Unraveling

by Rick R. Reed

  I stay quiet, and a quick image comes to me: him in the dark backroom of a bar, on his knees on the gritty floor, milking loads out of strangers. I shudder and vow never to go back to those backrooms. Who knows what’s being passed around in the name of pleasure?

  “In a way, I’m kind of relieved. For the longest time, I worried. Worried at every little thing that came along. Is this bruise KS? Are these sniffles a sign of pneumonia? Is the sweaty pillowcase from a nightmare? Or from the virus getting its hooks in me and these are the dreaded night sweats?” He smiles. “I don’t have to wonder anymore, and at least that fear’s been lifted.”

  I nod. “I get it.”

  Even though I know I might regret it, I can’t help but ask, “You wanna go back up? Get a cup of coffee? Piece of pie?”

  He’s still holding my hand and he squeezes it. “It wasn’t wishful thinking.”

  “What?” I grin.

  “You really are a sweetheart. A good guy. I’m the one who owes you an apology for being a spoiled brat when things didn’t go my way.”

  “No worries.”

  “Yes, worries.”

  “Okay, okay, we’re both sorry.” I stand up and tug at his hand, but he doesn’t rise. “Come on, let’s get out of the cold. If you don’t want coffee, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  He looks up at me, a sad smile on his bearded face. “I’m okay here.”

  “Really? Come on, Dean. It’s cold. And weird people come out down here at night. Besides you, I mean. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “John. You don’t need to mother me. The one I have back in Fort Worth is plenty, let me tell you.” He laughs. “I’ll be okay. I just want to sit here and think. Think about what to do next. Who to tell. That kind of thing. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I don’t want to leave him here.

  “I couldn’t be surer. The doc said this isn’t always a death sentence. That some people go on just fine for a long time. I have no symptoms. I haven’t been sick. Who knows? Maybe I’m just a carrier.”

  That makes me shiver even more than the cold wind off the lake.

  “Okay.” I move away with reluctance. “You have my number?” I snap my fingers. “Oh, that’s right. You tore it up.”

  He chuckles. “That was for show. It was my ComEd bill that I used for the sound effect. I still have your number.”

  “So, you’ll call me in the morning?”

  “Like, for a date?”

  Before I can respond, he points to me and laughs. “Kidding. I know we’re not gonna be a couple, especially not now.” He stares out, watching the progress of a gray-tipped wave across black water. “But I will call, John. Maybe we can have breakfast.”

  “Sure,” I say and begin to move away.

  On second thought, I hurry back and kneel beside him. I take him in my arms and squeeze. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  He clings to me. “I know. I am. I really am.”

  He lets go first, patting me on the back. “Now, give a girl some space.”

  I get up and begin the trek back to city lights.

  1986, Summer

  “The dreamy days and sticky nights of summer were already calling, as if anything could happen.”

  —C.J. Carlyon, The Cherry House

  Chapter Ten

  RANDY

  It’s miserable hot, the kind of heat that feels as though someone has thrown a wet blanket over you—one that’s been soaked in boiling water. It presses down, a living thing, suffocating and uncomfortable.

  The air is still. The leaves in the trees no longer whisper to one another; they’re too tired. Even the snatches of music and conversation on the street are muffled as though humidity weighs them down. Everything seems to move in slow motion.

  Chicago in August offers some of the worst weather in the country. When you consider that, with the worst winters in the US on the other end, you may wonder why anyone even lives here.

  The extremes test the limits of human endurance.

  Right now, the day is beginning to wind down; dusk waits in the wings. Our little walk-up on Fargo Avenue is not air-conditioned, so we have box fans placed in many of the windows, making lots of noise, but providing little in the way of relief. Hot, humid air blown around at a higher rate of speed is still hot, humid air. Still, it’s better than nothing.

