Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Did you check yourself?” I would ask.

  “From tippy toe to toppy head,” he’d say.

  However, he never told me the results, inferring that he had found nothing. The second lesion was at the base of his neck. So he started wearing his collar high and wrapped himself in a scarf when outside. I didn’t suspect a thing. I yelled at him when he recovered a bit. He duped me, but he didn’t want me to worry. I was his caregiver, yet he didn’t want me to worry. I would have had his ass to the doctor’s at the first purple splotch. So by Christmas Eve, when the PCP returned, exacerbated by our little tree outing, Matt’s chemistry was dancing a wild cha-cha to the beat of all those meds. He had become a walking toxic cocktail.

  The AIDS unit occupied an entire floor at the hospital. Unlike the other facility, they were aware of gay folk and partners and such. There was no judgment passed. However, they treated the patients as if they were lepers. The staff was sterile, both technically and in bedside manners. Matt was very sick. I prayed and paced. I wept into Hank’s shoulder, Louise’s breast, and Viv’s fringe work. I will say I was a mess for the first week. He looked so helpless lying there and I kept vigil until the nurses threw me out.

  “Mr. Powers,” said a bruiser name-tagged Nurse Rachel. “You are not doing yourself or your partner any good by sitting at the end of his bed. I suggest you go home, get some rest and perhaps go to work. We’ll call if there’s a change.”

  I didn’t want to leave. If there were changes for the worse and I wasn’t there . . . If I abandoned him in his hour of need, I would never forgive myself. Louise and Sammy were constantly there, but it was Mary who finally urged me to leave — to check in at work.

  I had called my boss, who wasn’t pleased and, in fact, doubted that my mother was in the hospital. I had used the excuse so often, it was suspected. Still, I received a cool okay and an I hope everything works out. I now know that the last phrase was my pink slip. The blue-pencil was surprised to see me show up. I had missed, after all, a critical selling week, and then some, and now I showed up ready to fold and to patrol and to sell. My spot behind the counter was already manned, and why shouldn’t it be? I was politely told to clear out my locker and that whatever pay owed to me would be mailed.

  By this time, I didn’t regret the loss of a job in retail, my chosen career. However, I needed this job for more than the incidentals of living. I returned to Long Branch knowing that I no longer could afford my rent. Still, I stayed there, sitting in the lightless living room watching the shadows form. My cowboy was hanging in the balance, the finances were sunk like a battleship and everything I had worked for was quickly sliding into the Atlantic.

  Now suicide is not an unlikely thing to discuss under such circumstances. Every gay man has such thoughts, especially after the first beating in the schoolyard or the first rejection by the world at large. However, I am comfortable with who I am and have never entertained ending my existence. I’m too much the sissy for that. I mean, I quivered on the brink in the Rockies. Jumping off an overpass on the Garden State Parkway was too much height for me to consider, although it would be a windshield that would break my fall. However, as I sat there in the dark, I considered beating my cowboy to the grave. It was a stoic, sober consideration. The kitchen was just a few steps away, with a drawer filled with sharp knives — take your pick, Martin. I could do it the Roman way, in the tub. I hadn’t taken a deep relaxing bath in a while. The thought of all those red bubbles was disenfranchising. I pictured the blue-pencil stunned. If we didn’t fire him, he’d be alive. I saw the memorial service by the Jersey Gay Sparrows backed up by the Errata Erastes. Jasper would sing his soaring solo. Brian, the Librarian would deliver the eulogy and Todd and Padgett would turn to each other and swap wonderful remembrances of my solid friendship. Hank would be distracted. Viv would lecture me in the coffin, while Frank, the Insurance Man, held her steady. Then I saw Louise, Sammy and Mary, clutching each other in the first pew. I began to weep.

  “Matt,” I said. “Why did I ever meet you? What did I do to deserve you?”

  I was too sober for suicide, so I grabbed my coat and headed for The Cavern.

  3

  The Cavern wasn’t crowded on a weekday night. Still the regulars were sitting at the bar — Sam, Kurt and Mother. I waved as I slipped under the stalactite ceiling, just as the Zippilin let loose across the empty dance floor. I noticed Bruce Q. was futzing with the contraption.

