Earl gave Mutt the hug. I expected Mutt to push him
away, but he didn’t, and soon I saw why they called this place
Hyacinth.
“I cannot promise that it will stop. Maybe some day.
But I can promise you this hug, and it is the best thing I can
offer you at the moment.”
That’s when I lost it. However, I didn’t flee.
Neither did I cover my eyes and never again did I weep alone.
I missed the singing, but I listened to the GALA
Festival tapes often. Matt loved to hear me sing my Cree solo,
which he had missed when we were in Denver. I’d put it on and
whatever he was doing, he’d stop, close his eyes, and then smile,
beating the tribal rhythms on the nearest table surface. When the
last measure came, he would inevitably shout out
Play it again,
Pumpkin
. It was soon threadbare. Once Hank had listened to
it.
“You have a good voice,” he said.
“Thank you,”
“You should still be singing.”
“How can I with all I have to do?”
“Good point, but you should at least go to the
concert.”
Good point.
There was a concert in late
October, sort of a pre-holiday special, mixing some of the works in
progress with the established repertoire. In fact, I nudged Matt to
consider it and I invited Hank as my guest. Matt was keen on the
idea. He rarely got out socially, always worried that he would get
caught short at an event and smell up the place. He had those fears
with the concert also, but with two caregivers — bookends so to
speak, it was a good risk.
My excitement was dampened when I called for
tickets. I called one of the Rons (Ron Fesserstein) to book it and
asked casually about the program. There were a few pre-seasonal
medleys,
old Dog Tray
numbers (in Latin and in
Coplandese
) and . . . the Cree number. That startled me,
because I couldn’t imagine that piece without me, especially since
it had become elevator Musak in the apartment. My old vicious queen
gene ripped through my spleen. It was as if Todd Moorehouse or
Padgett Anderson dwelt in my swampy bottoms waiting to write a full
bull Cyndy Adams review. When I hung up, I thought that perhaps
Hank and Matt should go alone.
Then a different spirit overcame me, and it was even
more off putting. I assumed my solo would be warbled by Jasper and
that irked me. However, this was the new Jasper — the Jasper that I
knew now. The one who I allowed to call me
Marty
. If I
didn’t show up, how catty would that be? Then I gazed at my Matt,
who dozed on the couch, his soft wheeze susurrating over the
kingdom of his lips.
I’ll get over it,
I thought. The solo
became a minor matter in the wake of this world.
The evening of the concert, Hank showed up dress to
the nines, so us cowboys were quite out of place in comparison.
“Nice,” I said. “I suppose we need to dress
now.”
“Don’t think so,” Matt said. “I wear a suit day in,
day out. Most of those fairies won’t be dressed up anyway. Hank,
you’ll be asked to serve the cocktails.”
“Yassir,” he said. He always clowned with Matt with
that plantation crap. “I’s make a nice julep if’n you’s wants
it.”
Matt laughed and pushed him out the door. I guess
they had bonded. I mean, who couldn’t bond with my cowboy. He may
have been cynical at times, and shit, he had every right to be so,
but even as he withered, his easy air and his gentle manner never
faded. It lives forever.
The concert was at the Church of the Redeemer in
Princeton, not far from our rehearsal venue at the White Church. It
was a larger space. As we crossed the threshold and went to the
ticket call area, the Ron of the tickets (ticket Ron) and Jasper
greeted me. It was as if they had been waiting for me, which made
me feel honored — sort of a Prodigal Son. Where was that fatted
calf?
“Good. You’re here,” Jasper said.
There was a mob scene in the vestibule, lots of gay
greetings —
kissee kissee, huggee huggee
,
love your
outfit, haven’t seen you since Pride,
and all that.
“You didn’t need to form a reception committee for
me,” I joked. “Just need three tickets.”
“No. We’re not here for that,” Jasper said. “We need
you to . . . sing.”
“What?”
I certainly knew most of the numbers, but there was
awkwardness in this request, especially when it came to the Cree
piece.
“I’m not dressed for it,” I said. “I haven’t
rehearsed. I haven’t . . .”
“Ron Neary is out.”
Out?
