Then it was over. My little over-the-counter
encountered had lasted much past Christmas, it had. Longest run
ever. Still running.
Keep busy.
I cleaned Matt’s apartment from top to bottom. It
took me a week just to restore it to its former glory. I had
decided to pay down the lease. There was enough in Matt’s bank
account to cover it and I meant to get the security back for Sammy
and Louise. My name wasn’t on the lease, but Sammy, as the
legal
next of kin, was ultimately responsible, so the
transaction filtered through him. I then invited everyone in to
select a memento. I had purchased a silver urn and decided I wasn’t
going to spread his ashes to the four winds. He would stay with me
until my ashes could be commingled in that breeze. I would decide
on a good place for the scattering. I wasn’t sure how long that
would be, because I was still periodically testing for HIV thinking
each time my time would come. Never did.
Hank needed some furniture, so I let him take the
couch and sofa, and since death didn’t permeate Matt’s bed, Leslie
and Ginger took it for the B&B. Some pieces went to Mary — she
was in a new apartment, while Viv got the kitchen table and chairs.
I kept all of Matt’s clothes. We were the same size and I was
wearing them anyway while he was alive, and he mine.
I was going home — well, back to my apartment by the
ocean. I couldn’t concentrate in Matt’s place. Too many memories. I
wanted the memories and they would follow me back to my place, but
it was for the best. I couldn’t expect Frank Perkins to pay my
share forever. Besides, I would be within walking distance of
work.
Work?
That was a question. I wanted to work,
work, work. Working prevented me from thinking too much. However,
so many people were kind and with each kindness came reminders. I
also considered returning to retail. Christmas was coming and,
although there would be no Christmas for me this year, the stores
were doing their seasonal hiring. However, the thought of standing
at a counter, thinking, thinking — contemplating the jacket rack
and the
Tie and Tux
and the
Old World Coffee Shop
,
wasn’t to my liking now. Too soon. It would be better that I tote
beer kegs up from
The Cavern’s
cellar or rattle over the
snow between the back bar and the shack with burgers and fries.
Bruce Q, as usual, was very accommodating, allowing me to do a host
of jobs. He even let me tinker with the fabled
Zippilin.
Jasper was pushing me to come back to the chorus,
and I considered it. What better way to honor Matt’s memory than to
sing praises to heaven? But I was a child of Christmas no more. I
couldn’t even brave a rehearsal. Too soon. Breaking up Matt’s
apartment was sufficient to tucker me out so that each evening I
would flop into bed exhausted. I was too tired even to cry myself
to sleep and I would sleep late, since I wasn’t needed at
The
Cavern
until two in the afternoon. Some days I stayed in bed
just to waste the day. One such day, there was a knock at the door.
I ignored it. Then I heard a key scrapping in the hole.
“Not today,” I whispered, getting up and reaching
for my robe.
It was a cold December day. I had left the window
open, the snow spilling in across the carpeting. I closed it and
sauntered into the living room to greet her.
“Shithead,” Viv said.
She wasn’t alone. Frank was with her, standing on
the threshold, his hat piled with snow. He toted a square package.
I smiled dimly.
“Come in, Frank,” I said. “Coffee. I’ll put some
on.”
He came in, setting the box against the couch.
“I thought you’d be up by now,” Viv said.
“Why?” I asked. “I sleep late. I don’t need to be to
work yet.”
“It’s Christmas Day.”
I shuddered. It had completely slipped my mind. I
mean, on some plain I knew it was coming, but I just ignored it as
best I could. I stared at the box.
“Shit, Viv. I hope that’s not a present, because I
just didn’t . . .”
“Now, don’t fret.”
“No, Martin,” Frank said, sitting, brushing his hat
off on my carpeting. “We didn’t expect that you would be
festive.”
“I’ll be a minute,” I said. “Coffee’ll be on. I
think I have a cookie or something. Nothing fancy. Oreos.”
“That’ll be fine,” Frank said.
“I’ll make the coffee,” Viv said. “You sit down with
Frank.”
