by Rick R. Reed
The glass threw back his own reflection and that of the lake, palms, and hibiscus behind him. And standing there, not a foot away, was Adam, his reflection clear in the glass. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. He was barefoot and his blond hair looked clean and shiny. His skin had a slight bronze color to it and it was free of sores.
Dan whispered to the reflection, “You take care of yourself, sweetheart. Dont let them jerk you around wherever you are, not like they did down here. I said it before, but Ill say it again, just so you dont forget: I love you.”
Although Dan couldnt hear him, he could see Adams lips move and read the words he tried to speak. “I love you. Im gonna be all right.”
Dan reached a hand toward the glass and Adam did the same. They almost touched.
Dan turned to look behind him. There was nothing there. He turned back to the glass to find it reflecting only his own image.
But Adam had been there. He knew it.
And he had gotten the chance to say good-bye and to know Adam was, finally, okay.
Chapter Eighteen
A WEEKpassed. Then another. The ache of Marks leaving no longer kept Dan up at night, and when he came home from work, the apartment didnt feel like a place he had shared with someone, but his own place. He rearranged the living room furniture, bought a bookcase at a second-hand furniture store on Howard Street, and hung up a couple of framed posters he had had in storage.
It was becoming his home.
Less and less he wondered about Mark, but still, there was a lingering desire to know where he had gone and what had become of him. For all Dan knew, he could have gone out after Dan dumped him, bought an eight-ball, and snorted himself right into an overdose. All this time not hearing from him could mean he was dead.
No one would have told Dan. Like Adams family, Marks mother didnt have much use for Marks “friend” and, most likely, it would never have occurred to her to notify him if something awful had happened to the man he had loved and shared his life with for several years. Maybe someday, the world would change and people would begin to recognize that gay love relationships were just as real and valid as straight ones, and that gay people could form family units too.
But Dan thought of Mark less and less and seriously doubted he had died. He was a big, healthy guy, in spite of his addiction, and was young and strong. Dan figured hed kick the habit long before he came to a bad end, but he wished he had some way of knowing for sure.
His gut told him, though, that Mark was still around. It was like there was an invisible tether that still existed between him and Mark and, strange as it sounded, he still felt his ex-lover at the other end of the line. Although he would never say it to anyone else, he could sense Mark out there, somewhere. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing, but he knew, instinctively, that Mark remained with him on the earth. Dan would have felt some sort of void, otherwise. Even to himself, this all sounded like some sort of weird spiritual mumbo jumbo, a way for his psyche to comfort him, to allow him to live without incessant worry.
Yet he believed it.
He thought often of another blond-haired man as well—Adam. As he did with Mark, he sensed he knew where Adam was. No specifics, but he felt certain Adam was in a better place now, free from pain and the troubles that had clouded the final year or so of his life.
Sullivan called now and then—or Dan called him—but it seemed like their connection was fading, now that the drama of Adams life had ended. The men had less and less to say to one another and their conversations often lapsed into silence, which became more frequent and prolonged with each phone call.
And then things changed. Dan returned home from work one day to find a letter waiting for him in his mailbox.
A letter from Adam.
With a shaking hand, Dan removed it, where it mixed innocently with a bill from the Tampa Electric Company and a catalog from LL Bean. It was akin to receiving a missive from the “other side”, and Dan immediately felt a weird sense of unease that wasnt really lessened much by the fact that the postmark on the letter was before Adam passed away.
The letter must have merely gotten held up in the mail, as letters sometimes did. No one ever accused the US Postal Service of perfection or timeliness.
Still, it was odd to see Adams backward-slanting script and the state prison return address in the upper left-hand corner.
Dan hurried back to his apartment with the letter, wondering what it would say, when Adam had written it, and if he would learn anything he didnt already know.
Inside, he tossed the bill and the catalog on the dining table and sat down in his living room to rip the letter open. He felt hungry for this—communication from Adam. It was a gift he had never expected.