Out where? Out of the closet. No, not
that. Ron (Ron number two of the three Rons — the second tenor Ron)
was born
out
.
You could spot him across the park,
OUT.
Out for the count, perhaps? I shrugged.
“He’s . . .”
Jasper looked to Matt, and I knew. Another one
stricken.
“That’s a shame, but . . .”
Jasper pulled me aside.
“He was singing the Cree piece with me.”
Oh, I thought. They need my glorious voice in a
fantabulous encore.
“I was suppose to sing your solo,” Jasper said. “But
I’ll drop back into second. It’s best that way.”
I smiled. Now was a chance for my Matt to hear me
sing the piece in person.
“Okay,” I said. “Count me in.” I turned to Hank. “I
guess I’m on the menu tonight.”
“Really,” Matt said. He kissed me. “I knew this
would be worth it.”
I wasn’t warmed up, so I scurried away behind Jasper
and
ticket
Ron to the dressing area, which was nothing more
than the church’s basement. There was quite a stir when I entered.
I didn’t know whether I should start doing my
Hello, Dolly
entrance or not. The director was happy to see me. I thought he’d
jump out of his skin or at least over the head of Ron the Third
(Ronald Xavier Gusmeyer III). Todd and Padgett were genuinely
fussy. Tim gave me a broad grin and a thick wave. Brian, the
Librarian, came to attention.
“Do you need music,” he barked, and then bowed.
“No,” I said, a bit numb. “Thank you.”
He handed me a black music folder anyway, which I
flipped under my arm, and then retired to my vocal section. I was
nervous; not because I was gun shy of an audience, but I knew that
this might be the only time this season I would be singing with the
Sparrows. I didn’t know their Christmas line up. In fact, the
preview numbers I’d need to lip-sync or sight-read. Good thing I
had the music. I wondered why Brian even gave me a choice. Funny
duck, that.
The warm up was fun. I always hated the exercises
and the histrionics of some of the Sparrows. It was as if Todd
wanted everyone to know that he did the best radiator puff of the
group, and Padgett excelled at the long count, as if they gave out
prizes. Still, to be away from a thing you love and knowing that
this is just a respite in the storm had me unusually quiet —
tranquil even. Matt was safe — in the crowd, with Hank, that
perfect stranger, who was better than any stranger I knew. I was
allowed an hour to be with my flock — a fairy ring of warbling
birds, who brought joy above the rooftops and music to the heart. I
sighed, lined up, and then marched into the Church.
The place was packed. I wondered whether the
acoustics were such that I could soar my voice to the rafters like
I did in Boettcher. I didn’t have the benefit of diarrhea now,
which might have been part of the formula. I had a funny thought.
The voice and asshole might be connected in some divine way.
Anal thought, that. I grinned, waited for the baton, opened the
music to the first number and warbled.
Most of the numbers I knew enough to be off the
paper. However, I watched the director closely. You never know when
a new interpretation may have been interpolated in rehearsal.
That’s all I needed. An unannounced solo — the kind that ruined
art. So in places I held back and I watched and watched. I could
see Matt and Hank. They had good seats in the third pew. As the
Cree number approached, my heart raced. Jasper stood beside me. As
the piece approached, he winked.
He winked.
What was I doing? This was my solo
— my musical pride and joy. Had been since day one. I was the
dominator
here. Yet, when I departed, it became an
inheritance. Here I was — a guest artist now. A plug-in for Ron the
Second as he lay in a hospital bed sucking on oxygen. I gazed to
Matt, my blue-eyed flower, his face thinning, but his hat plum
stuck on his head.
Don’t he know he’s in church?
I
thought.
The audience applauded our last number. The director
bowed. Tim stood for a bit of praise. And then . . .
The downbeat of the Cree piece cued the basses up
for their chanting. I nudged Jasper.
“Ready,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m singing second tonight.”
His head twisted. His eyes had a sudden terror, but
then eased into glorious
thanks.
