I heard all the gossip and even got to peruse the
music for the Spring Concert. Jasper tried to get me to come to
rehearsal, but I doubted I would even get to the concert.
The
Cavern
was an escape, and I was paid to do it, which plied me
guiltily. However, I never forgot that Matt was home, working or
reading or settled in with a visitor — Mary, Hank or even Viv. Viv
was regular in this. She popped in to lighten her
Harpooner’s
heart, although Frank never came. I was
surprised that he stuck with her. In fact, Viv might have
considered settling down. Now that would upset the heavens. I think
that Matt’s condition made Frank nervous. Still, he was generous,
paying on my lease; and he never leveled any harpoon at Viv’s
Harpooner
. I suppose that all people have a level of
comfort. I mean, I do and did. I also know that comfort levels
change and sometimes not for the better. For instance, no matter
how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to visit Russell in his
final days. I had known him since the ninth grade. He was a
constant companion and a pain in the ass. We were sisters. Still,
the falling out over Matt and his cynicism in Denver changed my
feelings for him. I was afraid that he’d break my heart, and I only
had one, and its breaking was reserved for someone else. I guess I
had developed a callus there when it came to Russ. I listened to
the reports and when he finally passed in late April, I couldn’t
bring myself to go to the funeral. Matt wanted to go, but I was
adamant.
You take yourself then.
I don’t think he
understood. I suppose he thought I was sheltering him. However, I
was sheltering me. It seemed Matt was getting along with the old
Grim Reaper. He spoke about death with the ease of a preacher. The
sickle that sometimes stood between us was as ghostly as Luis’
trace. Although Hank offered to escort my cowboy to Russ’ services,
Matt declined. No reason given. But I was glad that he stayed at
home, clobbering his computer with busy work. I just sat
Sphinx-like on the couch, staring at the wall and drinking a
six-pack of beer.
Activism was in the air. I suppose it was always in
the air, but I hadn’t noticed it. I mean, I sang at gay cause
rallies and marched in Gay Pride Parades, but none of it struck
home. Hank was always handing me brochures on this organization and
that. I generally browsed the first line or two and then halted.
Too much anger,
I thought. Some organizations were
supportive, helping and raising money, but some were downright
violent. I guess I was angry too, but it never seemed to serve any
purpose to go out in the street and shout how angry I was, because
what would that do? Would people open their windows and throw out
buckets of cash? Would they join our cause and boycott the
pharmaceutical houses until they lowered the price on the meds? I
don’t think so. The general mood was one of antipathy, which was
probably worse than antagonism. At least when someone is coming at
you with a placard reading
All Fags Die of AIDS
, you can
stick out your foot and trip them. How do you fight antipathy?
There was one group that Hank praised called Act Up,
and that’s what that group did. They were near to theatrical
performance, disrupting the course of civilization with antics that
made me blush. They would stage
Die Ins
and invade public
spaces with shouting and threats. They disrupted a mass at St.
Patrick’s Cathedral. Police in droves carted them out. Now I know
that the Catholic Church was not supportive in the least on
homosexuality, and also objected to AIDS education where it was
needed most, but isn’t there a separation of political activism and
people’s right to celebrate their religion?
“No,” Hank declared. “They don’t listen when you say
it nice and quiet. You need to invade their big-ass church, lie
down on their sacred floor and blow shit up the Cardinal’s dress.
There’s no other way, man.”
“Amen,” Matt said.
We were relaxing in the living room until Hank
raised these questions. Well, they were more answers than
questions. I didn’t agree with him. Matt, however, was listening
more and more. He seemed to think that the world needed a slap on
the head to wake it up. He was right, of course, but wasn’t that
why we vote?
“Vote for what, Martin?” Hank continued. “Do you see
a measure on the ballot for gay folk? For AIDS?”
“But more than queers have AIDS,” I said.
“Yes, but America has made us the owners of this
disease. If they stick it to us, can’t we push it back and say
no thank you?”
“Well, how can we do that? I mean, I agree with a
protest on the pharmaceutical industry, but to swoop down on a
Sunday morning and disrupt people’s prayers.”
