Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  Jasper was pushing me to come back to the chorus, and I considered it. What better way to honor Matt’s memory than to sing praises to heaven? But I was a child of Christmas no more. I couldn’t even brave a rehearsal. Too soon. Breaking up Matt’s apartment was sufficient to tucker me out so that each evening I would flop into bed exhausted. I was too tired even to cry myself to sleep and I would sleep late, since I wasn’t needed at The Cavern until two in the afternoon. Some days I stayed in bed just to waste the day. One such day, there was a knock at the door. I ignored it. Then I heard a key scrapping in the hole.

  “Not today,” I whispered, getting up and reaching for my robe.

  It was a cold December day. I had left the window open, the snow spilling in across the carpeting. I closed it and sauntered into the living room to greet her.

  “Shithead,” Viv said.

  She wasn’t alone. Frank was with her, standing on the threshold, his hat piled with snow. He toted a square package. I smiled dimly.

  “Come in, Frank,” I said. “Coffee. I’ll put some on.”

  He came in, setting the box against the couch.

  “I thought you’d be up by now,” Viv said.

  “Why?” I asked. “I sleep late. I don’t need to be to work yet.”

  “It’s Christmas Day.”

  I shuddered. It had completely slipped my mind. I mean, on some plain I knew it was coming, but I just ignored it as best I could. I stared at the box.

  “Shit, Viv. I hope that’s not a present, because I just didn’t . . .”

  “Now, don’t fret.”

  “No, Martin,” Frank said, sitting, brushing his hat off on my carpeting. “We didn’t expect that you would be festive.”

  “I’ll be a minute,” I said. “Coffee’ll be on. I think I have a cookie or something. Nothing fancy. Oreos.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Frank said.

  “I’ll make the coffee,” Viv said. “You sit down with Frank.”

  I looked at her incredulously. I didn’t think she knew how to make coffee. I didn’t resist. I just sat down beside Frank.

  “Have you ever had her coffee?” I asked him.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “It’ll move your everlasting bowels.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  The man was always direct, which was refreshing. We weren’t pals, but he saw something in Viv that kept him permanent. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t tie the knot somewhere down the line. It would be a different experience for Viv, and even though Frank wouldn’t be my father, he would be a relative of sorts. I glanced down at the box.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “Don’t tell him,” Viv sang out. “Is this your coffee, shithead?”

  “It’s the brown powdery stuff in the Maxwell House can.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  I looked at the box again.

  “It’s your Christmas present,” Frank said.

  I had already guessed that much.

  “I’ve never seen gray coffee before,” Viv announced.

  I tried to see what was in the box.

  “You know, I didn’t do any Christmas shopping this . . . oh shit.”

  I flew out off the couch.

  “Not that,” I shouted. “That’s . . .”

  Viv retuned holding the silver urn.

  “Gotcha,” she said. “Although the Harpooner would have made a sweet cup of Joe.”

  “Put it down.”

  Viv set the ashes on the counter.

  “Silly place to keep it, in the kitchen,” she said.

  “I haven’t decided just where yet.”

  Viv smiled, and then nodded to Frank. He held the box up. It was heavy and he juggled it. From the picture, it looked like a candy dish — a heart-shaped candy dish.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  They worked together on opening it, while I circled them. It was a strange thing and needed assembly. However, Frank whipped out three spindles that looked like legs — beautifully shaped table legs. He screwed them into the top piece, and then added a shelf and three more, shorter legs. Didn’t take long. He flipped it over standing it before me. It was a table, about two and half feet high — a heart shaped table, with a glass top — a heart-shaped glass top. Viv lifted the top.

  “It’s a case,” she said. “You can display the Harpooner’s favorite jewelry — his belt buckles and stuff inside on the velvet and you’ll be able to see it.” She closed the top, and then ported it to a corner — the corner where I would usually have set up the Christmas tree. “Bring him here, shithead. Bring my harpooner here.”

