Holding the Man

by Timothy Conigrave

  A pigeon was startled by me and took flight. Was that John? I wish you were here. I shut my eyes and felt him put his arms around me from behind. I wanted to lean back and put my head on his chest but he wasn’t there. The feeling had been so strong that I wasn’t sure it hadn’t happened. I put my arms around myself and started crying again.

  A family walked past me. A little girl asked her mother, ‘Has someone died?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I went back into the room. The resident was listening with his stethoscope. He felt for John’s pulse and held a mirror to his mouth to check for breath. There was nothing, no sign of life. He filled out the death certificate.

  ‘Do you want an autopsy? It could take a few days.’ A shiver of horror went through Lois. She shook her head.

  A nurse came in with a bowl of water and some towels to wash the body.

  ‘Could Peter and I do it?’ I asked.

  We pulled the blanket back, revealing his ravaged body. There was a small turd sitting between his legs. Peter picked it up in a tissue and threw it into a contaminated-waste bin. We started to bathe him, caressing his body with sponges. It was a chance to say goodbye. I had a strong desire to kiss his penis but was well aware that Bob was crashing around the room putting everything into plastic bags. Peter rolled John towards me and washed his back and then lay him back down.

  The nurse placed weights on his eyelids and put a towel around his neck. ‘I’ll call you when I’m finished.’

  ‘What is she going to do? Sew his eyelids down?’

  ‘She’ll make him look peaceful,’ said Peter.

  I rang Mum and Dad. ‘You poor boy.’ I could hear that Mum’s nose was chocka with snot. ‘You shouldn’t have to go through this.’

  ‘I think it was a huge privilege. Not many people get to be there when their lover dies.’

  We were called into the room. There he was, covered in a morgue gown with a red carnation on his chest. His eyes and jaw were shut. He looked at peace.

  I sat on the verandah with Beth and Peter. ‘It’s weird how it doesn’t look like him,’ said Beth. ‘Just a body and no spirit.’

  I drove David to his house and went inside for a cup of tea. We listened to the new Frankie Knuckles album. David sat beside me and put his hand on my knee, asking how I was.

  ‘Okay, I guess. I don’t think I believe it yet.’

  ‘One thing I want to say. Just because John is dead, doesn’t mean it’s your turn. You’ve been looking after him for the last two years and you’re going to have to deal with him not being there. I don’t want you to give up.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve become so wise, David.’

  ‘All the drugs, darling.’

  I left and drove home to Mum and Dad’s. When I walked in the back gate they were sitting at the outside table, glasses of wine in hand. Dad walked over to me and hugged me. ‘I love you, son,’ he said with tears in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve got to make some calls.’

  ‘Leave it till the morning. Sit down and have a drink.’

  But I wanted to get them over with. I went into the psychedelic bedroom, sat on the window-sill and started ringing people. James was still distressed about not having been able to stay. ‘He knows you were there.’

  I rang old John at our block of flats. He said Merna and he would remember us in their prayers.

  Most friends were expecting the call and wanted to know how it was. Some started crying, which I couldn’t handle. I’d wimp out, saying I had other calls to make. In the end I lay down and cried myself to sleep. I wonder where you are? I just want to know you’re all right. Every time I woke I’d be hit with the thought, John’s dead!

  Early next morning old John called. ‘I know this is the last thing you need right now, but your flat was broken into last night. It doesn’t look like anything was taken but I think you should get one of your friends to come round and have the door put back on.’ God, why are you doing this to me? What is the lesson here?

  I rang Veronica and asked her to do it. ‘Maybe it’s John’s ghost trying to get stuff before his father does,’ I said.

  Anna called. ‘I had an amazing dream last night. It was a poem, and so clear I had to get up and write it down.’ She asked if I wanted to hear it. And of course I did.

  There’s a new star in the sky tonight

  And that star is my lover John.

  He died after a fight for life,

  A fight he could not have won.

