“Are you offering to . . .”
“No. I mean, yes. Buddies are assigned, and I
already have three buddies, so I think I’m maxed, but I suggest
that you apply for one.”
“I don’t think I need that right now. It’s too
soon.”
Jasper shrugged. He looked at me as if he saw
something I didn’t.
“What?”
“Well, you’ll hate me for saying it, but it’s only
been a few months since Denver and . . . and well, you look like
shit.”
“Well, thank you.” I think I laughed, but them’s
fightin’ words.
“No, I mean, your drawn and tired looking. You may
have things under control, but wouldn’t it be nice to have someone
come by and run some errands — do the dishes, or the laundry.”
Someone touch my
All-Purpose Cheer?
Unlikely.
But pick up the mail or scrub a floor. That might be an option. The
germ was set. But it would be a perfect stranger.
A perfect
stranger.
That sounded like music to my ear . . . especially
the
perfect
part.
“Matt’s Mom and sister help out.”
“I’m sure they do, but listen to me, Marty.” I
cringed, but decided Jasper could call me that. It would be his
special privilege. “Things could get . . .”
“Worse. I know. I’ve been reading. Reading a
lot.”
“You should join Hyacinth?”
“Is that where they keep the Buddies?”
“Yes, but you can learn a lot more, and there’s
support there.”
Actually, as good as
support
sounded, most
times I wanted to crawl away alone and free myself of the growing
world of information overload. I closed my eyes, while Jasper
popped out a card. I passed it under my eyes, now opened and
perhaps for a doss of enlightenment.
Hyacinth Foundation
, it
read. It was in New Brunswick.
A bit far,
I thought — I who
traipsed all the way to Princeton to sing and to New Birch for a
mug of suds. Any excuse would do.
“I’m not promising anything,” I said.
“Just think about it.”
And so I thanked him, and then left him under the
lamppost. I tucked the card in my wallet, where it sang to me for a
few days. I mused at it at home. I even picked up the phone once to
call, but stifled it. I even found a reference to the Hyacinth
Foundation in the literature. Then I had a thought. No, less a
thought than a notion. I was hiding Matt’s AIDS status from the
world out of fear. No one understood. No one could help me beyond
Doctor Farrell and the AZT fairy. But here, screaming at me from an
organization card, was
help
— support, people who understood
and, moreover, cared. So I took a resolve.
“Have you ever heard of the Hyacinth Foundation?” I
announced to Matt as he crammed over the computer.
“I think I have. Not sure. Why?”
“I think I’m going to get you a buddy.”
“I have a buddy.”
“No. I mean someone who cares.”
“I have someone who cares.”
“Not a
perfect
stranger, you don’t.”
Not a perfect stranger.
“Now what is this organization called, dear?” Louise
asked.
She sat at the kitchen table opposite Matt, who read
the
Asbury Park Press
. He looked up.
“Hyacinth,” he said. “And honestly, I don’t think we
need them.”
“Well, it can’t hurt,” I said.
Louise stopped over twice a week and we still
traipsed over to Holmdel on Sundays, when Matt had good days. Today
was a good day and I was almost embarrassed that when the Hyacinth
representative would arrive, he would be confronted by three
healthy souls. Perhaps Matt was right and we were wasting a
valuable resource that could be applied better elsewhere.
“And how much do they charge, Martin?”
“They’re volunteers. In fact, I’m thinking of
volunteering too.”
“Don’t you have enough to do?” Matt said, this time
not looking up from the Op Eds.
“Hush,” Louise said, grasping his hand across the
table. “Martin knows that when we take, we must also give.”
Did Martin know that?
I thought. I wasn’t
sure that I did. Taking always felt so much better than giving. I
mean, I wasn’t a rich man, especially when I was trying to upkeep
two places on my meager income. Matt’s salary was fine. I never
really contributed to his place, but more and more our money mixed
together — not our bank accounts, mind you. That was a Viv
no
no
, and I abided by her advice on that score.