  I’m out on our balcony overlooking the street below. Cars meander by, all headed west toward Paulina, because ours is a one-way street. It’s Saturday night, so more traffic, more revelers, more L runs, more snatches of music—rock and hip-hop mostly—pouring from open car windows. A beat-up red Nissan Sentra is double-parked just west of our building. A man lays on the horn and cries out, “Raven! Hey Raven!”

  There’s a big maple in front of us. Its leaves hang lifelessly, nearly blocking the view of the white brick courtyard building across the street. The air feels almost viscous, mired in the heat and unrelenting humidity.

  The only thing pretty about the night is the way the sky, when I lean forward and peer toward the west, has a kind of magic. Up top, it’s already a deep navy, almost black, but as it makes its way down to the silhouettes of trees and buildings, layers appear. Below the navy is gray, then a dusty purple, and at last a brilliant band of tangerine, made all the more beautiful because I know its life span is only minutes. Night will chase it away soon.

  I’m just out of the shower, wearing only a pair of camouflage cargo shorts.

  Tonight will be different at our house, I think, stomach churning with a potent cocktail of dread and anticipation. Tonight marks the crossing of a line—and I wonder if we’ll, any of us in our little family, ever be the same.

  Over the spring, Violet and I have been working on things together—and apart. I sit with my therapist, Marshall, and voice my concerns about her and her survival after I leave. And I will leave; we both know this now. Half measures, like having an open relationship or inviting men into our bedroom to share, won’t work. We both know doing something like either of those things will only cause us both pain.

  Marshall appreciates my concern over Violet and tries, subtly, to reassure me that she will be okay. That just like I am, she’s growing and trying to accept a new normal. And those things don’t have to necessarily erase the love we feel for each other.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Violet coming out to the balcony to join me. I smell a soft perfume, jasmine, before I turn to look at her.

  And she’s lovely. Wearing a pair of denim shorts and a pink-and-white striped V-neck T-shirt with sandals, she looks more like a young girl barely out of her teens than a long-suffering wife and mother.

  At long last, a breeze rises up, almost as if to greet her, and lifts some of her honey-colored bangs off her forehead.

  Something clutches inside me.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  She’s taken Henry downstairs to our neighbor, Mrs. Roberts, who’ll babysit tonight.

  Violet smiles. “Oh, he barely noticed me leaving. She had The Fox and the Hound all queued up. Popcorn, with lots of butter, popped. Brownies cooling on the kitchen counter. And, the piece de resistance, she has AC! Henry won’t want to come home in the morning!”

  We both laugh, but the mirth is stilted.

  Tonight is the first night we’re going out together, yet apart.

  See, Violet has been there for me for the past several months, supportive, loving, hiding well the pain and heartache I’m sure she feels.

  A couple of weeks ago, though, she came to me and announced (not asked, not suggested) that she was going to go out herself. “After all,” she joked, “it’s not fair that you’re the only one who gets to meet cute guys.”

  I laughed at that and tried to push back down in some subconscious muck the jealousy that rose up. It wasn’t easy. Jealousy is not a rational emotion.

  “And what would that look like?” I wondered, trying to keep my “supportive” mask firmly in place. “Singles bar?”

  She c
ocked her head. “You do realize I’ve never even been in one of those places? I can’t imagine!”

  Violet and I had gotten engaged when we were juniors in college. I’d asked her to marry me under a famous arch on campus, notorious for its number of wedding proposals, and she’d said yes. Her dating experience, before me, was all high school stuff, pretty much, which was also my story. We were both virgins and experienced our first times together in her narrow dorm-room bed. I came too soon and thought I must be heterosexual.

  “So what’s your plan?”

  Violet’s smile is all hope and optimism—yet forced. “St. Theresa’s has a singles group that meets for a potluck in the church rectory on Saturdays once a month. I’m going to go check it out.” Her voice quavered a little as she told me. “I made my seven-layer salad.”

  “You have someone to go with?”

  She looks down at the concrete floor of the patio. “No. Not really.” She lifts her gaze to me, craving something—encouragement?—in return. “The point is to meet people, right?”

