Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  At the panel’s crest was Leslie’s embroidered swatch. It was perfect, although the quilters did not understand it. They knew the significance of the first two words, but the third word eluded them. Louise hugged me as we admired the finished work.

  “It will stand proudly with the others in Washington.”

  “Thanks to you all,” I said.

  There was a communal sigh. My eye ran the gamut of this thing — this extension of my grief. I knew there was more to be done, but I couldn’t bring myself to complete it just now. There was still time. The panel would go to the local NAMES Project chapter to be attached to seven other panels. It would be tended well. I wouldn’t see it again until it would be ceremonially unfurled with thousands of others on the Mall.

  “It’s lovely,” Louise said. “Perfect, in fact. And that embroidered saying just crowns it all, Martin.”

  It did. I was proud that I had thought of it. As I read it, I could hear my cowboy’s bullfrog voice croaking it out in the snow.

  Look Away, it said.

  Look Away Silence.

  I understood.

  It stopped raining.

  Chapter Three

  Ties and Rings

  1

  I waited curbside under the copse of trees that lined the Mall in the shadow of the Washington Monument. Hank was parking the car and I promised I would wait for him. The girls were already out on the sea of panels that spread as far as the eye could see, but I dared not view it yet. In fact, when Hank told me to wait, I didn’t argue. If he never returned, it would be soon enough. I paced, my legs urging me to cross the street and walk in the opposite direction. There were hosts of visitors and yet above the quiet din came the reading of the names. They were read slowly and steady, as regimented as if they were the names of the combat wounded, and who was to say they weren’t? Their panels faced the sky, but their names rang toward heaven. Louise and Sammy were scheduled to read a brace of names, and then say a few words of encouragement. Louise was nervous. In fact, I had never seen her so unnerved. However, she left the hotel with renewed conviction, her man on her arm and her daughter in tow.

  “Ready?” Hank asked, coming up behind me.

  “No,” I said.

  “Take your time.”

  My heart raced and my breath hitched. Suddenly, gentle hands braced my shoulder. Hank’s lips came to my cheek, and then to my ear.

  “It’s almost over, Martin,” he whispered. “He’s in your heart and he goes with you today.”

  I clutched him and gazed out at the throngs — the silent throngs that walked between the panels, between the boxes of tissues that were set at each corner. I stepped out. Numb, but I stepped.

  At first, the world was brightly colored — a vast ocean of cloth as varied as the many lives that winked at God. The lanes were even and I had a strange thought that I was on a newly ploughed field in cotton country. Slowly, with Hank guiding me, I walked. Other mourners walked and watched, gazed and read — in pairs and in clutches and solitary. Some hovered at one panel, while other stood transfixed at a single point, reading or remembering. All the while, the names came over the PA system. Name after name.

  I had walked onto this living symbol of shame and remembrance afraid to cast my eyes downward. I knew that at some point I would come to Matt’s panel. I heard some people whispering. Did you see Rock Hudson’s panel and someone else referred to Keith Haring’s. Was this a museum? A place to gather mementos? I noticed people photographing individual panels as if they were making a scrapbook and these were works of art. Art? No. This was the fabric of our grief that we sewed together to get a government to recognize that here was the unattended business in the land, business that stole away the young. This was not a cemetery. This was the graffiti of the heart. It shouted quietly over the landscape from the Capitol Dome to the Washington Monument — ten thousand expressions of remembrance all shouting in a whisper Listen to me, for I am gone and could be still here if you did not ignore me.

  Finally, I gained enough courage to look down and see them — to appreciate my fellows in kindred threads. There they were as I passed — photos of young men and hearty couples. Their jackets and jeans, their merry life-filled faces enjoying what I had now in abundance, but they had not. Teddy bears for infants with short shrift date spans and firemen and police. There were architects and dancers and actors and poets and lawyers and even a nurse. I walked and walked until I scarcely noticed those who walked with me, beside me and between the cotton bounded lanes. It was so huge, this quilt — this field of waste that lay before me. I thought of the hours I spent caring for Matt and it was now multiplied in the thousands and tens of thousands. There was fellowship here among those who shared my peregrination. Still the names came.