  My heart was full — pride full. I lifted the silver urn to my lips, and then kissed it. I glanced at the glass top — that heart reflecting Viv’s pasty face. I set the urn on top.

  “Home at last,” I said.

  I espied Frank grinning and wondered just how much of this was his idea. Somehow, I suspected he might have been the instigator. I was glad.

  “Thank you . . . Mom . . . and Frank. How thoughtful.”

  I felt the tears welling and I feared that this was the cathartic moment when all the mingling would pour forth. However, I was stronger than that. I had built a mighty dam around my soul. So I turned to Viv, who was pleased to see me so affected.

  “So,” I said. “Where’s that coffee, now that he’s safe from your percolations.”

  Finally, I knew about Christmas.

  Chapter Two

  Finding the Thread

  1

  Hank was the first person to suggest a quilt panel. I had always known about the NAMES Project. The Jersey Gay Sparrows warbled many a GALA melody over portions of it. I recognized the significance — even the gravitas of these panels sewn by loved ones to commemorate the life of one of their fallen. However, I never dwelt on it. I sang, moving the audience with my renditions, and then sauntered past the display never venturing close. Hank said he would help me with it and the next thing I knew, I had Leslie and Ginger at my door.

  “We were just in the neighborhood and we heard that you’re sewing a panel for Matt,” Leslie said.

  They were just in the neighborhood. Like hell they were. I was among the missing and they guessed my mental state, with a little help from Hank, and perhaps a chirp from sister Mary. They invaded my space like the Russians taking Hungary.

  “I really wasn’t thinking of . . .”

  “Of course you were. It’s only natural,” Ginger said.

  Natural. Nothing could less natural. I mean, I was handy with a vacuum broom, but a needle and thread was as foreign to me as season football tickets. Still, my lesbian godmothers took over the place, regarding the state of the apartment. I had been focusing my time at The Cavern and still slept late.

  They paid homage at my little Matt Kieler shrine, and then inevitably returned to the subject.

  “We’re making a quilt for Russ and we need your help,” Ginger announced.

  “You do?” I asked knowing where this was going.

  “Hank tells us that you have much too much time on your hands, Snooks,” Leslie added.

  “Helping us with Russ’ panel would fill in those blank hours.”

  My mouth opened wide. What was I to say? They didn’t give me a chance.

  “And while you’re helping us with Russ’, we’ll help you with Matt’s.”

  “They’re displaying the whole quilt — all ten-thousand panels,” Ginger said. “That’s a rarity.”

  “Down in Washington, D.C. Right on the president’s front lawn.”

  “He can’t ignore it then.”

  “Spread right out there on the Mall.”

  “In the shadow of the Washington Monument.”

  Suddenly, they stopped. They folded their arms and cocked their heads like mechanical dolls. I supposed they wanted my answer and that answer had better be yes.

  “I’m not that creative,�
�� I said.

  “Not creative?” Leslie snapped. “You sing.”

  “Anyone who can warble like you do can sew an old photograph onto a piece of cloth.”

  Old photograph? I shuddered. I had an album of photographs. It was put away. I couldn’t bear to look at them. Too soon. Now these two well meaning loony birds wanted me to not only to look at them, but handle them — sacrifice a few to a quilting bee.

  “I don’t know whether I can get off from work to go down to Washington D.C.”

  “If Bruce Q doesn’t let you go,” Ginger said, “he’ll have a contingent of Erastes Errata singing at his front door, and it won’t be Sweet Adeline.”

  I was running out of excuses. I guess somewhere inside me I knew that it was the thing to do. Not that I had given it much thought, but I was becoming a hermit. Spring had come and I was still mopping in my winter sweaters. I had even skipped the annual cleaning. I think what I needed most was to leave the apartment and commune in human society again. I had become fragile. Hank wouldn’t bully me, but Ginger would.

  “So?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” they said in unison.

  I shrugged.

  “How do I start?”

  “This weekend in New Birch,” Ginger said.

