“Fucking Gruney, man,” Hank says. “I never cried once through the whole cancer thing. Now just look at me.”
Hank pulls away, his hands holding on tight to my shoulders. He pushes out and raises up his chest, pulls his chin down – that bit of cleft, pulls his shoulders down, too, flexes his biceps. Fucking Hank Christian, man. Hasn’t changed a bit. That’s when I see his right eye, how the old right eye is gone, and the new glass eye has replaced it. Still real tears, not glass tears coming out that eye. Under that eye, something deep under the skin that’s yellow and dark blue. The scar that makes a dent there. His neck is thicker, his face rounder. Still the efficient line of Roman nose. Hank’s sweet smiling lips. Rain dripping from his black baseball cap. I can’t see his hair because of the hoodie and the ballcap. I can tell it’s clipped short but I can’t tell the color. Not yet. Just for Men, how the light when it shines through his hair makes his hair look purple.
What I see Hank see. Where I’ve lived the last twelve years. The overhead bright fluorescence of the kitchen light. The square wooden table in the middle of the kitchen and the four unmatched wooden chairs. The wooden tabletop, scratched and stressed with circles where I’ve set down pots that were too hot. Globs of candle wax I’ve tried to scrape off. A big blue candle scented with lavender in the middle of the table. Three votive candles in red glass. The yellowish refrigerator and matching yellowish stove. The cupboards that look like real wood with a fucked-up fancy design but are made out of particle board. On the counter, my new set of glasses with red and yellow balloons I just washed. Four new big white plates I bought after Ruth left. The ugly linoleum on the floor with yellowish squares with some kind of blue triangle in them. Above the sink, a painting Ephraim did of tipis in the snow. Then there’s the smell. The Windex and lemony ammonia smell from mopping the floor.
I close the door. Turn the overhead light off. I light the big blue candle, and then three votives in the red glass.
“It’s like a church in here,” Hank says.
“There are some hooks on the wall behind you,” I say, “where you can hang up your things.”
Just beyond the candlelight, Hank is black in the shadows, taking off his coat, his sweatshirt, hanging up his ballcap. The candlelight on Hank’s face. The night in Pennsylvania with Olga when Hank danced to Billie Holiday’s “April in Paris.”
“What about my boots,” he asks. “They’re soaking wet.”
“You’re standing in the mud room,” I say. “Just leave them there.”
I’m standing between the stove and the table. Fluttering, my hands. I don’t know what to do with them.
“It’s just like on East Fifth Street in here,” Hank says, “only a little bigger.”
Strange to hear Hank’s voice in the rooms of my house. I put my fingers around the top on the wood of the chair and look around, at the voice of him in there. My hand flutters up and covers my pendulous tit.
“I’ve got a big old couch in front of the fireplace,” I say. “That’s where you’ll be sleeping.”
“You need some food?” I say, “I’ve got chicken soup.”
“No thanks, Gruney,” Hank says. “I’ll be hungry later, though. We’ll go out and get a burger.”
Hank doesn’t know I don’t go out. I mean not like going out used to be. And that I can’t eat hamburgers. When he asked if I could pick him up at the airport I told him my driver’s license had expired.
“We could go to our old hangout on Columbus Circle,” Hank says. “Silvio would be so happy to see us.”
“Silvio’s dead,” I say.
From out of the dark: “Oh.”
Then: “Did you hear about Olga?”
“No.”
“Double mastectomy, man,” Hank says. “Fucking cancer.”
“Fucking AIDS,” I say.
“Porca Miseria,” Hank says.
I MAKE TEA and we sit on the couch. Lemon Zinger for Hank, chamomile for me. Our days of Budweisers and cocktails and doobies are over. The fire’s really going. Still, that batch of wood with all the pitch. Hank loves how the fire cracks and spits. There’s a couple times I have to lean down to keep the fire screen closed.
The Christmas tree ain’t big, maybe four foot, a spruce. It’s behind the couch. I bought the tree that day for two dollars. It was the only one of three trees left on the lot. The guy just wanted to give it to me.