  The names were read from the podium some distance away. Suddenly, I recognized the voice — sweet and motherly. The quilt disappeared as Louise’s list was read. I listened and listened well.

  “Raymond Adams,” she said. Her voice was steady, but I knew she was holding on for dear life. “Raymond Adams,” she said again, having lost her place. “James Wise, Kevin Marsters, Buddy Havran, Rob Frobier, Sgt. Andy Andersen, Riccardo Sanchez, Rob Hackett, CD Smith, Steven Coates, Nicolas Alesandro, Jon Eriksson, Russell Hay and my son . . . my son, Matthew Kieler.”

  “Matthew Kieler,” Sammy said, leaning into the mic. He supported her as she unfurled her own paper. She took a deep breath, and then held onto the mic. It reverberated, but no matter. She would have her say. This woman who had been my mainstay would have . . . her . . . say.

  “When my husband and I were asked to read a portion of the names, we were hesitant. There are so many names — so many fallen — more fallen than in all the wars we have ever fought. Yet, our government. Yes, I must say it; our government ignores this devastation, because they do not value the lives of our children. They think that because our children live their lives as they are, and because the upper echelon do not approve of our children’s life-ways — their natural, normal life-ways, it gives Washington a right to watch them die and not even shed a tear or even to bring themselves to say the word . . . AIDS. There, I’ve said it. It’s been said in the shadow of these great monuments. But here is another monument that spreads further than anyone could imagine. This crop of death embarrasses them, because these angels, like all angels, are different. I am sorry to say that, because they are different, those who rule us are indifferent to them and their plight. I am sorry, but our fingers are sore from sewing their names into quilts.”

  She soared, her voice a power over all whom heard her. I thought of this woman who had stood weeping over the Thanksgiving dishes, the woman who held her thoughts together for her son and the family he had cobbled together. This woman who gave me the Pope’s nose. I was never so proud of anyone in my life.

  “I loved my son,” she said. “I love him still. I am proud that he lived his all too short life as the man he was, living with another man, the love of his life. Their love was good — still good.” Her neck stiffened. Her chest heaved. “And because the dragons in the palaces of alabaster do not know what love is and have forgotten that this country was founded on the principles of freedom and good spirits. It is because of their neglect, our children die and posterity is supposed to forget about them. No. I am proud of my gay son — my brave, gay son, who told me who he was and let me share in that great gift.

  “Mothers,” she caroled. “Mothers, do not shun your sons or deny that great gift, because you never know how long you have to revel in it. I shall revel in the great joy of Matthew Kieler’s life for as long as I breathe. For as long as I . . .”

  Sammy gathered her into his arms. There was a silent wave of applause, but her words burrowed into their hearts where most of the applause was kept. I just stood transfixed before someone’s panel and read the tag line.

  I miss you Daddy . . .

  I lost it.

  2

  The names began again. Hank shuffled me along
in the direction of our destination. I fumbled in my pocket to assure that I was prepared. Suddenly, some one called to me.

  “I know you,” a man said.

  He stood beside a pearl white panel along with a cluster of other men. He looked familiar and then . . .

  “Yes,” I said. “From The Crow. You were a colleague of . . .”

  “Not really a colleague. I worked at Gamma Rex. Is Matt here?”

  I shook my head, and then remembered the flirtatious cutie that was with this man that night. I regarded the panel.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said.

  “I don’t recall your name,” I said.

  “Perry Chaplain.”

  “Martin Powers.”

  “And this is my partner, Marlin.”

  “Marlin Fiske,” said the partner.

  “Glad to meet you,” I said, grasping his hand. “Is this . . .” I gazed down at the panel again.