Dearest Dan, my sweet “buddy”, I wanted to write to you while I still felt well enough to hold a pen. Yes, I think Im getting sick again. I feel all the same rumblings I felt the other times I came down with pneumonia—the cough, the ache in my chest, the fever at night. Its like a monster waiting just outside my door.
Only this time, strangely enough, I feel as though Mr. Monster really means business and plans to kick some serious ass.
Que sera, sera, as my heroine, Doris Day, used to sing. I love that quote I once heard about Miss Day, „I knew her before she was a virgin. Hah! But I digress.
I wanted to write and ask a favor of you.
Now, dont go getting all weepy and sentimental on me. I know Ill probably weather this storm and come out smelling like the prison daisy I have become, stronger to thwart another rape attempt in the showers. If only! No one here wants to touch “Spot” for fear of contamination.
I know, my humor is too dark for a sweet boy like you. Hell, its too dark for most of the boys I knew on the outside, which is why Sullivan was the only one who ever bothered to stick around. He was the sole man who could stand me.
Which brings me to my favor….
Just in case the AIDS monster does get me this time, I wanted to ask you to look out for Sullivan. I know, from what little time we had together, youre good at caring for other people… and Sullivan needs someone to care for him. Hes not as tough and butch as he first appears.
He keeps it all bottled up inside—any pain, anger, frustration…. They all just eat away at him. Hes made suffering in silence into an art form.
So, if something does happen to me—God forbid—would you check in on my man? Make sure hes eating his meals, bathing, and having some fun once in a while? Good lord, the man had a serious absence of fun, especially when I arrived on the scene down here in Florida.
Can you do that for me, hon?
I know you can. I love you like I love my luggage.
And I am so, so tired. Gotta stop now.
Ill write again when I can.
XXOO, Adam Dan set the letter down. He felt a rush of heat rise to his face and recognized it immediately for what it was: shame.
During the past couple weeks, he should have been there more for Sullivan. Sure, the man had never asked Dan for help or support, but he shouldnt have had to. Sullivan had just lost the man he loved and he was alone. As far as Dan knew (and Dan did know this), Sullivan really didnt have anyone else to talk to about his loss, and if he seemed okay, like he was moving on, during their brief and sporadic phone calls, Dan should have realized that he might have been masking his feelings. Or he was the type who wouldnt want to “bother” Dan with his problems.
Dan also thought back, with equal parts longing and regret, about the kiss he and Sullivan had shared. He acknowledged to himself—who else was listening, anyway?—that he was fiercely attracted to Sullivan, his dark, brooding masculinity and his seemingly quiet strength. And maybe it was this attraction and the memory of their fiery kiss that also kept him from getting too close.
Having any kind of entanglement, other than friendship, with Sullivan would have just been wrong. Dan had been Adams friend, after all.
But he should have been more of a fr
iend, a better one. Whether Sullivan voiced a need or not, Dan had to admit to himself, painfully, that he could have tried harder.
He sat back on the couch, lifting his legs up to the coffee table. He would have to try and make more of an effort, not only because it was the right thing to do, but because Adam had wanted it. It was, one might say, his dying wish, so it was an obligation.
The phone rang and Dan thought that maybe Karma was intervening and giving him an opportunity—perhaps it was Sullivan calling. This time, he would not let him go with a few awkward sentences and feeble reassurances that each was okay. This time, they would really talk.
He picked up the phone.
“Honey?”
It wasnt Sullivan.
“Hi, Mom.”
“So are you too busy down there in the sunshine state to call your mother? Its been three weeks and five days since the last time you called. I was beginning to think you died.”
Dan thought Italian mothers were second only to Jewish ones in laying guilt upon their children. He smiled. “Sorry, Ma. Theres been a lot going on. I started that new job I told you I was interviewing for and thats going okay. Boring, but it pays the bills… and gives me a chance to do some writing.” He paused, pacing around the dining area, debating whether he should get into the whole story about Adam. He decided on a very abbreviated version. “And I had something bad happen. A new friend I had made down here passed away.”
