by Robert Price
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mrs. Hubbard relaxed listening to the sound of Ezekiel’s voice. His cool, low tone, his accent and the fluctuations of his syllables as they rolled from word to word soothed her. He sounded pleasant, like music. Her gaze drifted from the single dancing flame of the candle on the mantle to the pulsating purples, brilliant yellows and wondrous oranges of the fire in the fireplace. Induced by alcohol-mixed-with-medication, she had slipped into a near-hallucinatory world where shapes bulged and colors throbbed, amplified beyond their normal boundaries by a gold light.
Ezekiel studied her, searching the lines and wrinkles of her face for a clue that would inform him of her emotional condition or provide a hint that perhaps she did not believe what he told her. Her blank expression confused him—Is she grief stricken? Drunk? Prejudiced? At first, when he sat down in the easy chair opposite, he had referred to Tom as a roommate, then, as the conversation progressed, as a very close friend, and finally, his partner. But no matter how candid he was, she would only turn to him, smile, nod and say something useless, such as, “Thank you,” or “You don’t say?” or “God love you.”
“Ten years.” He took a risk, growing determined to explain the full extent of his and Tom’s relationship. The more he pressed for her attention however, the more non-response responses she gave. He began to fill the vacuum with a fantasy that his relationship with Mrs. Hubbard could evolve into that of mother and close son-in-law. And that, in time, theirs could become as intimate a relationship as could be found in any ideal, loving family.
His fantasy placed him in the past, with he and Tom in Newbury for a visit. And this was his and Mrs. Hubbard’s private time together when he could share with her his love for her son. In his mind, he envisioned them discussing future plans together—plans that even included adoption of a child. Yes, they had spoken of that, adoption, before Tom left for the war. Next time, he told her in his daydream, when we visit, Tom and I will have a little one with us. He visualized her looking at him as he spoke, her old eyes sparkling with excitement and joy. He would feel the warmth of her heart and love as she attentively listened to him by the fire.
His fantasy only went so far, however, as reality lingered in the form of Gabriella and Patella who sat silently smiling on the couch. Though their understanding of English was rudimentary, they recognized enough words in his one-sided conversation to get who Ezekiel was and what he was trying to tell Mrs. Hubbard.
As the fantasy ended, Ezekiel tried to control his mounting frustration. He longed for some form of substantive recognition from Mrs. Hubbard; if she would only look at him, acknowledge she had heard him. He pressed forward until he pointedly, almost angrily, told Mrs. Hubbard that he and Tom were homosexual. That they had lived as partners in love and life as much as any two married people would. Still, he received no response, save for a quiet, seemingly disinterested “Hmmm.”
Ezekiel, lost in his determination, jumped as Father Hilliard unexpectedly appeared in the doorway. Looking confused at how closely the two had been seated, the aged priest stood holding Mrs. Hubbard’s newly filled plastic cup of whiskey. Ezekiel pulled away from the old woman, unsure as to how long the Father had been there and what he had heard.
“How is everything going in here?” Father Hilliard asked as he handed Ezekiel Mrs. Hubbard’s cup with a napkin on the bottom. “This is for Mrs. Hubbard, although I don’t think she needs it. I’ll be back to check-in in a bit.”
As Father Hilliard left, Ezekiel’s mind raced: Did I just “out” Tom to the priest? What if he tells the others? I only wanted her to know the truth about her son: That he was loved, cared for. That I loved him.
Standing there holding the dazed Mrs. Hubbard’s cup of whiskey with both hands, Ezekiel decided to try and speak with the woman again later, perhaps then she’d be more lucid.
“Hope I’m not disturbing you?” The muscular Tony smiled as he entered the small sitting room. “I’m just cutting through on my way to the kitchen. Excuse me.”
“No trouble at all,” Ezekiel said. “I noticed you around. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’m Tony Griffin, a cousin. It’s good you could make it. I’m sure it would have made him happy.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ezekiel uttered, and extending a hand. “Sorry. My name is Ezekiel.”
Shaking Ezekiel’s hand, Tony picked up on his frustration and immediately felt uneasy. “Like I said, I’m just cutting through.” Tony pointed to the opposite door.
“Did you say Tony? Tom’s cousin? Tom thought so highly of you.” Ezekiel realized then that he had lost the relaxed, centered place from which he had hoped to approach family members. “Perhaps we can talk more later?” he asked, deciding it best to wait until after he’d calmed down. Though confused as to who this guy even was, Tony smiled and nodded. Ezekiel placed Mrs. Hubbard’s drink on the small table next to the stuffed armchair in which he had sat and left for the living room.
“Tony,” Mrs. Hubbard reached out and touched her nephew’s arm, sounding as if she had just woken from sleep. “That black man was so nice. I believe he knew Tom in the army. He said they were partners … that they served together … that they were gay together and he loved Tom like family.”
“He said they were what?” Tony asked.
“Has Melanie come yet? Would you ask her to come in and say hello?”
“Aunt Casey, what did that guy say about him and Tom?”
Mrs. Hubbard looked at her nephew blankly, her mind swimming in a fog.
But not missing a beat, Gabriella and Patella said in unison, “Novios.”