  “Hey, Martin,” Gus the Bouncer said. “You’ve been a stranger. Heard . . .”

  “Yes,” I said. “There’s been an unwanted visitor in my house.”

  “’Sbeen in many homes lately, guy.” He turned. “Carlos, look who’s turned up.”

  Carlos, the DJ waved. The music was soft and low, from the Jukebox at this early hour.

  “Martin,” Bruce said. He turned to Teddy, the bartender. “A Corona on the house for my long lost patron.”

  “Thanks, Teddy.”

  He waved, and then tapped me a mug. I didn’t feel like beer. I wanted the hard stuff. Lot’s of the hard stuff. Something to give me the courage to head back to the kitchen drawer and the Roman tub. However, I needed to be hospitable. I noticed Nick, the busboy. He seemed to have graduated to waiter, by the looks of his tuppenny.

  “Relax,” Bruce said. “It’s good to see you. I hope everything is . . .”

  He stopped. I saw Gus signal him. I just grinned — a pig’s grin, if a pig could grin, and then took may place on a barstool. I just sat there, sipped my beer and stared into the mirror. I was a mess. I needed a shave. My hair was a barnyard disaster. I could have drunk my way to hell and back and could be more attractive. I slouched.

  “I pray every night,” came a gruff but feminine voice. Mother had joined my reflection in the mirror. “I pray every night that they could all come back.”

  That they could all come back. The thought chilled me. It stabbed at my soul. Mother wasn’t talking about the war dead. She was invoking the fallen of this age — the sick and dying and the gone. The gone gone, never to return.

  “They are angels,” Mother said. “Martin, dear boy, look at me.”

  I didn’t want to look at him. I saw enough in the mirror, but he insisted on twisting me around. Mother’s face was drawn and over-rouged. He had missed his lips altogether, while the wig was raven and mismatched to the grey plug line. His falsies slipped, one boob lower than the other, the bra strap barely held by his bony shoulders.

  “I have seen it all,” Mother said. “I have survived all that the world and God had to crush us and I have never sought the exit.”

  How did she know? Had it been pasted across my forehead?

  “I’ll be okay, Mother.”

  “Yes, you will. You are a strong boy. A cutie and I’ve had my eye on you since you stepped across that threshold years ago. But I know my limitations.”

  Thank God for that, I thought. But it was an unkind thought. This dinosaur — this refinement gone to seed, still flowered across my bosom. Is this what we have to look forward to? Wisdom set in an ashtray.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Martin, because I can read them anyway. But it will help if you spit them out.”

  “Then you know that my lover has . . .”

  “He is not among the angels, Martin. He waits somewhere for you. He needs you, foolish lad. When he no longer needs you, you must decide then. But until then, you must set your course to survive whatever this world has set down to crush you. Look at me and remember. I’m still a pretty thing. There was a time when I was the Queen of the Jersey Shore. Now . . . well now, I’m a mere Dowager to the many sparkling things that strut the runway and lip sync.”

  He kissed me, the smear missing my forehead as the lipstick had missed his lips.

  “Martin, a penny for your thoughts?”

  “I need that penny, so I’ll tell you. I lost my job today.”

  Mother smiled. It was a no big deal smile

  “Bruce, dear,” she croaked. �
�Martin needs a job.”

  “Really?” Bruce asked.

  I rocketed about.

  “You have a job opening?”

  “Yes,” said Bruce. “Busboy. Nick took Bobby’s place when . . . well, I need a busboy.”

  “But, I’m afraid I’ll be unreliable. I mean, with Matt in the hospital, I can’t keep to a set schedule.”

  “No problem. Work when you can. I’m sure he’ll be out and about soon and then you can double up.”

  I sighed and forgot the kitchen drawer. I turned to the frail drag queen who cocked his head, the wig slipping further. I planted a big kiss smack on his lips.

  “There’s hope for me yet,” Mother said, and then pinched my bottom.

  4

  “So what will you do without a job?” Leslie asked.

  “I got one. It’s part time and maybe full time, when Matt comes home.”

  Ginger raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s lucky.”

