I stood about ten feet from him. I supposed that
this strange silence might have dampened my call. Matt raised his
right hand, and then turned. In his left hand, he held a
snowball.
“Don’t throw that thing at me.”
“No way, Pumpkin.” He sighed. “It’s a souvenir —
summer snow from the mountain.”
“It won’t last,” I said.
“I’ll stick it in the fridge.”
“It’ll melt.”
“Everything melts, hon. Still, I can hold onto to it
for as long as I can. Come stand with me.”
I stepped back.
“No way. I’m dizzy as it is. It’s just too high up
for my nerves.”
He waved me on.
“Come on. I won’t let you fall.”
“That’s a comfort. What if you fall?”
“We’ll take the plunge together.”
I wasn’t up to this lover’s leap concept. Still, I
needed to demonstrate some level of trust, so I moved forward,
until he wrapped me in his arms, tickling my nose with the
snowball. I trembled. There was nothing below us. The drop off was
thousands of feet below. My stomach twisted and I tugged myself out
of his arms.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I understand.”
I walked to a safe distance before finding a
boulder. I sat and watched him juggle the ball until he finally
returned to the road and, in my mind, his senses.
Next, he’ll
try to talk me into sky diving,
I thought. He stood before me
and shrugged, his eyes — those ice blue eyes, penetrating my
soul.
“You’ve been fighting,” he said.
How perceptive, and then I recalled.
Ask your cowboy what’s up with me. He can see
through me. Always has, since the first day. His eyes penetrate my
soul.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ve had some words with
Russ.”
Matt sidled up to me.
“Russ. He shouldn’t upset you.”
“Why not? What’s up with him? He said, you’d know.
Why?”
Suddenly, Matt’s mood shifted from serene to
turbulent. He dropped the snowball.
“Shit.”
“We can make another.”
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He tipped the hat brim over his eyes, which told me
that tears bubbled. I hunkered down, no mean feat.
“What is it? What’s up with Russ? What’s up with
you?”
He sighed, choking on my questions.
“Russ is . . . sick.”
“Sick as in weird or sick as in . . . wait a minute.
How can you tell?”
He stood, gazing toward the pinnacle.
“I can tell. I mean, I didn’t fully know until a few
hours ago. Then he made that odd toast which made me think. Then I
studied his face and I saw . . . I saw . . .”
I stood. Matt tried to retreat, but I wouldn’t let
him. I snapped my hands on his shoulders and shook him.
“You saw? You saw?”
“I saw . . . Luis.”
“Luis!”
Matt escaped me, heading back down the road.
“What the fuck are you saying? Luis? Luis was
murdered. You told me Luis was bashed.”
Matt twisted about, fury mangling his face.
“He was bashed. They beat him beyond recognition,
those bastards. But Luis died of AIDS, Martin. He died of
AIDS.”
I was stunned. What was he saying? This was nuts. If
Luis was HIV positive and was carried off by this plague, that
meant he was more than a ghost in my bed. He was . . . Clarity.
Suddenly there was clarity — the reason for Matt’s insistence on
protected sex. His reaction to John and Bobby. His proclamation
shout at the
Remembrance Concert.
A whirlwind overcame me.
Matt had lied to me and that was the first thing I voiced.
“Liar.”
Matt stopped. He didn’t turn to argue, but spoke to
the gravel.
“I’m not lying.”
“You never mentioned this. Why?”
“I didn’t want to scare you away.”
“Why? Do you have it?” I reached him. I lifted his
chin and rattled his head. “Do . . . you . . . have it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I didn’t, but it takes a long time to catch it . .
. sometimes years. And I didn’t lie. I just wanted it behind me.
Behind us. There was no reason to bother you with it.”
“No reason. I don’t know much about it, except we’ve
been singing goddamn requiems over a whole community of corpses.
Don’t you think I should be bothered with it? I don’t believe
this.”
I shook. Then, I spied the others coming around the
curve.
“How pretty is this?” Padgett called. “What are you
guys up to, like I didn’t know?”
Tim galloped behind him, Russ in tow. I stiffened. I
was not about to share this dirty linen with the crowd, although
somehow I knew Russ had a hunch.
“Forgive me, Pumpkin.”