  “At The Lantanas.”

  I swallowed.

  “I’m not up to partying.”

  “This isn’t a party, young man,” Ginger scolded. “It’s a fucking quilting bee.”

  I smiled.

  “Bring some stuff,” Leslie said.

  “Needle and thread?”

  “No, you ninny,” Ginger said standing. “We have all that under control.”

  “Bring photos of Matt, dear. And some articles of clothing for the quilt and perhaps some letters and other remembrances.”

  I sighed, and then Ginger tackled me, pounded my back.

  “You’re going to be okay, Martin. Trust me.”

  Leslie gave me a more civilized hug, at least one that didn’t break my back.

  “Snooks, you have friends. Think about what this quilt is and why we’re sewing it. You’ll find strength in that. You will.”

  They left. I didn’t even offer them an Oreo. I just stood there pondering in their wake. I stood there for an hour staring first at the door and then at the silver Urn on the heart-shaped table.

  “Hon,” I said finally. “Any thing you want to say to the President of the United States?”

  I knew what Matt would say, and it would have moved any heart to action. Action. Wasn’t that Act-Up’s slogan? Action Now or something like that. No. It was Silence = Death. Well perhaps Matt should finally have a voice, now that death didn’t look away. Perhaps silence would.

  2

  It was raining on the day I arrived at The Lantanas and ran the first box of mementos from the car up the porch stairs and into the parlor. I had taken an assortment of photos and ties and clothing. I had originally included the blanket, but at the last moment returned it to my bed. To cut it up seemed to me a desecration. I’m glad I left it intact, as I still pull it up to my chin each night, even on the most humid summer nights. I deposited the box on the couch, and then Hank helped me unload my own kit from the car. There were a few cars parked in the driveway — some that I recognized. The rain teemed and I could espy the cat eyes in the bushes, a host of sated felines pondering the madness of the lunatic gay men who darted between the raindrops.

  “We’re in here, Snooks,” Leslie called, as I shook out my wet hair.

  In the dining room sat the quilters — Leslie and Ginger, Mary and Louise, Jasper and Rudi, while Sammy came in from the kitchen with two beers — one in progress and one for me.

  “I’ve become a seamstress,” he said handing me a Bud. “Glass?”

  “No,” I stammered.

  On the table were two cloth panels, one with Russ’ name embroidered across the top. The other was pretty much in a blank slate. I assumed that was Matt’s. Louise had begun tatting the edges.

  “Martin,” she said. “Sit next to me. Come think of a design. What did you bring to the table?”

  I set the beer on a side table and sat beside her. The rain riced the roof and I was chilled. Mary winked at me from across the way. She held up a doily with the word Newt painted across it.

  “In the corner, I think,” she suggested.

  I nodded, and she went to work with a needle and thread.

  “Now I’m proficient at embroidery,” Leslie announced. “If you tell me what words you want on Matt’s panel, I’ll run them up. This is for Russell’s.”

  She held up a swatch that read One brief bright flame. I smiled. Yes, I thought. One brief bright flame and Russell was his name. Perfect.

  “Let me think about it, Les,” I said. I did have an idea that I tripped over last week. “I brought some of Matt’s old ties. I thought I’d spell his name out with his old ties.”

  “Brilliant,” Ginger said. “And you said you weren’t creative.”

  “He would have loved that, dear,” Louise said.

  I glanced across the table to Jasper. He and Rudi were pasting appliques onto Russ’ quilt — little musical notes. That gave me another idea.

  “I think I want something musical on Matt’s.”

  “I’d thought more a computer,” Sammy said. “I have a few pictures. We could mount a small portrait framed in a computer screen.”

  “I like that,” I said. “But he loved music.”

  “He loved your voice,” Mary said. “He was as tone deaf as a frog.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But I think I’d like to see the lyrics of his favorite song maybe.”

  “Well, just let me know,” Leslie said.