“What are they praying for, Martin? They’re praying
that we keep this disease away from them.” He stood, and then began
to pace. “They ask God to keep the faggots away from their door.
That’s what they pray for.”
“I think some might pray for our souls and
comfort.”
I received a sardonic, toothy grin. I thought Hank
was going to eat me. He waved his hands about.
“I give up on you.”
“How can you say that?”
“Hank, he’s got a right to his opinion,” Matt said,
but it didn’t make a difference. Hank just grabbed one of the many
brochures he toted — the one for Act Up. He pointed to the Pink
Triangle on the cover.
“Read this, Martin. Read it to me. I dare you.”
I was angry now, but Hank was passionate. I had to
allow for that. His passions were more helpful and endearing that
not. So I sucked in my growing temper tantrum and read:
“Silence equals Death.”
“Right,” Hank said.
“I don’t get it.”
“I think I do,” Matt said.
He scratched his chin. He had been sitting wrapped
in a blanket — he sometimes got chills. He also wore one of his
cowboy hats, which didn’t fit him now, but his hair was falling out
and it covered his vanity.
“You do?” I asked, too sharply.
His blue eyes pierced me, and I softened.
“Of course, he does,” Hank said.
I pointed to the chair. I wanted Hank to sit. I then
hunkered down in front of Matt and held his hand. It was icy.
“I don’t want to upset you,” I said. “Neither does
Hank. Right, Hank?”
“I guess so. If you insist on it.”
“You should
know
better.”
Hank grunted.
“Don’t be hard on him, Pumpkin. He’s seen so much
and when you see the flowers wilting and no one comes to water, you
get a bit anxious.”
“I understand.” I glanced at Hank. “I
understand.”
“Do you?”
I did, and I didn’t. However, these were not
combatants here. We were victims, although if anyone at Hyacinth
heard me say that, I’d be corrected.
There are no AIDS victims.
They are people with AIDS and friends.
Then why did I feel like
a victim? Why did Matt look like a victim?
“I understand anger, Hank. I do. I just don’t fully
grasp a concept like silence equaling death.”
“Pumpkin, if no one says anything when the sick pass
on, if everyone is in denial and all backs are turned in silence,
death will take us all.”
I stared at him, and then rested my head in his lap.
What made him so wise? The activists could shout until the Pope
turned green. I didn’t believe that either the Holy Father or the
Passionate Activists knew just how wise this disease made you.
Matt’s fingers filtered my hair.
“I’m sorry,” Hank said. “I get carried away
sometimes.”
“That’s okay,” Matt said. “Martin understands.”
I did, and I didn’t.
Matt was becoming house bound, and that worried me.
In early spring either Hank or I got him into the car and took him
for drives. We spent a few days at my place so he could sit on the
beach, but the weather wasn’t optimum — the wind blowing and the
sand carrying
who knows what.
I even got him to
The
Cavern
twice. He loved that, although the
Zippilin
gave
him a fright and Mother hovered about him like a gypsy moth. I got
him a booth and went about my bussing. One after another of the
regulars took turns with him and I let him have one beer. I was
afraid to introduce yet another chemical into the mix, but what the
hay. I remember clearing off a table and glancing at Matt through
the smoke. He appeared happy, but in an ancient way. At this
distance he was quite different from the man who I first saw hiding
in the jacket rack at A&S’, stalking me for a date. The cowboy
hat was enormous compared to his head, his eyes peering out, but
just. His cheeks sunken, he had a slight shake in his hands as he
managed the beer mug as if it were the best piece of candy in the
shop. He nodded to whoever was chatting with him. Perhaps he heard
them over the music. Perhaps not. However, he wasn’t confined to
the apartment. As shitty as the bar air was, it was different air.
I was taking a chance. The PCP had left his lungs spongy. The
second hand smoke could bring on episode three, and then I didn’t
know what I’d do, because I had a promise to keep.