I wasn’t sure I could, but with the others
approaching, I certainly wasn’t going to continue this
conversation.
“I wish they’d go away,” I whispered. “Goddam it,
Matt. You said you’re negative.”
“Yes,” he said, trying to compose himself. “But . .
.”
“But what?”
“But I don’t know now. It’s been strange
lately.”
Padgett neared. Tim was waving a camera.
“A perfect backdrop,” Padgett cawed. “Let’s get a
picture of these love birds.”
Shut-up. Did the man ever shut-up?
“Strange? How strange?”
“I can’t explain it. It’s like I have a blackness in
the soul.”
“It’s the altitude, you ninny. It’s . . .”
“Smile,” Padgett said, while Tim brought the camera
into focus.
I squeezed Matt’s shoulder.
“Smile,” I muttered, plastering my best party grin
across my face.
Click. Snap. Click.
I released my cowboy fully intending to continue
this later out of earshot. It was then that I passed out. When I
came to, my world had changed forever.
There are times in life when you surrender. Coming
down that mountain was one such time. I must have turned several
colors, because my buddies couldn’t help me. A ranger was summoned
and he declared, or so I was told, that he had seen cases of
mountain sickness before, but I took the prize. In fact, they
considered getting me to an infirmary, but by the time we arrived
in Estes Park, I was conscious and moaning and holding my tummy
with every violent growl. I do remember the trip back to Denver,
because we stopped two dozen times (who’s counting) at every size
and brand of service station so I could make a deposit from my
overly lubricated bowels. Matt was no help. In fact, in my
semi-delirium, I remembered that if I survived this I might just
return his ring. However, while the grinds were overtaking my every
priority, all I could think of was surrender.
I didn’t much care about my impending solo as I
writhed about in my bed. Sleep was more important. Still, after a
full day under the covers (I hadn’t a clue where Matt was, because
he wasn’t sleeping in my bed), I managed to sit up at the bed’s
edge. I saw someone in the shadows, the blinds drawn making
everything difficult to see. I felt better, but I vaguely
remembered dashes to the toilet, an unaccountable case of diarrhea,
because I hadn’t been eating. What had been coming out? My
liver?
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“Me,” said a strange voice. “Jasper.”
Jasper?
Why the hell was he here, and . . .
oh. He was loitering for the solo like a distant relative waiting
for me to die and the last will and testament to be read.
I
wasn’t leaving him my solo.
“Go away,” I said. “I’m singing the fucking thing,
even if they prop me up with a broom.” Then it dawned on me that I
hadn’t a sense of time. I may have even missed the event. “What day
is it?”
“It’s the day. You have less than an hour to get
ready. That’s why I’m here.”
“Less than an hour?” I tripped about the room
looking for my pants. I was bare ass naked, probably a short cut
for those toilet dashes. I was embarrassed to have my ass flashed
at . . . of all people, Jasper — goofy looking, big eared, second
rate tenor, Jasper. “Where’s Matt?”
“He’s been sick too?”
Sick too? This thing isn’t catching, although we
were all susceptible.
“Where is he?”
“He’s been bunking with Russ and Tim. He’s caught a
cold — a doozey. I’ve been tending to your . . . well, I’ve tried
my best at getting you to take the kaopectate, but you’re the worst
patient.”
I recalled none of this, but gazed at Jasper in a
different light. If he was trying to stop up my anal dam, he
certainly wasn’t fishing for my solo. Well, of course, he had the
duet with me, and if I didn’t sing, what would
he
do? He was
my backup, but no one was assigned to fill in for him.
“Help me find my pants, and . . . thank you.”
“We gotta go now, Martin. We’re due to line-up for
Buell twenty minutes before curtain.”
I had never regarded Jasper as anything more than a
musical rival, but during the rehearsals, he actually tried to
blend, and now, as he helped me on with my pants, I had a funny
thought. No matter how abrasive we could all be at times, family is
family, I guess.
I was never happy with our director’s decision to
ditch our tux for this performance, opting instead for black pants
and white shirts, open at the top. Now I was grateful. I would have
never been able to negotiate a full tux and still arrive at Buell’s
door on time. As it was, Padgett was pacing in counterpoint with
Todd, and two of the three Rons were on the look out.