I looked at her incredulously. I didn’t think she
knew how to make coffee. I didn’t resist. I just sat down beside
Frank.
“Have you ever had her coffee?” I asked him.
“Yes, I have.”
“I haven’t.”
“It’ll move your everlasting bowels.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The man was always direct, which was refreshing. We
weren’t pals, but he saw something in Viv that kept him permanent.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t tie the knot somewhere down
the line. It would be a different experience for Viv, and even
though Frank wouldn’t be my father, he would be a relative of
sorts. I glanced down at the box.
“What’s in the box?”
“Don’t tell him,” Viv sang out. “Is this your
coffee, shithead?”
“It’s the brown powdery stuff in the Maxwell House
can.”
“Smart-ass.”
I looked at the box again.
“It’s your Christmas present,” Frank said.
I had already guessed that much.
“I’ve never seen gray coffee before,” Viv
announced.
I tried to see what was in the box.
“You know, I didn’t do any Christmas shopping this .
. . oh shit.”
I flew out off the couch.
“Not that,” I shouted. “That’s . . .”
Viv retuned holding the silver urn.
“Gotcha,” she said. “Although
the Harpooner
would have made a sweet cup of Joe
.
”
“Put it down.”
Viv set the ashes on the counter.
“Silly place to keep it, in the kitchen,” she
said.
“I haven’t decided just where yet.”
Viv smiled, and then nodded to Frank. He held the
box up. It was heavy and he juggled it. From the picture, it looked
like a candy dish — a heart-shaped candy dish.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
They worked together on opening it, while I circled
them. It was a strange thing and needed assembly. However, Frank
whipped out three spindles that looked like legs — beautifully
shaped table legs. He screwed them into the top piece, and then
added a shelf and three more, shorter legs. Didn’t take long. He
flipped it over standing it before me. It was a table, about two
and half feet high — a heart shaped table, with a glass top — a
heart-shaped glass top. Viv lifted the top.
“It’s a case,” she said. “You can display
the
Harpooner’s
favorite jewelry — his belt buckles and stuff
inside on the velvet and you’ll be able to see it.” She closed the
top, and then ported it to a corner — the corner where I would
usually have set up the Christmas tree. “Bring him here, shithead.
Bring my
harpooner
here.”
My heart was full — pride full. I lifted the silver
urn to my lips, and then kissed it. I glanced at the glass top —
that heart reflecting Viv’s pasty face. I set the urn on top.
“Home at last,” I said.
I espied Frank grinning and wondered just how much
of this was his idea. Somehow, I suspected he might have been the
instigator. I was glad.
“Thank you . . . Mom . . . and Frank. How
thoughtful.”
I felt the tears welling and I feared that this was
the cathartic moment when all the mingling would pour forth.
However, I was stronger than that. I had built a mighty dam around
my soul. So I turned to Viv, who was pleased to see me so
affected.
“So,” I said. “Where’s that coffee, now that he’s
safe from your percolations.”
Finally, I knew about Christmas.
Hank was the first person to suggest a quilt panel.
I had always known about the NAMES Project. The Jersey Gay Sparrows
warbled many a GALA melody over portions of it. I recognized the
significance — even the
gravitas
of these panels sewn by
loved ones to commemorate the life of one of their fallen. However,
I never dwelt on it. I sang, moving the audience with my
renditions, and then sauntered past the display never venturing
close. Hank said he would help me with it and the next thing I
knew, I had Leslie and Ginger at my door.
“We were just in the neighborhood and we heard that
you’re sewing a panel for Matt,” Leslie said.
They were just in the neighborhood.
Like hell
they were. I was among the missing and they guessed my mental
state, with a little help from Hank, and perhaps a chirp from
sister Mary. They invaded my space like the Russians taking
Hungary.
“I really wasn’t thinking of . . .”
“Of course you were. It’s only natural,” Ginger
said.
Natural.
Nothing could less natural. I mean,
I was handy with a vacuum broom, but a needle and thread was as
foreign to me as season football tickets. Still, my lesbian
godmothers took over the place, regarding the state of the
apartment. I had been focusing my time at
The Cavern
and
still slept late.