However, on bad days, it was hard to get money from a sleeping man
when the fridge needed stocking. I was also worried about these
meds. AZT was an expensive item — twelve dollars a pill, and Matt
was consuming a hundred dollars worth a day. The pharmacy provided
a hefty bucket full — a tub more like it, but the bill was floating
between insurance claims and hadn’t come home to roost. Of course,
Sammy told us not to worry about a thing. If push came to shove,
he’d foot the bill. Still, Matt wasn’t happy with that and I wasn’t
entirely sure that the Kielers were related to the Rockefellers.
Before I could confirm or debunk Louise’s confidence in my sense of
giving (or my propensity for taking), the doorbell rang.
“Should I be in bed?” Matt asked.
“Why?”
“Well, won’t this buddy guy expect me in a
full-blown Camille?”
“Please,” Louise said. “Don't be so dramatic.”
“Drama Queen, Louise,” I said, and went to answer
the door. “It’s Drama Queen.”
I was surprised at the person on our threshold. He
was a thin Black guy. I guess it would be better now to say
African-American. This didn’t matter to me. He could be anything,
for all I cared, but I had a mental image of a tall white-bread
dude named Hank LaCrosse. I soon found out that his name was Henri
LeCroix, which over the phone came out
Hank LaCrosse
.
“Hank?”
“I’m here for Matthew Kieler.”
“Yes, come in. I’m his . . . his partner, Martin. We
spoke on the phone.”
He followed me into the living room, where Louise
had taken the couch and Matt edged toward the comfy chair.
“I’m Matt’s mother,” Louise said, extending her
hand.
“Have a seat,” I said.
Hank preferred to stand. He eyed Matt, and then
smiled.
“Matthew?” he asked.
Matt nodded. “In the flesh,” he said.
He was being a wise-ass today. I guess it wasn’t
easy to face this mortality — the eventual dependence on the
kindness of strangers, as someone once said. The conversation hit
an abrupt halt.
“Would you like some coffee or a soda?” I asked.
“Thank you. Soda if you have one that’s diet? If
not, water.”
“And sit.”
Louise went for the beverage, while Hank replaced
her on the couch.
“I guess,” I said. “I guess we need to make a
schedule or something. Is that how it works?”
“Yes. Matthew . . .”
“Matt, please.”
“Matt, do you get out?”
“You mean like dancing?”
“No, smart ass,” I said. “He means just plain,
fucking outside.”
I was annoyed that Matt was resisting, and my
comment met Louise as she came over the threshold. I never cursed
in front of her. There was something sacrilegious about it.
However, she giggled and gave Hank a Diet Fresca.
“I see we have a bad patient,” Hank said. “That’s
okay. I have some that throw things at me.”
Matt blushed. I assumed it was a combination of
being singled out in a group of recalcitrant sick people and, more
than likely, being referred to as a patient.
“Well, I go to work . . . most days,” Matt said.
“Good,” Hank said. “Then I’ll not need to read you
bedtime stories.”
Louise laughed.
“That’s my job,” she said.
“How are we set for . . . meals?” Hank asked.
“I feed him,” I remarked. “Doesn’t he look
beefy?”
That wasn’t exactly true. Matt was still fleshy, but
he had lost about twenty pounds and his appetite was dwindled to
about half of what I pushed on him. The half he ate sometimes came
up, and invariably, it came out. Hank didn’t remark on that.
“I guess I’ll start by helping your partner with
chores,” he said. “You could use a break now and then, Martin.”
“You said meals,” I asked. “Are you talking about
cooking?”
“No. Buddies don’t cook. I mean, if you’re not here
and he’s hungry, I pour him some milk and plate up a stack of
cookies. But Hyacinth can deliver two meals a day, if you need
them.”
“Like Meals on Wheels?” Louise asked.
“Exactly.”
That was an idea.
“What do they taste like?” Matt asked.
“Probably better than the crap I make for you, but .
. . let me think about it. We’ll see. And I could use some errands
run.”
“Laundry?”
“More like mail . . .”
“Mail?”
“I’ll explain later. And sometimes it gets pretty
quiet in here.”
“You need some scintillating conversation?”
I smiled. Somewhere in my warped mind I couldn’t
imagine such a phrase escaping the lips of this man.
“That’s my job,” Matt said. “Isn’t that a bit like a
third wheel?”
“Hush,” Louise said. “This isn’t all about you,
lamb.”
