungs with air once more, then turned to look up at Dad. “I don’t want him to die,” he repeated. A loud sob escaped from his throat. Then he went back to Drew, exhaling into his mouth.
The ambulance took Drew away, with Dad and Terry following closely in Dad’s car, leaving me alone with my mother. The two of us didn’t speak much, except to decide to wait for a call from Dad before we, too, drove to the provincial hospital. Maman returned to the kitchen. To prepare a picnic lunch for Dad and Terry, she claimed. I stalked around the house moodily, my feelings of extreme guilt following me from room to room.
By early afternoon Drew had regained consciousness, but was admitted to a private intensive care unit for treatment for his heart attack. Doctors determined that he needed heart surgery, and he was taken for emergency surgery that lasted several hours. After the surgery, Drew was very sedated, with two tubes in his mouth and IVs in both arms, when I tiptoed in to see him. Dad told me that he would be like that for a day or so. At night Terry refused to leave the hospital. Dad and Maman exchanged long looks behind Terry’s back, trying to decide what to do.
Finally, Dad turned to me. “Paul, take your mother home. I’ll be home in a few hours. I want to stick around with Terry for awhile.” Dad smiled with calm reassurance at Terry.
Our lives, for the next five weeks, took on a new rhythm. Terry stayed all night at the hospital with Drew, until Dad and Maman arrived in the morning. Then Terry went to the Morgon château to shower and sleep, before returning to the hospital in midafternoon. Dad and Maman came home in the evening for a late dinner, which I had prepared for them. The day ended with a lengthy phone call to Dizzy who, in his first year of his medical residency at Columbia-Presbyterian, could not come home to Anjoie that Thanksgiving.
I went to the hospital irregularly. At least once a day. I visited Drew when I needed a break from my music, or when I needed to escape from m
y intense feelings of guilt and remorse. Terry and I interacted like strangers. Although we had the house to ourselves every morning, we avoided each other. I rationalized that Terry needed to sleep, so I left Terry alone.
Jeff stayed for a few days in early December, but was anxious to return to Paris to hang out with Jade and Daniel. Life in Anjoie was pretty slow. And pretty depressing. Jeff was pretty depressed himself, as it was. He blurted it out at dinner, his first night in Anjoie. “I’m very worried about Brian,” he told my parents and me, his voice grave. “I really didn’t want to leave him. He’s very weak now. He’s lost a lot of weight. One good infection will kill him.”
I watched my parents exchange startled, concerned looks. I tried frantically to think of something comforting to say to Jeff. But, I was so tired of illness, so tired of hospitals.
“Is it AIDS?” Dad asked, his eyes gazing kindly at my friend.
Jeff nodded. “Didn’t Paul tell you? He had CMV this summer and pneumonia this fall. It really kicked the shit out of him.” For a moment, Jeff looked as if he might break down.
Maman spoke up hastily. “Maybe a trip to sunny France would bring back his health?”
“His parents won’t let him come. I tried to convince them before I left. Shit!” Jeff threw down his napkin. Excusing himself, he bolted from the table.
In less than a week, Jeff was off to Paris. I wanted to go, too, but Maman guilt-tripped me into staying in Anjoie. She was a genius at guilt trips. All she said was, “Drew is not out of danger yet,” and I was stuck in Anjoie.
Right after Christmas, Drew, looking wan and frail, came home from the hospital. And, on New Year’s Eve, I drove alone to Paris. I celebrated the New Year with Jeff, Jade, and Daniel in a club on rue Pigalle. It was a subdued celebration for me and my friends, despite the wild party that surrounded us. Jeff talked nonstop about Brian. At 6 AM, midnight in New York, we called Brian. Jeff talked with him for over two hours. When he hung up, he announced that he was going back to the States.