They paid homage at my little Matt Kieler shrine,
and then inevitably returned to the subject.
“We’re making a quilt for Russ and we need your
help,” Ginger announced.
“You do?” I asked knowing where this was going.
“Hank tells us that you have much too much time on
your hands, Snooks,” Leslie added.
“Helping us with Russ’ panel would fill in those
blank hours.”
My mouth opened wide. What was I to say? They didn’t
give me a chance.
“And while you’re helping us with Russ’, we’ll help
you with Matt’s.”
“They’re displaying the whole quilt — all
ten-thousand panels,” Ginger said. “That’s a rarity.”
“Down in Washington, D.C. Right on the president’s
front lawn.”
“He can’t ignore it then.”
“Spread right out there on the Mall.”
“In the shadow of the Washington Monument.”
Suddenly, they stopped. They folded their arms and
cocked their heads like mechanical dolls. I supposed they wanted my
answer and that answer had better be
yes.
“I’m not that creative,” I said.
“Not creative?” Leslie snapped. “You sing.”
“Anyone who can warble like you do can sew an old
photograph onto a piece of cloth.”
Old photograph?
I shuddered. I had an album
of photographs. It was put away. I couldn’t bear to look at them.
Too soon. Now these two well meaning loony birds wanted me to not
only to look at them, but handle them — sacrifice a few to a
quilting bee.
“I don’t know whether I can get off from work to go
down to Washington D.C.”
“If Bruce Q doesn’t let you go,” Ginger said, “he’ll
have a contingent of Erastes Errata singing at his front door, and
it won’t be
Sweet Adeline
.”
I was running out of excuses. I guess somewhere
inside me I knew that it was the thing to do. Not that I had given
it much thought, but I was becoming a hermit. Spring had come and I
was still mopping in my winter sweaters. I had even skipped the
annual cleaning. I think what I needed most was to leave the
apartment and commune in human society again. I had become fragile.
Hank wouldn’t bully me, but Ginger would.
“So?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No,” they said in unison.
I shrugged.
“How do I start?”
“This weekend in New Birch,” Ginger said.
“At The Lantanas.”
I swallowed.
“I’m not up to partying.”
“This isn’t a party, young man,” Ginger scolded.
“It’s a fucking quilting bee.”
I smiled.
“Bring some stuff,” Leslie said.
“Needle and thread?”
“No, you ninny,” Ginger said standing. “We have all
that under control.”
“Bring photos of Matt, dear. And some articles of
clothing for the quilt and perhaps some letters and other
remembrances.”
I sighed, and then Ginger tackled me, pounded my
back.
“You’re going to be okay, Martin. Trust me.”
Leslie gave me a more civilized hug, at least one
that didn’t break my back.
“Snooks, you have friends. Think about what this
quilt is and why we’re sewing it. You’ll find strength in that. You
will.”
They left. I didn’t even offer them an Oreo. I just
stood there pondering in their wake. I stood there for an hour
staring first at the door and then at the silver Urn on the
heart-shaped table.
“Hon,” I said finally. “Any thing you want to say to
the President of the United States?”
I knew what Matt would say, and it would have moved
any heart to action.
Action
. Wasn’t that Act-Up’s slogan?
Action Now
or something like that. No. It was
Silence =
Death
. Well perhaps Matt should finally have a voice, now that
death didn’t look away. Perhaps silence would.
It was raining on the day I arrived at
The
Lantanas
and ran the first box of mementos from the car up the
porch stairs and into the parlor. I had taken an assortment of
photos and ties and clothing. I had originally included
the
blanket
, but at the last moment returned it to my bed. To cut
it up seemed to me a desecration. I’m glad I left it intact, as I
still pull it up to my chin each night, even on the most humid
summer nights. I deposited the box on the couch, and then Hank
helped me unload my own kit from the car. There were a few cars
parked in the driveway — some that I recognized. The rain teemed
and I could espy the cat eyes in the bushes, a host of sated
felines pondering the madness of the lunatic gay men who darted
between the raindrops.