He stepped toward the
podium. I took a few steps behind him. I knew the second’s part,
but somehow in the pit of my evil queen soul, despite my never
quenched need to be the axis of this world, I could not deny this
man his moment, just as he could not deny my bowels relief in the
mile high city. I watched Matt as I began my subsidiary part — one
eye on the baton, the other on my cowboy. I eased into the duet, a
perfect blend and then heard Jasper’s voice soar to the rafters,
while I . . . well, it was the most glorious solo that I had ever
sung.
At Thanksgiving we have been taught to thank God for
our blessings and ask for support for the challenges. Challenges, I
had. Blessing I had also. After all, Matt’s good days seemed to
exceed his bad days, and the bad days were becoming routine. Matt
still had his job — a real blessing, although he was feeling some
pressure from the growing opinion among his colleagues that he
wasn’t suffering from a long lingering cold. He found himself
increasingly isolated at the office. I still had my job, and
although that had been a joy in my life, the blue-pencils were
monitoring me with an aim for disposal. When my folding was
perfect, my attention to customers impeccable and my sales figures
were up, I was the darling of retail. Now I was some rat from the
cellar. My folding was scrutinized, my sales figures dropped and
customers were encouraged to complain about that nasty twit in
menswear,
why ever did we hire him?
Not a blessing.
We had Hank and Hyacinth — always at hand for me and
mine. The Kielers were now my family and Viv . . . well, Viv never
changed, but she always left the door open for a reality check.
Most of all, Matt was still with me, and with us all, which was not
altogether the same thing. Being alive and above ground is a hearty
blessing, but staying with me when I was on the warpath — why, that
was a downright miracle.
Miracle.
Had I wished for a miracle
at Thanksgiving it would have been for the world to grow a heart
and understand me. Those close did, but the world outside did not.
There was this lot in Kansas who took to the streets with signs
that AIDS was God’s punishment on the Homosexual. Well, I could
understand them believing the mistranslations of the Bible that
would lead them to that conclusion since they spoke neither Hebrew
nor Aramaic in
Bumfuck, Kansas
. However, it was a free
country and you could certainly be as ignorant and asinine as you
wanted as long as you didn’t harm others.
Harm others.
That
they did. They swayed public opinion. They told the world to lock
up their children because the gays and queers would infect them
with God’s retribution.
All Fags go to Hell —
that’s what
their placards read as they marched around funeral processions,
screaming at mourners that their loved ones deserved to die and
they would burn forever. Why, it was the Christian thing to scream
— at least it was in
Bumfuck, Kansas.
Yet, the world was
enraged when a group of Gay Activists interrupted a church service
in New York City. Well, tit for tat. Still, we didn’t have the
neighbors surrounding the Holmdel estate on that Thanksgiving. They
may have wanted to unleash God’s wrath, but it was just not the
suburban thing to do. Legislation was the best way to enforce hate
in the more civilized segments of our democratic state. Yes, I was
grateful for that — small blessing that it was.
As we sat around the table that year — Sammy at the
head with his hands clasped in prayer (Viv didn’t do the grace this
year — another blessing), we had two additional guests. Hank, his
black face and ivory grin much at ease in this safe haven of love,
and Viv’s new boyfriend, Frank Perkins, a widower from Edison — a
well heeled widower at that, who worked in insurance. Now there was
one ironic rub around the table of blessings and challenges. Frank
Perkins of Edison and insurance brokerage was a blessing, while his
industry was my biggest curse.
“God bless this humble fare as we remember those who
are needy and in want,” Sammy said. “Thank you for old friends and
new friends and, most of all, for my son, who is . . . who is . .
.”
He bowed low, and then blubbered.
“Who’s just fine, Daddy,” Matt said, reaching
across, touching his father’s arm.
“Fine and dandy,” Louise said. “Thank God.”
“Yes,” Sammy continued, recovering a bit. “And for
Martin here, who has been his tower of strength.”
“And Hank,” I said. “Who has been fighting the good
fight?”
“Yassir, I’s do it,” Hank chimed in, starting Matt
a-gigglin’.
“No more of that,” Louise chided. “You are welcome
to our table, Mr. LaCrosse. You are a happy addition to our
family.”
Hank swallowed hard and came to attention. His grin
disappeared and his lips quivered.