In the basement, when I opened the box marked Christmas Stuff, all the ornaments were from the two years with Ruth. The Rudolph ornament. The Cinderella ornament. The red balls, the blue balls, the green balls with snowmen on them Ruth bought at Fred Meyer. The smaller bell-shaped lavender ones. The garlands, the tinsel. The ball Ruth made with a photo of me on it naked doing tai chi that day we went to Sauvie Island.
All that Christmas shit, all the memories. Ruth had been what made Christmas, Christmas. I threw the whole box in the garbage. That’s when I saw it. Just the black hairy legs.
Tony Escobar’s Fairy Drag Queen. The Ken doll as Christmas Angel Barbie. Her lopsided halo you can plug in. I pick up the Fairy Drag Queen, lift up her dress. The red jock strap, the wired connector on his asshole so he can sit, a proper star, on the very top tip of the tree.
No wonder everybody hates Christmas. Fucking memories, man.
TWO HOURS LATER, after scrambled eggs and sprouted wheat toast, Hank’s in my living room on the couch, sitting close to the wall. Another cup of tea. The firelight on the bruised, dented face of my friend. Me all the way on the other side of the couch with my cup. Hands still fluttering. Just over my left shoulder, Hank’s right shoulder, at eye level, the tip of the Christmas tree up his ass, the Fairy Drag Queen pokes himself up over the couch, his flowing robe, his lopsided halo, his wings spread, his arms out. Measuring the years, all that space, on the couch between us.
Silences at first. Just the crackling fire. Not bad silences, but Big Ben knows something’s going on. Little Ben thinks the silences are my fault. And they partly are, I mean at this point I’m still a pretty fucked up guy. But what’s really going on, what’s heavy in those silences between me and Hank – besides the grief of years and hellacious suffering, is that there’s something Hank ain’t saying. A grief so big in his heart it won’t be until the next day, after Hank’s on his third or fourth cup of coffee, that he’ll finally be able to speak it.
It takes us a while, that night by the fire, but finally Hank and I do relax some and we get to talking talking. Just like in the old days, it seems, when there was an actual place in the world that existed only because we existed. In a space together, Hank and me, inside something. Under a miracle umbrella.
“Hell, Gruney,” Hank says. “What the fuck’s happened to us?”
“Fucked, ain’t it?” I say.
“It’s the kind of cancer usually only people with blue eyes get,” Hank says.
“The Jewish doctor on 83rd,” I say, “said you’re HIV positive so you’re going to get sick, so you’re going to die.”
“You knew in New York?” Hank says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chamomile tea smells like when I used to bale hay. Tastes like baled hay, too.
“You were so excited about Florida and Barry Hannah,” I say. “It was such a downer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. “It’s been more than five years, man, since we’ve talked.”
Silence. The sense there’s something hidden or missing. I feel it in my throat, in my breath. I think it is my soul.
“I just didn’t know how to do it,” Hank says. “Hi, Gruney, I have cancer.”
Outside, Christmas carolers somewhere out there sing “Silent Night.” In Hank’s new eye, there’s a flame. An actual fire. It takes me a moment to figure. In his glass eye, the fire is a reflection.
The carolers’ “Silent Night” gets louder, walks past us on Morrison just outside the window, turns south down the street. On the corner there, the carolers stop and laugh and talk. The winter night in their v
oices. After several tries, it’s another night, “O Holy Night.” Hank and I sit so still. We are every Christmas we have lived.
“How long ago was that?” Hank asks.
“What?”
“The last time in New York,” Hank says, “when we stood in front of Auden’s poem.”
“Going on twelve years,” I say.
“Holy fuck,” Hank says. “Twelve years.”
“That poem’s a part of me,” I say.
“Just one fucking line,” Hank says, “but it rips your heart out.”
“It’s a line from a larger poem,” I say.
“Someday,” Hank says, “let’s you and I go back and read that poem again.”
Another life, another world, so far away, so impossible that Hank and I could stand together one more time at #77 St. Mark’s Place.
Regret, man, fucking regret.