  “Bobby’s,” Perry said. “He’s finally at rest, although it was a mighty feat.”

  I perused the panel. Other men approached.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. What else could I say?

  “We all contributed,” one of the others said.

  “Martin, this is another Gamma Rexer. He knew Matt.”

  “Luke,” the man said. “Luke Oliver. I didn’t know that Matt was . . .” His sighed. He touched his partner’s hand.

  “Martin?” asked Luke’s partner.

  Now that man was more than familiar. He had worked at The Cavern. Branch. In fact, he took the picture of Matt and I on leather Santa’s lap.

  “Branch?”

  “Branch McPherson.”

  “Small world,” I said. “Where’s my manners. This is Hank LaCrosse.

  “Nice knowin’ you.”

  “Can you believe this?” Branch asked.

  “It takes my breath away,” Luke echoed.

  “I agree.”

  “I guess,” Perry said. “I guess we are the survivors.”

  “And we must survive,” came another voice.

  A tall man, who had been lingering with a shorter fellow at the far end of Bobby’s panel, approached.

  “We must survive,” he reiterated. “Like that lady just said, this is a quilt made with love, but shame on us all for letting it get made in the first place.”

  “Kev,” his partner said. “I don’t think this is the time and place.”

  “What better time and place to draw this story to a close.”

  I smiled. He was a little firebrand, this one — a true activist in the best sense of the word. A clear reminder why we stood on this ground. I extended my hand.

  “Martin Powers,” I said.

  “Kevin Borden,” he replied. “And this is my better half.”

  “Louis Lonnegan.”

  I was glad to meet them. It was New Jersey here on the Mall.

  3

  Ginger and Leslie waved to us. I said my farewells to Perry and his crowd and continued toward the place where I belonged. Viv and Frank hovered over the panels. Viv was a mess. She clutched a box of tissues, her mascara ruined, her face clown like. I do believe this was the first time the enormity of the crisis had hit her. Frank was moribund, swaying on his legs, his head cocked, inspecting first Russ’ panel then Matt’s. Jasper and Rudi were a few rows down, but were coming home to roost as were Louise, Sammy and Mary, strutting across the lawn from the Monument.

  I felt like a magnet. I knew that this would be graveside again, only Matt was not under that panel. He was looking down somewhere, maybe even laughing at me. I was the magnet now. These people — these wonderful people were here for me, with me and once again, it was all about me. It’s all about you, Pumpkin. And I was glad for it, because I needed to hold this little passel of hearts together on the threads of my cowboy’s quilt.

  “So many,” Viv said. It echoed Bobby’s crowd as they wafted in his trace. “I didn’t know that there were so many. How can it be? How could they let this happen?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But here is the panel that matters to me.”

  Louise reached us. She was out of breath, but immediately gave me a hug.

  “That was a wonderful speech, Mom,” I said.

  Viv hugged Louise.

  “Be brave, dear,” Louise said. “We must all be brave.”

  She gathered us all into her arms in turn. Even Rudi let her hug him. Then we all fell silent and pondered Matt’s panel.

  “We did a good job,” Sammy said.

  “We did,” I said. Then I fumbled in my pocket again. “It’s not quite finished.”

  “What do you mean?” Leslie asked.

  I took from my pocket some gauze.

  “What’s that?” Louise said.

  I unwrapped it. Needle and thread.

  “Is there a repair needed,” Ginger said, inspecting the edges.

  “No,” I said.

  I reached into my pocket again and retrieved another item — two other items.

  “What are you up to, son?” Sammy asked.

  “Mary,” I said. “I need you.” I hunkered down. “Steady me.”

  She placed her hands on my shoulders.

  “No. Really hold on.”

  Leslie and Ginger helped.

  “What on earth?” Louise asked.

  I opened my hand. In the bright sunlight gleamed two golden rings.