“Thank God,” Padgett said. “I thought you’d
abandoned us.”
“Not if I could help it,” I said.
I spotted Russ and Tim. Russ shook his head. I must
have appeared like quite the zombie, but then again so did he. Then
I recalled what Matt said, and that led me to thoughts of Matt. I
bolted from Padgett’s attention.
“Russ,” I stammered. “Is Matt here?”
Russ pulled me aside.
“Your cowboy is out of the saddle.”
“How so? I know he hasn’t been sleeping with me,
although I don’t know why I even noticed.”
“Harsh, man. Harsh, man.”
I pulled away.
“What do you know about it?”
“As much as you do. Listen, hon, you might have your
feathers in a fluff, but as sick as Matt is, he checked on you
constantly.”
I stopped. I was still too dizzy to flare into some
queenly rage. I just gazed toward the queue and our director, who
was waving me forward.
“How sick is he?”
“Bad cold, hopefully. He’s got a fever and I thought
it best he stayed away.”
“I should go to him.”
“You should, but not until you dispatch this Injun
solo.”
I glanced into Russell’s eyes, those once lively
eyes, now bagged and sunken.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Nothing that you’ve done and nothing that you can
stem. So just knock the socks off these fairies.”
The director reached me, tugging me into the
line-up. We were moving into Buell.
“Listen, Martin,” he said. “You too, Jasper. Don’t
over sing in Buell. I’ve been told the acoustics are dead. You
won’t hear a thing. But in Boettcher things are so lively, you
can’t let it get away from you.”
All I wanted to do was find a crapper, because my
stomach rumbled. I turned to Jasper as we came through the back
stage area.
“If you smell something during the number . . .”
Jasper smiled.
“I’m used to it, Martin. You have a distinctive
smell.”
I laughed, and then mounted the stairs. There was a
round of applause as we came onto the stage and climbed the risers.
I didn’t have far to go, tenors being in the front and I, on the
first step center. I gazed out and saw . . . nothing. The lights
were so bright and from the deadened applause, it was difficult to
assess the audience’s size.
God watch over me and my sphincter,
I prayed
as our concertina commenced.
Exactly how our numbers went and precisely the
impact of the Cree piece as it hit the boards, I couldn’t say. The
director was correct. I couldn’t hear a thing, not even the chorus
behind me. I didn’t hear Jasper and needed to carefully follow the
baton to maintain a proper timing. My great arching high note was
lost to me . . . lost somewhere just a foot away. I could have
belched and it would have been just as fine. There was applause,
but it too was muffled. I was just thankful that I didn’t crap on
the stage.
“It was just fine,” the director told us as we
scurried off and down a flight of stairs and then up another to the
large venue next door — great, cavernous Boettcher.
“I couldn’t hear a thing,” I complained.
“It was fine. You didn’t over sing it. Just be
careful in Boettcher. It’s a live hall. Very live.”
We waited in the wings for the New Mexico Chorus to
finish their Spanish lullabies. I glanced at Jasper, who was
moistening his lips.
“I guess we did okay,” I said.
“I wish I could tell,” he said.
Then the applause happened for New Mexico, like a
roaring, thunderous rattle. Live hall, I thought. An
understatement. Then came, Now welcome, from the Great State of New
Jersey, the New Jersey Gay Sparrow Choir.
We swept onstage quickly. The venue was humongous,
the towering curtain legs rustling in the fans. The lights were
three times as powerful as Buell’s — no, four times.
My stomach rumbled in earnest now. I was suddenly
out of my body. Although the lights were raging and hot (another
reason to be thankful to perform without a tuxedo), I could see the
phantoms in the three tiers. I was suddenly disenchanted. Matt
wasn’t here. I wanted him to hear this, and not on the recording. I
wanted his loving angel heart sitting somewhere mid-orchestra
mouthing the words in Cree. However, I was suddenly realizing that
as sick as I was as I waltzed onto that stage, my little blue-eyed
flower was tucked in bed — not even in our bed, shivering from a
fever and a real bad cold. I cursed this mountain sickness in all
its forms, and then watched our director, who stood a mile away
raising his baton.