  I nodded. Part of me wanted to say I’d go with her, but that would defeat the goal of the eventual loving uncoupling we’d been hoping for.

  And now here we are, Saturday night in Chicago. Along with a bit of heat lightning and a distant rumble of thunder, there’s a sense of anticipation in the air.

  And fear. Not a little fear.

  This is the first time both of us have gone out on our own without the other to meet other eligible people. It’s weird and feels like we are lifting our feet at the same time and stepping over a giant line in the sand.

  I say nothing for a while and stare out into the night. A few fireflies dance lazily at eye level. At last, I turn back to Violet and say, “You look nice.”

  “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself. The running is paying off.”

  For some reason, I feel embarrassed at her complimenting my body since it’s no longer in her purview. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Oh? You’re not going like that? I think the boys would love it.”

  I smile. A few months ago, Violet could have never made such a joke. “Thanks, honey. But I think I’ll be old Mr. Conservative and cover up a bit.”

  “Spoilsport! What time are you due there?”

  “They said anytime after eight.” I smile. “I know. I get too hungry for dinner at eight. I just have to live with it this time.”

  Violet’s smile slips away and she doesn’t look back. Instead, she moves to the edge of the balcony and peers to the east. “I believe my chariot is in the next block. I should go.”

  She turns to head for the door. At the last minute, she rushes back to give me a hug and a peck on the cheek. She feels small in my arms, like a bird, and I wonder what’s in store for both of us tonight.

  I PACE OUTSIDE Stephen and Rory’s condo on Marine Drive, craning my neck to look up at their glittering tower. The chrome and glass high-rise faces a wide expanse of green park and then the broader, wilder expanse of Lake Michigan. Their forty-second floor view captures not only the shimmering, ever-changing waters of the lake, but also a bit of the city to the north, continuing all the way up to the campus of Northwestern University on clear days.

  Since we met last spring at North End, Stephen and Rory have become my first, my best, and—as far as I know—my only gay friends. Although they’d never admit it, they’ve sort of taken me under their wing. I’ve been seeing them two or three times a month, and despite having met in a bar, we’ve yet to return to one. Usually, they have me over for dinner. Rory is always the cook, and he’s pretty terrible, making lots of slow-cooker meals with condensed cream of mushroom soup or casseroles that involve Tater Tots, which he calls hot dish. He lived in St. Paul, Minnesota until he was fifteen and tells me hot dish is the state cuisine. I don’t know if that’s true, but his food, in spite of being high in sodium, fat, and calories, does have a certain homey aspect to it that I enjoy.

  I like how we sit around the table for hours after a meal, drinking wine, and just talking. It reminds me of when I was a little boy and the whole family would come over for holidays. We’d all gather around our big dining room table, and my sweating mother would hover over everyone, while serving up her Sicilian specialties—things like Romano and bread-crumbed stuffed artichokes and wedding soup made with escarole, tiny meatballs, beaten egg, and pastina. My father forever beseeched her to sit down and eat, but there was always something else to attend to in the kitchen.

  Like those family meals, much of the talk at Stephen and Rory’s table revolves around memories. They tell me of their travels. Stephen’s confinement to a wheelchair doesn’t slow him down. They’ve been just about everywhere. New York City, Boston, LA, Santa Fe, San Francisco, Seattle…all the major cities. They’ve been to London, Rome, Paris, and Amsterdam. Kauai. Belize. Iceland.

  Pictures and artifacts from their travels decorate their little one-bedroom aerie, competing at times with the natural and architectural splendor on display outside their floor-to-ceiling windows. What I like about their place, other than the stunning views, is that it feels so homey and lived in. For the first time, I understand how two gay men who love each other can and do constitute a family.

  They’ve told me the story of how they met—as boys in high school. They both went to Roycemore, a Richie Rich private school in Evanston. “We were both nerds, believe it or not. I mean look at us now!” Stephen laughed. “Being different, and me a little bit of an outcast, brought us together. We bonded over books, mainly. A Separate Peace. My Darling, My Hamburger. Of course, The Catcher in the Rye.”