  “It is,” I confessed. God and Mother cut me a break, and a big old bear named Bruce. “At The Cavern. I’m busboy there. Stop by sometime.”

  “Will that cover your rent?” Ginger croaked.

  “No, but Viv is going with a sugar daddy, who, as it turns out, likes me. She’s taken over the lease.”

  “She’s living with you now?” Ginger asked.

  “Viv has always lived with me after a fashion.” I laughed. “She comes and goes, but it’s still my place. I mean, now that Matt’s coming along and will be home, I need to decide whether to move him to my place. Save on expenses. Our finances are so entwined, I don’t know up from down sometimes.”

  “You’d better settle that, in case . . .”

  Leslie’s comment trailed off. She was a lawyer and thought like a lawyer. I knew where she was going.

  “Fortunately,” I said. “The Kielers will never create a legal quagmire for me.”

  Ginger shrugged, just as the Kielers appeared. I was never sure whether they heard my last comment. Never sure.

  Chapter Seven

  In the Land of Nod

  1

  I could see at once on Leslie and Ginger’s faces that Matt’s gaunt visage took them by surprise. They had certainly been in sick rooms before, and in the presence of this plague. However, the radical change in my cowboy’s appearance since their last encounter with him, gave them a start. They quickly recovered.

  “So this is where you’re hanging out now,” Ginger bellowed through the mask.

  Matt smiled. He was free of the tubes and masks and tents, but he appeared small in the hospital bed.

  “You look funny in that get up,” he said.

  “I’m surprise you recognized us,” Leslie said. “After all, we could have been the new nursing crew.”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “They’re a skinny lot, and . . . well, you’re not.”

  “If you weren’t sick, I pound you one,” Ginger said.

  They surrounded him. He attempted to sit up. He was supposed to rest. He had been up and in the chair when Louise and Sammy visited. Now he was supposed to stay in bed.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

  I dove at the switch and the mechanical bed rumbled quietly, levitating him. He looked like the Queen of Sheba — a very pale and thin Queen of Sheba.

  “Do you want to see my tattoos?” he announced.

  “They’ve branded you in here?” Leslie asked.

  “Probably to track you down if you tried to get away,” Ginger added.

  He laughed, but I wasn’t happy. He was glad to show his lesions now, but when they first appeared, he wasn’t so fast to reveal. If he had, his entry into the AIDS ward wouldn’t have been so dramatic. He leaned forward cocking his head and exposing a purple bruise, almost inviting the girls to touch it, which they didn’t.

  “He’s got a few more,” I said.

  “I can’t show you those,” he chuckled.

  “Too much information,” Leslie said.

  “I’m thinking of renting him out as a sideshow,” I remarked. “Only if he keeps it up, he’ll have black and blue ones to go with the purple ones.”

  Leslie hoisted herself onto the end of the bed.

  “Get comfy,” Matt said. “Is it still snowing?”

  “Snowing?” Leslie glanced at me. “It hasn’t snowed in weeks.”

  “Oh. I keep forgetting.”

  There were no windows in his room. Even when I took him for short walks, the lounge was windowless. Maybe there was some parasitic condition caused by light. Maybe he’d melt like a vampire. Who could tell? Still, Matt was starved for sunlight.

  “How could you tell, snooks?” Leslie said. “This place is quite confining.”

  “It’s my own private hotel room, right, Pumpkin?”

  “It’s a cell,” I said. I shouldn’t have said it, but reality was quicker at hand these days. “All we need is the padded walls.”

  “You’re terrible,” Leslie said.

  Ginger sneered at me as if I had no heart.

  “What?” I said.

  “Where are your bedside manners?”

  I laughed. “They’ve run away with the dish and the spoon. Matt’s used to it by now.”

  Matt shrugged. “He tucks me in at night, that’s bedside manner enough.”

  Leslie and Ginger kept the conversation going and going and going. Nothing was said — nothing of interest. There were a few medical queries, which Matt answered himself. He was getting as smart as the doctor, for all the good it did him. I just shut up. It was a surreal scene watching two lesbians in surgical garb chattering through masks about the turnover at the Bed & Breakfast and how Matt needed to recuperate on their front porch when spring kicked in. Matt just nodded, punctuating their comments like can I pee on the cats. Then his eyes suddenly pleaded. That was for me. He needed to sleep, either that or a trip to the bathroom, which wasn’t always a successful mission. Timing was everything.