  And I did. However, we could also write things on the panel, because they had these indelible markers that did a fine job — didn’t run or smear and if the ink got wet it would hold up. I watched Hank as he drew a little black faced figure at one edge of the panel.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I’s wants him ‘member me in alls my ebony glory.”

  Then he grinned and I was flooded by memories of Hank and Matt bantering in mock Ebonics — a game that cast aside shame and discrimination, leveling their spirits into one glorious blend of friendship. Louise had a marker now. Her hand was steady — florid and elegant. She wrote A day never passes without a thought of you . . . She pressed the last period firmly, and then wiped away a tear.

  “He’ll always be my lamb.”

  And thus it went. I arranged his ties in the center of the panel. At first I spelled out Matthew, but then decided that I never called him that, so Matt it was. Sewing them on was a chore. Threading the fucking needle took forever, but Ginger’s big mitts helped. For a chubby fisted lesbian, she threaded a needle like Tinkerbelle in a lantern. My first stitches were too loose and needed to be ripped out. I soon learned that it would take me a good three hours just to attach the letter M, but as I stitched I listened. I listened to Louise recall the baby boy in the bathtub and at the circus. There were stories of fights in school and one from Mary about how her brother set fire to the tree house and broke his leg jumping from the top bough. And then Sammy bubbled about how he tried to get Matt interested in baseball.

  “It was like cutting off an arm, but I insisted.”

  “You bullied him,” Louise said. “I remember, you came inside and kicked the chair. Said you’d teach him how to cover first base or take a strap to him.”

  “I did not. I wouldn’t.”

  “Well, those were the days before we understood.”

  Silence

  “No vun ever unterstandts,” Rudi said, filling the silence utterly.

  He had been quiet, sewing away at the musical notes, Jasper at his side. It was evident that Rudi was also ill now, his face drawn, a purple lesion chevroned on his neck.

  “Your Matt, he unterstoodt. He touched my face und he knew. He velcomed me as his komrade, to der legions.”
He sniffed, his hand covered by Jasper’s. “Ja, your Matt knew, he did.”

  “I guess it takes time to understand these things,” Louise said. “I guess it takes the sewing of quilts to make us all equal, both those here and those gone.”

  I stopped sewing and touched the letter M. Would I ever understand? Were we meant to understand? I supposed if I reflected on this panel for a thousand years, I might need another thousand to fathom it out.

  3

  The panels were complete, or nearly so by Sunday morning. The rain had never ceased. It sang accompaniment to our chatter, our reminiscence, our silences, our restless sleep and to those moments of retreat when we clustered in corners, on the porch, in the kitchen or over the work at hand. The rain hummed and thrummed like a vamp to the soul. No better balm could there be to those who seek some peace. Whenever I need an ounce of serenity, I let my mind drift back to the Lantanas, to the rain on the roof and the cats in the bushes and it comes. What’s in a quilt, I thought. How can we repair a life gone by sewing their pictures on cloth, their names in old ties or scribble our hearts from our sleeves? We cannot. But in the striving, the sewing and the knitting, we embroider some peace — some ever stirring, ever swaying tranquility forever lost in the rain drenched lantanas. And I may have understood.

  Russell’s pink and white panel was splendid, flashy with musical verve and queenie pictures — living and forever blooming as he was in life before the haste of living tripped him up like a stone in the river. Matt’s panel was green and gray, the ties leaping from the background. The Newt and the homilies from Louise and Hank and Mary and Sammy and Leslie and Ginger rang true to their remembrance of him. There were three clusters of photographs — his baby shots and his first cowboy suit and, at my insistence, a portrait of Matt and Luis, the only photo Matt had of him. Then there was Matt and I on leather Santa’s lap on that fabled first date at The Cavern. Another cluster had Matt on the porch of the Lantanas surrounded by cats and one of him in front of The Crow. There was a little montage of our Rocky Mountain romp, and finally Matt at his computer and, at Sammy’s inspiration, framed with a computer screen.