Let's Hear It for the Boy (5 page)
It was Sonia.
I hadn’t seen her in almost two years. She didn’t come home for the summer the year before, and while I’d called her when Patrick disappeared, we’d drifted a bit. Life happened, and nobody was to blame. But goddammit it was good to see her. I picked her up and swung her around in a hug, whooping. She laughed and slapped me on the back, yelling at me to put her the fuck down. Eventually I did, and closed the door and told her to come in and sit down.
“I can’t believe you’re here. What are you doing here?” I couldn’t get over it.
She looked around the apartment. “Nice digs. College boy chic, huh? Got yourself a bachelor’s den, all caveman.”
My smile faded. “No. Just…I need the quiet to study. No dates. Nothing like that. I told you before, Patrick will be back and he’ll stay with me here.”
The quiet stretched, and she finally let out a big sigh. “Matthew…”
“No. Don’t say it.” I clenched my fists, not wanting to fight with my oldest friend over this. “Patrick might be an ass, but he’ll find a way to come back to me.”
Pain crossed her face, and she slowly reached into the big shopping bag she’d brought in with her. How the hell I missed it, I don’t know. But she pulled out a very pretty oriental looking vase with a cap on it and set it on the coffee table between us. She stared at it for a moment, then quietly said, “I brought him home for you.”
I don’t remember much about the rest of that night. I know she slept with me and held me while I cried like a baby, and helped me mourn a loss I was sure I would never get over. The story came out in one long burst of pain, white hot, molten, like lava.
Patrick called Sonia the night I dropped him off at the dorm and arranged to go stay with her. He was sick, knew he wasn’t going to get much better, and couldn’t stand the thought of wasting away and having me see it. He wanted me to remember him young and handsome…and his. Patrick knew his parents would be horrified, and he had to go. So he left me to go die alone.
Only he wasn’t alone. Sonia and her girlfriend took him in, cared for him and nursed him through the pain. He passed away, she said, talking to her and Ginny about me. Most funeral homes didn’t want to deal with people who were dying from AIDS, but he wanted to be brought home to me.
I got through it. Pain is like rain, it covers your skin and soaks in bone-deep, but it eventually recedes and allows fresh things to grow.
I finished school. Got my MBA and eventually became the executive director of one of the AIDS service organizations. Advocated for compassionate care for people living and dying with the disease.
Oh, and I kept up the Saturday night performances at the Battalion, until it closed and we moved to another bar. My little troop of drag-ons kept plugging along and raising money.
But nothing ever took the place of Patrick.
Chapter Seven
Present Day
The silence was comfortable once Matthew stopped talking. Paul slowly reached over and touched the iPhone, stopping the recording. What caught his eye was the blue vase sitting next to the make-up case. He glanced over to Matthew, who nodded.
Paul noticed the time, knew Matthew had to finish his preparations soon, and could hear the crowds already starting to chant
Auntie, Auntie
. But there were a couple of things he needed to know, to say, before he left. The floodgate of memories and emotions Paul had struggled to keep down as he’d heard Matthew and Patrick’s story burst. He drew in a wet-sounding gulp of air that threatened to turn into a sob and let the name he’d buried in the dark for so very long out into the light of day.
“Sean Culliver.” Paul blinked back tears. The name felt so right yet so alien on his lips after all this time.
Matthew turned to him, a question in his gaze. “My Patrick was Sean. Only I never had the guts to tell him I loved him. When he was diagnosed in 1990, there were a few more options in terms of treatments, but he was one of the ones who didn’t respond to the drugs. I went to the hospice to tell him how much I cared and to beg for his forgiveness, but the dementia was too bad and…I prefer not to think about him like that.”
He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping his phone until Matthew’s large, warm hand closed over his in a gentle squeeze. Paul let out a shuddering breath and released a small tear-choked chuckle. “God, I’m so sorry. This is about you, and here I am dumping my twenty-year old shameful secret on you.”
Matthew’s eyes shone with calm understanding. “A burden shared is a burden halved. That’s what my momma used to say.”
“Smart lady.” Paul reached a shaky hand up to wipe his eyes, and Matthew smiled and turned back to finish his preparations for his number. “Anyone in your life?”
“Besides my two mutts? And Patrick here?” He grinned.
“Yeah. Although it’s hard to compete with a dead lover and dogs.”
Matthew stared, apparently satisfied with what he saw, and reached for the huge teased-out wig. Never looking at Paul, he tugged it into place. “No. It’s been five years since I even went out on a date. Between work, and”—he nodded to Patrick’s urn—“men who can accept me for what and who I am, and can deal with Auntie Social and Patrick, are pretty rare.”
Paul stood and moved behind Matthew, tugging the wig slightly to the right. “Perfect.” He smiled. “Would you do me the very great honor of having coffee with me after the show?”
Their gazes met in the mirror, and Paul melted a little at the warmth, the heat, he saw in Matthew’s eyes. “I think I’d like that. Wait back here for me to finish?”
“Try and make me leave.”
Matthew stood and bent to pull on four inch stiletto heels, and when he rose, Paul had to gape at the sight in front of him. Matthew looked like a force of nature, a giant redwood in a dress as he towered over Paul. He had to laugh when Matthew grumbled, “Worst part of this whole thing is walking in these damned things. But the guys love it, and they tip better when you give ‘em what they want.”
Paul smiled and stepped in close. He rose to his tiptoes, framed Matthew’s face with both hands and pulled him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Knock ‘em dead, Auntie.”
A red flush worked its way slowly up Matthew’s face, and he turned and strutted to the door, stopping with his hand on the knob. “Twenty minutes?”
“I’ll be here.”
Nodding, Matthew opened the door and slid out of the room. A moment later, Paul heard the crowd roar and “Let’s Hear it for the Boy” blasted from the other room. He sat in Matthew’s old office chair and looked at the vase, its veneer rubbed smooth in places where he could picture Matthew stroking his fingers lovingly across the finish.
“He’s a special man. I won’t hurt him.”
Paul closed his eyes and smiled, imagining the big man out there dancing his heart out with the joy of a young man discovering love to this silly ass song. And made plans to be back next week in the audience to see it for himself.
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Finis
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About the Author
T.A. Webb is the writing name for the Mean Old Bear That Could. By day, he's the director of finance for a nonprofit agency. He's worked with people living with HIV/AIDS and with children in the foster care system for over twenty years, and takes the smaller pay for the chance to make a difference for those who can't help themselves. After hours, he's the proud single papa of four rescue dogs, was born and raised in Atlanta, where he still lives, and is a pretty darned good country cook.
His sister taught him to read when he was four, and he tore his way through the local library over the next few years. Always wanting more, he snuck a copy of The Exorcist under his parents' house to read when he was eleven and scared the bejesus out of himself. Thus began a love affair with books that skirt the edge, and when he discovered gay literature, he was hooked for life.
T.A. can be found at Facebook under AuthorTAWebb, tweeted at #TomBearAtl, or if you really want to, you can email him at
[email protected]
.
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