“I was in denial big time,” I say. “Wouldn’t accept that HIV had anything to do with AIDS.”
“Did you ever get your doctorate?” I ask.
“I’ve just got my dissertation to finish,” Hank says. “They’ve given me an extension.”
“I called a bunch of times,” I say. “Got your voicemail at first. Then nothing.”
“When did you go into the hospital?” Hank asks.
“December first ’96,” I say.
“Man, in ’96 I was lying in a quarantined room,” Hank says. “There was so much fucking radiation they delivered my food through a slot in the door.”
“Chemo, too?” I ask.
“Threw my guts up,” Hank says.
“I’ve never thrown up,” I say, “All these years, not once. Almost shit myself to death, though. I was down to like 160 pounds.”
“Shitting, man,” Hank says. “You think you ain’t ever going to stop. I got down to 140.”
“My asshole was so sore,” I say, “I couldn’t use paper anymore. Had to shower after I shit.”
“Gave me some honking hemorrhoids,” Hank says.
“I named my hemorrhoid after the homeopathic doctor who told me the cure was to drink more milk,” I say.
“Julie O’Connor,” I say. “I call my hemorrhoid Julie O’Connor.”
It’s something to see, Hank Christian’s laugh. That big burst from down deep in him shaking him around. I’d almost forgot how overwhelmed he gets. Just like that, Hank is down on the floor on his hands knees, laughing. Trying to get his breath. I’m happy that Hank is laughing. The strange silence has gone and Hank is laughing. Even more, I’m happy I am still a guy who can make him laugh like that. Of course him laughing makes me laugh too.
Weird. Laughter in my body. As I’m laughing I say to myself this is laughing. After all the suffering and the horror now laughter. I mean, what the fuck is it. I’m coughing and my belly hurts and I can’t breathe, it’s so intense.
Hank pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. Porca fucking Miseria, Hank says and leans against the couch. His arm touches my leg and he knows his arm is touching my leg and he keeps his arm there.
Silence again. The heaviness of it. I figure it’s just the depression, me over here, trying to get over there.
Hank, all in black, is stretched out in front of the firelight. That’s when I first notice all the weight he’s gained. I’m a little shocked. But only for a moment. That quick, Hank’s body, to me, is perfect again. Weird, though. Hank’s extra weight makes me feel better about my gut and pendulous breast.
Rain beating down on the tin roof of the porch. Me on the couch, Hank on the floor, his arm against my leg. Behind us, the Fairy Drag Queen’s outstretched arms.
Hank’s bare feet right up against the fire. So fragile and smooth, his feet, as if they’re made out of porcelain. Our two empty cups of tea with the string and the labels hanging over the lips, setting on the hearth. The pitch and the spitting fire.
Long long moments just staring at the fire. Finally, the silence makes me too too crazy. I just blurt it out:
“Bye bye, Mr. Chemotherapy!”
Hank’s down for the count.
Fucking laughter, man.
THE COUCH IS long and soft and wide and I give Hank a big fluffy pillow and a duvet. Hank’s in the bathroom first, brushing his teeth. Gargling. Pouring out his pills. When I’m finished in the bathroom, I turn off all the lights. Unplug the Christmas tree. Get into bed. Like always, I’ve forgotten to turn down the heat. The thermostat’s in the living room right by the couch. I’m just in my T-shirt and underwear. Years ago, I’d have secretly wanted Hank to see me undressed like that. But with the AIDS belly and the pendulous breast, I’m thankful it’s dark and I’m covered.
In the living room, just an arm length from Hank on the couch, I’m punching down the digital thermostat.
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” Hank says.
“Happy Birthday,” I say.
“Merry Christmas,” Hank says.
I’m almost back to my bedroom when Hank asks:
“Idaho was really something, wasn’t it?”
My heart starts beating so loud. Reuben and Sal and Gary. I don’t know if I can speak that they are dead out loud. I clear my throat, try my best to make my voice sound normal, which makes my voice sound weird.
“Idaho was a miracle,” I say.
“How are those guys? Is Ephraim doing all right?”