“What? What happened? Was he in a car accident?”
It was funny to Dan how his mother had automatically assumed his friend was male. He guessed ever since he came out to her, she just assumed everyone he associated with now must be male. Except for her, of course. And sometimes, Dan had to wonder if she liked it that way… very much. Because of his age, Dan also thought it might not have occurred to her that a friend would die from disease.
“No, he died from AIDS.”
His mother sucked in a breath and made a “tsk” sound. “Thats a shame. Was he very sick?”
“Yeah, Ma, he was. But he was a great guy.”
With her voice tinged with concern, she asked, “How did you know him?”
He told her about the Tampa AIDS Alliance and how he had volunteered for its buddy program. “We didnt know each other long, but he was a special person, so we got close fast.” He felt a lump forming in his throat and took a deep breath to steady himself.
“God, I feel for his family. His poor mother!” She didnt say anything for a minute. “You take care of yourself, honey? I worry.”
“I know, Ma. I just got tested and it came back negative.”
“Thank God for that.”
Dan decided she didnt need to know about his scare with Mark. She had enough bad feelings toward him already, since he had shared his reason for breaking up with him when he had thrown Mark out.
“So are you okay? If I were there, Id come over and make you sewer pipes and meatballs.” His mother always referred to rigatoni as sewer pipes. It was endearing. Sort of, if you didnt think too carefully about the analogy.
“Thats sweet. Hows Dad?”
Dan and his mother talked for fifteen or so minutes more, catching up on their lives. At the end of the call, Dan promised to call more frequently, as he always did, and told himself not to remind his mother that the telephone lines ran both ways.
“And youre still planning on coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”
“Oh yeah. Maybe Ill even splurge and fly up.”
“You cant come up any sooner? The family reunion is next month. Everyone will want to see you.”
“Ill think about it.”
After assuring his mother that he loved her, and she him, mother and son disconnected.
His mother had given Dan an idea. He had planned to run out tonight to pick up a few groceries and now he realized he would need to get some tomatoes, garlic, basil, and oregano, some ground pork and ground beef, and some seasoned breadcrumbs. And, of course, a box of sewer pipes.
In Dans Italian family, it was simply good manners to bring mourning loved ones food. He was chagrined he hadnt thought of it before.
At Dans house, growing up, the exhortation for whatever ailed a person was, “Eat!” and “Eat some more!”
Chapter Nineteen
THE following Saturday afternoon, Dan found himself once more sitting outside the little stucco house in Brandon. He couldnt help but think back to the first time he had sat here in this very car, waiting to go inside, anxious about what lay before him, unknown. It hadnt seemed all that long ago—and really, it wasnt—and he smiled at the memory of Adam, answering the door in his little black dress, pearls, and Bette Davis eyes. He realized all at once that Adam had probably been as nervous about their initial meeting as Dan was, and the drag was simply a way to become someone else, to take the pressure off.
He hadnt called Sullivan in advance, fearing that the man would put him off if he told him what he wanted. On the seat beside Dan was a Dutch oven filled with his mothers red sauce, or “gravy” as she called it. He had spent the whole morning making it and then letting it simmer for three hours, so it could cook down and the flavors could, as his mother would say, marry. Now, the smell, redolent with basil, garlic, and oregano, was making his mouth water. Next to the pot, in a foil-covered mixing bowl, were a dozen perfect meatballs, along with a couple of pork chops he had let braise in the sauce. He hadnt cooked the rigatoni yet; that he thought he could do for Sullivan in his own kitchen, if Sullivan would let him.
If he didnt, Dan would simply leave the food with him. After all, this wasnt about Dan.
But Dan did hope Sullivan was home. The house looked quiet and empty; Sullivan could have gone to the beach or shopping at West Shore Mall, or even just out for a stroll along Bayshore Boulevard.