  In these early days of mourning,

  When the glare of the sun is too bright,

  And the sound of children pains me,

  I love by the cool of the night.

  I was speechless, moved by its sentiments and the love I felt from Anna.

  I sat at the dining-table eating cornflakes with Mum’s stewed rhubarb. She appeared in her burgundy velvet dressing-gown holding the newspaper open at the death notices.

  Caleo, John Robert, passed away Jan 26.

  Sleep peacefully my son, now there’s no more pain.

  You will always be remembered until we meet again.

  All our love, Mum, Dad, Michael, Paul, Christopher, Anthony.

  And: ‘Caleo, John. A kind and loving young man, nephew of Joan and cousin to Lisa. Now in God’s care.’

  None of them mentioned me. I started to feel invisible again. I didn’t want the end of my relationship marked by denial of its existence. I rang James in Sydney and asked him to place an obituary in the Star Observer. ‘ “Thanks for the laughter, I love you. Tim.” I’ll pay you when I get back to Sydney.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I want to. It won’t be mine if I don’t.’

  The next day there were more notices, some of which were a bit on the edge, gay urban terrorism.

  ‘Part of oppression is having other people tell your story. Luv ya, Karl Steinberg.’

  ‘Beloved partner of Tim. Sadly missed by his friends. At rest, in our memories he lives.’ No name. I wonder who that was? I felt relieved. The truth was out.

  I went to our local newsagency to place one myself. ‘You have to be family, or have the death certificate.’

  ‘If you look in today’s paper you will see there are already notices to him.’ He conceded and I filled the form out: ‘In loving memory of John Caleo who was taken from us Jan 26. I miss you terribly and pray that one day we’ll be together again.’

  ‘What about music? Did John have a favourite song?’

  ‘The Essendon club song,’ I joked. We were in Father Wood’s office planning the funeral. ‘I can’t think.’ Don’t Panic. How embarrassing, not knowing his favourite song. ‘Vince Jones, but which song? Perhaps Enya?’

  ‘What about “On Your Shore”?’ Peter offered. ‘They played it at Stephen’s funeral. It’s really nice.’ Then he handed me a photocopy of a poem called ‘Life Unbroken’.

  ‘It’s great, Pete, thanks.’

  As we were leaving, Bob asked what was happening about the car. I had thought I’d buy it from the leasing company.

  ‘You said you didn’t want it,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry Bob, but I do now.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Everyone in your family already has a car.’

  ‘Have you seen the bomb that Anthony is driving?’ Lois walked up to us. ‘Excuse me Lois, I’m talking to Tim.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m listening.’ And listen she did. It made him nervous. I said I’d let him have it if he agreed to give me first option to buy it.

  Lois took me aside. ‘You don’t have to deal with Bob. You come to me or Christopher.’

  The funeral was on Friday, five days after John had died. Mum woke me that morning. I kicked the sheet back, turned my weary body towards the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed waiting for my hard-on to recede. I crawled into the shower and stood under the water. Coming through the window was the kind of glary light that said it was going to be a hot day.

  As I was about to
leave, Anna handed me a small parcel. It was an enamelled Mickey Mouse badge. I was moved almost to tears. She understood what I was feeling. ‘I love it. A little bit of John.’ I put it on John’s wool jacket over my heart.

  When I arrived at the Caleos’ the front lawn was covered in cars, including two large white limousines. Among the family friends in their Sunday best there was only one face I recognised, his Aunt Grace. We waved at each other politely across the lawn.

  Lois came up. ‘Tim, you and Peter are in the family car with Anthony and me.’ Peter was already sitting in the back seat. I slid in beside him. Lois and Anthony got in. I felt unsettled, my guts were churning. I don’t want to do this. This makes it real.

  Arriving at the church was like going to the Academy Awards. I stepped out among our friends, some of whom I had not seen for years. People were queuing to sign the register. Inside, the organ was playing. The coffin was covered in wreaths of flowers. That’s my John in that box. Probably rotting by now. I had fantasies of running up to it and throwing the lid off and hugging him. Wailing.