This next silence is mine, all mine. I sit down on my bed. The years I hardly slept, the eleven days I didn’t sleep at all. Those nights are still on my bed, a ghost story that’s a fog that lies across the bedspread. There’s no doubt about it. To tell Hank about Reuben and Sal and Gary is going to kill me.
“He’s still smoking a pack of More Menthols a day,” I say.
My breath. I wait for Hank’s next question. And wait.
From the living room comes an old familiar sound.
Hank Christian is snoring.
MORNINGS SUCK. MORNINGS have always sucked, but since I was diagnosed they really suck. Then the seven months I was dying and in denial – big-time suck. Then AIDS. Every morning I woke up I had AIDS. I was forty-eight and my health was gone, piles of pills and shitting my brains out. Fucked up, man. Then the antidepressants didn’t work, and the mornings, fucking horrific. Almost two years of mornings sucking hard like that. Just put your feet on the floor, stand up, and keep going no matter what. Ruth never even tried to talk to me until after lunch. Then the eleven days without sleep. Those days there weren’t any mornings because it was always morning. Now there’s a huck-a-bucking fucking hellacious suck for you. No way to tell you how bad. Then the antidepressant that worked and the sleep meds and four months later, it’s not a hell of a lot different. You open up your eyes, you get out of bed, look around the room, drugged zombie fuck.
Fucking mornings, man.
That morning waking up with Hank in my house is no different. I’d bought all the stuff for a healthy breakfast. Eggs, if Hank wanted them, pancake mix and real maple syrup if Hank wanted those. A bunch of different kinds of healthy cereals. Cheerios, Corn Flakes just in case. Bacon, ham, Italian roast for my French press. Toast. Tea, herbal and Earl Gray. Milk, sugar. Vegetables. I had it all.
The problem, though, isn’t breakfast. It’s that the host, the guy who’s supposed to make breakfast – me, because breakfast comes in the fucking morning, is nowhere to be found. I mean, yeah, my body’s there and I’m walking around and talking and doing things to make breakfast, but the human being named Ben Grunewald is in another dimension. The suck dimension. I mean, it’s morning for Chrissakes.
The problem is how to tell Hank that I’m not really there, that actually I am in hell. You can’t tell anybody what hell is like unless they’ve been there themselves. And Hank ain’t been there. Not this hell. His cancer didn’t get his spirit the way AIDS got mine. Obviously. Hank’s up at seven-thirty, showering, whistling in the shower, puttering around the house. Happy to be alive in a brand-new day.
Fucking Maroni, man. Wish I was made out of
the same stuff as him.
Nine o’clock, I’m sitting at the table eating my five eggs, only two yokes, my bowl of kale and half a papaya. Hank says I’ll have what you’re having, so that’s his breakfast, too.
“Hell, Gruney,” Hank says, “you got your nutrition shit together, man. This breakfast is healthy.”
Me, I can’t tell the difference between the kale, the papaya, or the scrambled egg. I’m just eating food. I know I should say something back to Hank but that’s the thing about depression and this new antidepressant. I know that if I were a regular person I’d be saying this or that. I mean, my response is in my head, but my body just won’t let me say it. Other times it isn’t even that lucid. I just look over at Hank. I know he’s just said something that I should say something back to, but I’ve forgotten what he’s said. Or if what he’s just said to a normal person the say back is easy but there doesn’t seem to be any point in answering.
“How about those Trailblazers?”
I wouldn’t even know what to say to that if I was still normal.
Here’s the real deal:
You’ve been running a jackhammer all night for years and doing speed but you need to sleep so you take a downer. You sleep because of the downer not because your body knows it needs sleep. When your body wakes up, the jackhammer’s still going all through your body. Especially in the arms and shoulders. And the neck. The neck is real bad. No bright overhead lights. Bright overhead lights can shut the entire system down. The thought of food makes you feel sick but you eat food because you know you have to. Healthy food, but it might as well be sawdust. The ringing in your right ear has taken over your head. Don’t get up too fast or you’ll fall over. Forget about bending down.
I Loved You More Page 37