While I had Matt at my place, Hank made arrangements
for a hospital bed to be installed in Matt’s place. It wasn’t a
surprise and I certainly didn’t want him out of my bed. However, I
wanted to be ready. Matt wouldn’t like it, but I decided it was a
symbol of the promise — a covenant that would keep him out of the
hospital. I picked up the rental charge for now. I figured once
Matt knew about it, we’d transfer the monthly payment to his
account. We had cut back on many things — things we took for
granted . . . cable TV, for example. Who needed to see reruns of
The Mary Tyler Moose Show
anyway? However, Matt’s salary
covered the rent and the basics. Mine covered less than the basics
— a modest contribution from tips to the upkeep of the two places.
The AZT was subsidized by Hyacinth, but the rest of the meds took
whatever remained. Matt’s bank account, which was not shabby at
first, was shabby now. With Frank Perkins paying my lease and the
Kielers covering Doctor Farrell and two whopping hospital bills, I
thought that Matt deserved at least one beer.
Ginger and Leslie addressed the housebound issue by
inviting us to the B&B, but on the day we were to go (a long
Memorial Day weekend), Matt had a
bad
day. It was the first
weekend he used the new hospital bed.
“Just let it run its course, Pumpkin,” he said. “No
9-1-1. No 9-1-1.”
My fingers hovered over the buttons. I called Hank
instead, and he assessed that Matt might just weather this bout. It
was PCP, but I had oxygen installed now on an
as-needed
basis and all sorts of medical toys — a blood pressure monitor and
a thing called a pulse-ox, which measured the amount of oxygen in
the blood stream. That was a handy device and brought me much
solace. When Matt was dizzy, he’d lay in the bed and stick his
finger up waiting for me to clamp on the little plastic gizmo. Then
we’d wait until we saw the
magic number
, which was
97.
“If it’s lower than
85
, I’m dialing the
phone,” I would tell him.
I swear that when I said that, he’d use his mind to
trick the damn pulse-ox to reach the
magic number.
The other number that was crucial, I couldn’t see.
It was the one that measured the state of his immune system — the T
Cell count. As Doctor Farrell explained it to me after I had failed
to understand books on the subject,
The retrovirus attacks the T
Cells, crippling the white corpuscles. The more T Cells measured in
the test sample, the stronger the immune system.
Matt’s T Cell count had been as low as 2.
Shit, Pumpkin, I think I’ll name them
Fido
and Dido.
I’m glad he could joke about it. However, with care
and med cocktails it rose to 150. 200 was the
magic number
here. People free of HIV had normal T Cell count of 750 and higher.
I never made it a point to ask Doctor Farrell anything beyond the T
Cell count. My questions had fallen off, because I could see Matt’s
condition with my own eyes. Besides, I didn’t want any moment of
truth from the medical professional or a glossed over vein of hope.
Simple explanations would do. I would keep my silence, while Matt
joked with the receptionist and wisecracked with the doctor. I even
ignored the body language. It was one step before the other and the
rest was blissful ignorance.
How I was convinced to take up the activist cause is
beyond me. Perhaps it was the simplicity of a petition to
Glaxos-Wellcome to lower the cost of the meds. It wasn’t like
throwing eggs at the local church or burning my bra on the steps of
city hall. Just a mere signature, and perhaps it would do some
good. It would keep Hank off my back, at least. More pronounced and
daring was to join the AIDS Walk New Jersey that Hyacinth
sponsored. At first, it seemed radical for me — a ten-mile jaunt
through downtown New Brunswick, but Matt was excited. It was a
chance to get out in the fresh air. Those who I consulted,
including Louise and Sammy, thought it was a good bet.
Perhaps
some good can come of it,
Louise coaxed.
Nothing like
putting a face on it,
Sammy said. So I rented a wheel chair,
wrapped Matt up like a mummy and drove down to Eagleton Institute
of Politics at Rutgers where the walk commenced and we were off and
running . . . or pushing, so to speak.
“I’m a pusher,” I joked.
“Push me to heaven, Pumpkin,” Matt said.
He was so excited. We had raised fistfuls of cash. I
had three pages of sponsors, mostly the tribe at
The Cavern
,
to the tune of eight hundred dollars and change. Hank met us in the
parking lot.