Matt pouted. I pouted also. It
was
all about
Matt, but when I was bone tired and the reading drove me to
questions, it might be nice to have someone nearby to give me
answers.
“Would that scintillating conversation include ways
of detecting
Kaposi’s sarcoma
or the latest tidings on ACE
inhibitors?”
“It could. I’m a buddy. I have training. You can
deploy me in any manner you think fit except . . .”
Here were the provisos. Hank reached in his pocket
fetching a paper. He flipped it open. A contract, I thought. I,
Martin Powers, hereby assert that I shall leave my kidneys to the
students at Robert Wood Johnson for dissection, and will donate an
organ a week for every load of laundry that Hank LaCrosse does. An
eye for each mail stack delivered. Three fingers and a toe for
seventeen hours of scintillating conversation.
“This is for Matthew, as I am
his
buddy,”
Hank said, “but you might as well be the custodian of the
rules.”
“Rules are good, dear,” Louise said, smiling at
Matt, who pouted again like a recalcitrant child refusing his
spinach.
“What does it say . . . in a nutshell,” I said. I
was in no mood now to read the
Declaration of Buddy
Dependence.
“They’re simple. I’m available at my own schedule,
although I’m flexible. I shall receive no payment. Every effort
should be made to insulate me from any contagion, but don’t worry.
I’ve been through many hours of training and can pretty well take
care of myself. I will assist you with government agency contact,
if needed.”
“What does that mean?” Matt asked.
“Welfare. The township. Food banks.”
“We’re good there,” Matt snapped.
“Let the man speak,” I said.
“You never know when you need some assistance.
Hyacinth can get you a break on some of your meds, for
instance.”
“AZT?”
“Yes.”
This was sounding good already.
“I’m not to be expected to contribute financial aid
to your household. However, I’m permitted to make you gifts . . .
books, flowers, a movie. I excel at household chores.”
“Hours of training,” Matt snapped. “My pumpkin can
teach you a few things about household chores.”
Louise scowled. Matt shut up. On some level I
understood his frustration, but one more word and I would ask this
new buddy to strangle him . . . free of charge.
“And that’s it.”
“No money. No germs. Your schedule and you act as a
liaison between Matt and some helping hands.”
“Exactly.”
“Do I need to sign anything?” I asked looking for
the signature block at the end.
“No,” Hank said. “But each time I come you must sign
my hourly sheets. Also, if I’m unacceptable, you can request a
different buddy.”
“How could anybody do that to a volunteer?” Louise
said.
“I’m a Black volunteer,” Hank said. “It happens more
than you would care to know. But I can see there’s no problem here.
Right, Matt?”
Matt raised his hands in surrender.
“I just love you darkies.”
With his Texan accent, I thought that Hank would
tear up the contract. However, he just gave us the biggest,
brightest, toothiest smile I’d ever seen. There was a real comfort
in that grin.
“Well as long as you don’t want me to play the
banjo, we’ll do fine.”
“Can you sing
Dixie
?”
The grin turned to laughter and then to song as Hank
drawled a good rendition of
Dixie.
“
I wish I were in the land of cottin’
Ol’ times there are soon forgottin’
Look away,
Look away . . .”
Matt and Louise joined in, while I mumbled a
basso continuo
beneath them. The pact was sealed and Matt
finally came around. When Louise returned to the kitchen and Matt
to his
Asbury Park Press
, I squirreled Hank aside. He told
me that his own partner had been HIV positive and that he joined
Hyacinth while his partner was still alive. It was a heart-rending
tale of love and devotion, but I somehow kept together, and also
ignored the obvious
Déjà vu
elements as they played past my
ear. I then asked him a dozen questions that had mounted in my head
about the meds and the best way to administer them without blasting
Matt apart over the toilet bowl. Hank admitted that AZT was lethal.
He actual described it as
a complication of the disease
. He
recommended mixing them with plain yogurt, followed by some cream
cheese. Then a twelve ounce glass a water after that, which somehow
kept everything down. As for the bowel explosion, there was little
to help that except perfect timing.
It’s a plus that he still
gets around on his own
, a statement that left me on the brink
of despair.