  The organist started a hymn, ‘As Gentle As Silence’. Not many people knew it. Father Wood in ceremonial vestments entered, followed by Father Wallbridge – our headmaster from school – and then another four priests. The surprises kept coming. There were six boys in school blazers. Oh my God, they’re prefects.

  ‘We are here today to mourn the loss of our dear son. Our hearts go out to Bob and Lois and his brothers Michael, Paul, Chris and Anthony. And then his friends, Tim and Peter, who were a wonderful support to him in the last few months.’

  Chris did the first reading from the Book of Lamentations. ‘It is good to wait in silence for the Lord to save.’ Anthony read the responsorial psalm. ‘I hope in the Lord, I trust in his word.’ This is so Catholic. I wonder what the hell John is thinking about it. It’s like they’re trying to claim a lost soul.

  It was my turn. I got out of my seat, trying not to tread on people’s feet. I was nervous. I wanted it to be fabulous. I read ‘Life Unbroken’.

  Death is nothing at all …

  I have only slipped away into the next room.

  I am I and you are you …

  Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

  Call me by my old familiar name.

  Speak to me in the easy way which you always used to.

  Put no difference into your tone:

  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

  Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.

  I had a flash of John and me rolling on our bed, laughing. I started to get choked up.

  Play, smile, think of me.

  I am waiting for you for an interval,

  Somewhere very near, just around the corner.

  All is well.

  John’s brother Michael gave the eulogy, talking about him and John as boys, the rough and tumble of footy in the backyard, how he would call him Bubby John, teasing him.

  Chris, Anthony, Peter and I were the pallbearers. I carried the coffin with my dead lover in it, my head pressed against it where his head would have been. We placed him in the back of the hearse.

  Outside the church Prue said, ‘It didn’t feel like John, did it?’ I agreed.

  Karl interrupted. ‘It’s interesting that Michael couldn’t talk about John after the age of fifteen. Is it because that was when John became gay?’

  Father Wallbridge came over to me, looking at me as though trying to work out what to say. ‘Lost your little mate?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Very sad. You’ve got some hard times ahead.’ He touched my arm and left. Wow, how bizarre. I would never have believed it.

  We drove off to the cemetery, its lawns dotted with rose bushes. John was to be buried in the lawn. The boulder was there, but no plaque yet. We placed him in the ground where he was to be food for worms.

  At the Caleos’ the tables were laden with sandwiches, chocolate crackles and fruit salad. Lois made pots of tea while Bob did a circuit with a bottle of beer.

  A woman in her fifties introduced herself as Shirley Cookson, Tim’s mother. ‘Tim has been taking John’s death very badly.’ She watched my reaction. ‘When I confronted him about it, he told me he was gay. He’d been scared that we might reject him. Such a silly boy. I’d suspected for some time. I was waiting for him to tell me.’

  ‘He’s a lovely man.’

  ‘Yes he is.’ Over Shirley’s shoulder I could see a couple deaf-signing. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Cousins of John’s, I think.’

  ‘How bizarre. I’ve been learning to sign for a couple of years and John never told me.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and talk to them? I bet you they’d love it.’

  I went over to them and signed, ‘Excuse me …’

  The woman’s face lit up. ‘You’re deaf?’

  ‘I work with deaf people. At the AIDS Council.’

  ‘Good for you.’ She asked how I knew John.

  ‘We were at school together.’ Should I risk it? ‘And then we became boyfriends.’

  She signed, ‘Beautiful couple.’

  Later I found myself with Trevor Cookson, Tim’s father. ‘I was surprised when I heard that John had AIDS. Lois had told us it was cancer. I was hurt. She couldn’t trust me. I confronted her about it and she burst into tears.’ I don’t really want to be counselling Tim Cookson’s family.

  Father Wood and I got talking about his sexuality. ‘I was gay until I became celibate.’ I had never met a gay priest. ‘We’re not that freakish. Lots of clerics are gay, although celibate. It’s just another way of expressing the love of Jesus.’