  “Don’t forget the dirty parts in The Godfather,” Rory added, laughing.

  “Page twenty-eight.” Stephen nodded. When I looked at him, head cocked, he explained, “That’s the part where the bridesmaid takes Sonny’s big salami at the wedding reception up against the bathroom door.”

  “We recreated that one.”

  They both laughed, and at the time, I didn’t know if they meant it or not.

  Stephen wasn’t in a wheelchair back then. That didn’t happen until he was in his early twenties, maybe ten years ago, as a result of a head-on collision on Sheridan Road one late weekend night. “Drunk driver,” Stephen always says, as if the tragic set of circumstances no longer bothers him. “I’d bitch about it, but I was the drunk driver.” He shakes his head. “At least the driver of the other car, a gal from Winnetka, only got some minor cuts and bruises.”

  Surprisingly (or not), we don’t dwell on Stephen’s disability. After a while with them, I barely even notice the difference, especially when we’re gathered around their big dining table.

  When we don’t do dinners, we check out movies at the Century mall a little south of them, or go see some local theater—sometimes bigger productions at the Goodman, but we all like the smaller stuff by up-and-comers like Steppenwolf and the other little storefront theaters all over the city.

  And, surprisingly, our conversation doesn’t dwell on being gay—much. That’s what I really like, and it’s not because we avoid such conversation.

  When I go over there, being gay simply isn’t a big deal. It’s just another fact, among many, that we have in common. Eye color, hair color, weight, height—all those things enter into who we are. All of those and more, things like what kind of movies we like, the types of books we read, our political beliefs, our spiritual leanings, figure into our conversations and how we relate to one another.

  It’s a relief to be there with them in a place where I’m safe, and being gay is just another aspect, no greater or no lesser, than any other. It’s just who we are.

  For someone who’s hidden in the shadows almost his whole life, this indifference toward my sexual orientation is a revelation. I never dreamed my homosexuality could simply be no big deal.

  Stephen and Rory, in their own quiet way, have demonstrated that there’s no shame in being who you are. Crusty Stephen would say there’s no honor in it, either, and he’s right
.

  I just am. Just like everyone else. My actions and how I treat myself and others determine my worth, not the fact that I prefer sausage over pie.

  TONIGHT, THOUGH, I’M skittish, part of me believing my evening would be better spent at a Denny’s counter, having a piece of banana cream pie and a coffee.

  Before going in through the revolving doors and smiling at the doorman who looks like Ken Olin, I need to compose myself. Question myself. Is this zinfandel the right wine? Do the flowers I picked up at Dominick’s look cheap? Are the cargo shorts and simple black T dressy enough?

  I’m anxious because Stephen and Rory, for the first time, have invited a fourth for dinner. A young guy close to my age who they’d met during comedy night at Sidetracks the week before.

  “It’s not a fix up,” Rory assures me.

  “We’d never play matchmaker,” Stephen says. “You’re a big boy. You can bring down your own game.”

  I’m not so sure.

  But I’m here now.

  And the future awaits…way up high in the sky.

  STEPHEN’S SEATED BY the window in the living room, his chair angled toward the North Side cityscape and its towers of lights, a boxy glass of Scotch in his hand. I’d asked him once about drinking, not long after we met. “I mean, you’re in a wheelchair because of being drunk,” I’d said. “I would’ve guessed you wouldn’t want anything to do with alcohol now.”

  He’d nodded. “See, the thing is and was—I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not even a big drinker, in the final analysis. I was young and drunk, like a lot of us are when we’re in our early twenties, rebelling, thinking we’re cool. It was one sad night for me. Unfortunate. But the accident and what followed wasn’t a result of a pattern even if it was a result of being drunk. You know what I mean? No, the lesson I learned was that I could drink socially and responsibly, but never a drop if I’m going to be driving.”

  Yes, Stephen can drive his specially-equipped car and does so quite well.