  “Matt,” I asked, stepping up to the mound. “Do you need . . .”

  “I think I do, Pumpkin.” He smiled at his company. “I hate to be rude, ladies, but if you stay here much longer you’ll get to experience a sight that you will not soon forget.”

  Ginger and Leslie bowed out like Geishas. They gave me reassuring hugs. Anything you need. And we mean anything. We exchanged kisses through the masks, and then they were gone.

  Alone. Matt heaved a sigh, and swung his legs over the side.

  “It was good to see them.”

  “Too many visitors in one day,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  He gasped, his eyes shutting. I sniffed. I didn’t smell anything.

  “It’s just the gas,” he said. “But I think it won’t be with the next one up.”

  I gave him my shoulder. He stood precariously.

  “Dizzy?”

  “A bit. It’s just from being in bed so much.”

  “That’ll do it.” Although I didn’t believe him for a moment. He took a step and nearly fell. I anchored my hands about his waist. I could feel his hipbone.

  “Steady me, Pumpkin.”

  I gripped him, moving him toward the bathroom. I only needed to get him to the door. The room was outfitted with bars and other contraptions that he could use to maneuver himself. He made an odd sort of shuffle. As we progressed, he twisted his head back.

  “Make me a promise, Pumpkin.”

  “Anything.”

  “Get me the hell out of here and don’t let me ever come back.”

  There was nothing I could say. How could I promise such a thing? I’d been reading. This was only an episode. He might have a string of them this year, and as long as the bankers kept pushing the Kielers further into debt, this hotel room at Robert Wood Johnson would stand in readiness for him. Still . . .

  “I promise.”

  “Good, because I’m holding you that one. I never want to sleep in a room without windows again.”

  I got him to the door,
where he grabbed the handrails.

  “Okay from here?”

  “Okay.”

  I let him go, and then stepped back toward the bed. I trembled. It would be the first of many shuffles to bathrooms, but it was that promise that I dreaded most. I knew I had just committed myself to the full bull of nursing. I tore the mask off and used it to dry my tears.

  “Pumpkin,” Matt called.

  I replaced the fucking mask over the chaff behind my ears.

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Just wanted to say that I love you.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  If I had returned the favor, I think I would have collapsed.

  2

  Matt was able to walk out of the hospital ten days later. I had talked to him about staying at my place, because of the stairs at his apartment, but he insisted that he could still climb them. He could, with my heart attack nerves behind him. I was becoming a wreck. Sammy and Louise had been there to greet us, and Mary had baked a pie. Mary wasn’t much of a baker, and it wasn’t much of a pie . . . cherry I think, and sour, but it was the thought that counted. Hank dropped by, and Jasper too. For the first week, there was steady company, including Doug Lynch from Axum Labs. He brought work — not prime programming work, but data entry and some sub-routines, he called it. I was pleased with Doug and his understanding. He knew that Matt couldn’t return to work, yet they kept him on the payroll and gave him what amounted to busy work. Matt didn’t complain, although he did mention to me that a newbie programmer could handle this shit. Still, it kept his hands on the keyboard on the good days. Doug even gave him deadlines. Matt responded well to deadlines.

  I was grateful that Matt was occupied, because I needed to work. Bruce Q. was good-hearted, and he didn’t pay me when I didn’t work, but he didn’t penalize me on those evening when I called off. In many ways, The Cavern kept me sane. It was smoky and loud — numbing at times, but a good numb, the kind that lifted you to another world and spit you out into oblivion. Bussing was mindless work, especially when running behind a queenie waiter like Nick. I also got see people again. Most of the Jersey Sparrows stopped by to water on a Saturday night. I was guilty of partying more than working when they showed up. I even danced with John ducking when the Zippilin made its flight. Laughter. I needed laughter, and I had some. Mother never gave me a maudlin speech again, but he always winked at me, and sometimes would blow me a kiss. I never looked upon her in the same light again. She was beautiful — an old icon like some feminine version of a wooden Indian.