Then again, most peoples homes in Florida looked empty in the summer—shutters and draperies were often closed against the sun.
Whatever. Just get your stuff together, march up the front walk, and ring the doorbell. You remember how to do that, dont you?
In a delicate balancing act, Dan managed to gather together the makings for his comforting Italian supper and walked up to the front door. Because his hands were full and he didnt want to put things down, he kicked the door gently. When no one came, he kicked it again, harder.
Sullivan jerked open the door. His handsome face was creased with anger. It looked like his mouth was poised to say something along the lines of “What the hell?” when he saw it was Dan standing there.
Dan was relieved to see the fury and the irritation dissolve with the recognition. Just as quickly, Sullivans irritated expression morphed into a smile. “What the fuck?” His query was close to what Dan had feared, but the delivery made all the difference. Sullivan seemed amused as he looked him up and down, at the pot, bowl, and box of pasta balanced in his arms.
Dan smiled back, cocking his head, and said, “My mom is Sicilian and she taught me to always bring food to people when someone close to them dies. So Im doing that, and to just drive the point home further, I made her world-famous sauce, complete with fresh basil and good old dago red.” Dan laughed.
“Well, youre a little late with the goodies, but better late than never.” Sullivan continued to smile; the ribbing was good-natured. He stepped back. “Come on in.”
Dan followed him into the house. He glanced around and the place looked neat, nothing was out of place, and all the surfaces gleamed. If there was any dust in that house, it was well-hidden.
“You can put everything in the kitchen.”
Dan followed Sullivan into the kitchen and had a brief vision of Adam, standing at the counter, mixing up a batch of Mai Tais. It made him smile. He set the Dutch oven on the stove, put the meatballs in the fridge, and set the pasta box on the counter.
He turned to Sullivan. “Listen, I owe you an apology. Im sorry I havent done something like this sooner. Theres no good excuse and I hope that doing it now means something. I didnt know Adam long, but
I knew him long enough to know what a special man he was. And I knew him long enough to already miss him a lot. Im sure the hurt I feel at him being gone is what you feel, too, only a thousand times worse.” Dan stared down at the floor, then looked up to engage Sullivan with his eyes. “I hope you can forgive my tardiness. But I do feel for you—and you have my deepest sympathy.”
“Ah—enough with the speeches already! Are you gonna heat that sauce up or what? It smells so good, Im afraid Im gonna drool all over myself.”
“So you want me to stay?”
Sullivan crossed the kitchen and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. He cracked it open and took a long swallow. “No, I said I want you to heat it up. You made it for me, right?” He took another swig. “Theres a big pot in that cupboard above the refrigerator; you can use that to boil the water.”
Uncertainly, Dan crossed the room and pulled the heavy pot down from the cupboard. He began filling it at the sink. He smiled nervously at Sullivan as he waited for the pot to fill.
“Man, you need to loosen up. Im kidding! Of course I want you to stay. Now, do you want a beer? Or should we open a bottle of wine? I think I have a Chianti in the pantry that should go just about perfect with what you made.”
“I think you should open the wine. My mom and dad would be shaking their heads at the idea of drinking beer with this meal. I suppose you cut up your spaghetti too.” Dan shook his head. “Americans!”
“And damn proud of it.” Sullivan slid open a drawer and began rummaging. “Now where did Adam put that corkscrew? God knows it could be anywhere.”
“I FEELlike I cant move.” Sullivan groaned. “It isnt fair—that
spaghetti and meatballs was the best Id ever had.” Sullivan rolled his eyes and looked over at Dan, patting his tummy, which Dan had to admit, looked distended. “I couldnt stop myself. I just couldnt stop.”
“Hey, I didnt twist your arm to eat three helpings.” “Yes, you did. You twisted it by making that damn sauce so irresistible. God! I feel like I should go in the bathroom and purge!”