  “I’m sewing these on,” I declared. I could hear them whimpering already. “It will declare to the world that I married this man, despite what the law says. Martin loves Matt and Matt loves Martin and these rings will say that to everyone who walks along these never ending lanes.”

  Mary reinforced her grip while I perused the panel.

  “Where should they go?” I mused. No one had a suggestion. I glanced back and forth until it came to me. They could go no other place. So I laid the rings flat and began to sew — the tight stitches that I had learn through practice at the Lantanas. And so it was. I did it. I sewed those symbols of our eternal love onto that tie — that ugly, neon purple tie that no man should ever wear, but I shall wear forever.

  Epilog

  The Vigil I Keep

  Life moves on, as they say, one day at a time, one step after another, one Christmas in succession until the holidays disappear into the oblivion of time. And I managed fair and even returned to my retail life at a different mall — in Woodbridge — bigger, better and further. Still Hank badgered me to stay connected to what he called the work. I was tired of it, the work. I thought to enter Buddy services, but if I did, it would need to wait. Too soon. I knew the wonderful and thankless things that Hank did, and I needed to be away from it, away from The Cavern, away from the singing and even my apartment. Woodbridge was far enough to consider a change of address. I wasn’t committed to it, but it was a distinct possibility.

  Finally, because I thought it would shut Hank up, I agreed to join the Hyacinth speaker’s bureau. All I would need to do was meet with people and answer questions about care giving. It sounded simple enough and uncomplicated. In fact, for the first few months I did nothing at all in that capacity. Then I was asked to attend an orientation meeting. What’s that? I asked. I assumed it was for me. However, it was for new volunteers — a day of indoctrination. I was expected to do what? Say what? Be yourself. Just tell your story. I could do that. So I didn’t give it another thought. I turned up on a late Saturday morning at Bayard Street. Hank escorted me up to the second floor, where there was considerable activity. It unnerved me.

  “How many people are at this thing?” I asked.

  “About a hundred and fifty,” he said.

  “I’m gonna kill you with a clean heart. I thought this would be a small circle of chairs.”

  “No, Martin. Orientation is only held once a year for a full day. You’re the keynote speaker.”

  “The keynote speaker?”

  “Yes.”

  “The keynote speaker? I don’t so much as have a note prepared. I was going
to . . . wing it.”

  “Wing it then. Just tell them like it is.”

  “Like it is?”

  I was suddenly terrified. I felt duped. Hank was setting me up for a pie in the face. When I entered the big hall, there was a table set with a place for me. I glanced out at all the faces — a variety of anxious faces waiting for the golden advice that I had to impart. What golden advice? I nodded to the crowd, and then sat in my duly assigned seat of prominence until I was introduced. It was an abrupt intro as if they all knew who I was and had flocked from all quarters of the State to hear me. I was again a magnet. Well, I guess I had faced worse things, and you can say that again. So I acknowledged their applause, but remained seated. I figured if I had a table for a fortress to hide behind, when they realized that I was woefully unprepared, I could duck the rotten tomatoes.

  “Well,” I said. “Where should I begin? I’m Martin Powers and I was a caregiver for my . . . my partner, Matthew Kieler. He was from Texas. Had a sweet drawl, y’all . . . and sang like a bull frog.” I noticed every eye riveted to me. That calmed. “Yes, from Texas.” My mind wandered. The room began to disappear. “We met when I worked in retail on a Christmas Eve. I was the salesman and he was the customer. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen and ever will see. I sold him a tie, I did. And he didn’t have it gift wrapped.”

  I was lost in this memory. I could see that cowboy hat in the back of the room. I could sense him there and through it all, I knew all the rookies in the room listened to my every word.

  Just tell your story. Just tell it.

  “He was trying to pick me up and I was trying to be picked up. So the fates were either with us or against us. I think more with us than against us. He was shy and I was a bold minx. There was no stopping me. It was Christmas Eve and he . . . he was my little over-the-counter encounter and I was . . . I was his Pumpkin.”