  I drove to Fitzroy, to Prue and Kevin’s house, where there was a large metallic aerial on the roof that looked like a spaceship. Obviously one of Kevin’s creations. In the living-room people were sitting on the arms of couches and cushions. Mum and Dad and Anna were there.

  ‘It was a nice funeral,’ said Dad. ‘It wasn’t easy seeing Bob. He walked over to shake my hand and I was tempted to refuse.’

  ‘Are you still angry with him?’

  ‘Course I bloody am. That was the most humiliating day in my life.’

  ‘Can we drop it? It’s John’s day.’

  I plonked on the couch next to Pepe. Her mother Marie held out her arms. I got up and gave her a kiss. She held my face. ‘Beautiful boy.’

  At the piano Tim Cookson played Satie. I put my arm around him. He said hi. He seemed tipsy. ‘I’m very upset about John. Here I am coming out and he is dead. He was really important to me in my coming out. It was good to know that you could be a good guy and be gay.’ He took a swig of beer from his can. ‘Mum asked me why I was taking it so hard and I told her I was gay. She was fantastic.’

  Tom asked if I wanted to make a toast to John. He called for silence.

  ‘To our dear friend who can’t be with us today. God I’m going to cry. You are my lover, my friend and my soulmate. I miss you terribly, we all miss you terribly.’ I stood there crying, until Prue gave me a tissue.

  People started leaving. I didn’t want to go, though the beer was making me sleepy. I stretched out on the couch and drifted off to la-la land. There I met an angel sitting on a rock.

  ‘What did you learn from John?’

  ‘That you don’t need to be concerned about what people think of you.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The value of unconditional love.’

  The angel held open his hand, revealing a small glowing orb. ‘It’s a kiss from John. Shut your eyes.’ He placed it against my lips and I could feel John’s warm lips. My body was alive with emotion. I was falling through free space.

  I opened my eyes. John wasn’t there, the angel wasn’t there. Was it a dream? It doesn’t matter. It felt real.

  Epilogue

  Italy

  Dear John,

  I am sitting in the garden at the back of my hotel, surrounded by orange trees and bougainvillaeas.
After the madness of the northern cities, the island of Lipari is paradise.

  I associate so many things here with our time in Italy, even the café where we bought our first real gelato, but they are not the same without you. I’m not aware of your absence as much as I would have thought, although I wonder what all the tourists thought of me as I sat in the Duomo in Florence, openly weeping.

  Here on Lipari is where I most miss you. I think you would have loved this place. It’s warm and very strong, and the Liparoti are very amiable. You would almost think you were on a Greek island, but the whirr of Vespas ridden by the ragazzi places you smack bang in Italy.

  Margaret and I visited the island of Salina yesterday, the island where your grandparents were born, and Margaret’s husband’s grandparents. It was a bit like a private pilgrimage. It is almost barren, lots of rock and caper bushes. The café is only open for an hour and you can understand why they emigrated.

  The most unnerving thing: here on Lipari there is a beautiful boy who works in the bar in our hotel. He is so like you he could easily be one of your brothers. Margaret asked, ‘Tim, have you seen the boy behind the bar? Don’t you think he is like John?’

  ‘I do but I thought I was seeing things.’

  He was born here but his family is not Caleo. He is so gentle and so shy. We try to talk but he speaks Liparota, a dialect I can’t understand. He occupies my dreams: I fall in love so easily these days.

  Life is pretty good at the moment: I have my health and seem to be doing many of the things I want to do before I die, including hiring a Vespa and circumnavigating the island twice. I kept thinking, John would love this, and then I remembered you would never have let me do it.

  I guess the hardest thing is having so much love for you and it somehow not being returned. I develop crushes all the time but that is just misdirected need for you. You are a hole in my life, a black hole. Anything I place there cannot be returned. I miss you terribly.

  Ci vedremo lassù, angelo.