Look Away Silence (11 page)

“Excuse me. I thought that was one and the
same.”

I was furious now. Russ couldn’t have been more
vicious if he had bitten my hand.

“What’s with you? I thought we were friends. I
thought you’d be happy if I met someone.”

“I would be, if you had.”

“What d’ya mean by that?”

“I mean, he’s your Christmas fuck. Somehow, he’s
stuck to your shoe, unlike the others. But he’ll be scraped off
sooner or later, and you’ll be a mess. Just don’t come crying to
me.”

I trembled. I pushed him into the hedges, and
fortunately the rest of the Sparrows had flown or we’d be a gossip
item from the Delaware to the Hudson. He recovered and flew at me,
but I stepped aside. He tripped, falling flat on his nose. Gravel
didn’t suit him.

Suddenly, I regretted this. Friendships are not
supposed to end with pushes and punches. I hunkered down.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Go away.”

“Russ. I don’t know why you’re acting like this.
Matt is wonderful and I think I . . . I think I . . . I love
him.”

I was as stunned as Russ was. It was the first time
I had said it aloud and it probably should have been said to Matt,
but a try out wasn’t a bad notion.

“Are you sure, hon?” Russ whimpered.

“I am.”

Was I really, but it sounded so like a resolution, I
said it again.

“I am.”

Russ was on his knees now, hugging me, crying like
the sissy he was, and not in his bass voice. It was good to have a
friend. I wasn’t ready for this friendship to end. However, I
remember in the lamplight in the shadow of the White Church, the
realization that I was actually in love and the world was as
promising as singing the music for the first time.

Life was always about me, even when Viv tried to
convince me that she was at the core. This happens when you fend
for yourself. You get to think that other people are just
accessories to the vacuum broom. However, now that I had made that
pronouncement to Russ about my feelings for Matt, I felt more the
satellite than the planet. It took me another two weeks to say as
much to Matt. I had planned to murmur it in bed, post-passion or
over a glass of wine and turkey chili, but as it turned out, it
happened during our first argument. It was another Wednesday night
and I took an hour off from work to get a pair of potpies going and
a nice spinach salad. It was rushed, as it was rehearsal night.
Matt was late, and not your
ten minutes after five
late, but
your
quarter after six
late. He came in with little notion
that he was nothing but
on time.

“It’s cold,” I barked.

“It still smells nice, Pumpkin.”

He went to kiss me, but I averted him.

“You’re late, and you know that I have rehearsal
tonight.”

“Well, I got stuck.”

I pouted and fretted. I was once again the planet
and this moon was gibbous in my eyes now. I rattled the plate and
dumped his potpie in the center. It stuck to the pie tin and
clumped in a mess.

“It looks like shit,” I snapped.

He hugged me, but I squirmed out.

“I can’t help it when we’re on a deadline,” he
explained, or tried to explain.

“You could have called.”

“I didn’t know that you were going to all the
trouble of baking a frozen dinner.”

Now I was miffed. Beyond miffed. He could whip up
his own dinner and find dessert in the dark with his own
manipulation. I grabbed my plate, which I had barely touched, but
as I snapped it up, the remnants of my potpie slipped off onto the
floor. In my effort to catch it, the plate went crashing.

“Shit!” I cried. “Now look what you made me do.”

I bent down for the pieces and as I mushed my hand
in congealed gravy and glass, I went to pieces.

“Leave it be, Pumpkin. I take care of it. You’ll be
late for rehearsal.”

He lifted me into his arms. I was so mad I could
spit, and yet I knew it wasn’t his fault. Deep down the voices told
me that I was slipping. My world was changing. He didn’t need
potpies, but I needed to make them . . . or at least bake the ones
Clarence Birdseye prepared.

“You could have called,” I murmured.

“I could have,” he said. “But I didn’t think
to.”

“You should have,” I said. “I’m trying.”

“I know. I appreciate it.”

Then it came out.

“I love you, you know.”

It sounded different from the resolution beneath the
White Church’s spire. It had a twinge of desperation in it. Still,
it reached inside and turned me into a cringing child. Matt pressed
me hard into his arms. I heard him weeping now. I supposed he had
heard someone else tell him that they loved him, and that would be
the ghost of Luis. Still, if my admission touched that specter, it
was fine with me. Matt wasn’t pushing me away.

I expected after that, we would have the long
overdue
next steps
conversation — the
what does it all
mean
type of thing, but he just cleaned up the mess and I went
to rehearsal — reluctantly. It wasn’t until later that night, when
we shared the quiet twilight before sleep that he touched my hand,
lacing his fingers in mine.

“Pumpkin,” he said. “I loved you the minute I set
eyes on you. I’m glad you’ve finally come around.”

We became twin stars then, forever in each other’s
orbit.

I was spending so much time at Matt’s place that I
wondered why I rented my little hacienda by the sea. In fact, I
could get a break and grow my little GALA Denver fund, if I had
just moved in with him. I would pay my share of rent and expenses,
but it would be far cheaper. I asked Russ about it, but he just
gave me a raspberry and walked away. That was an answer — a biased
answer, but an answer nonetheless. I was on the fence and wanted to
broach the issue with Matt. However, I knew he would just shrug and
let me move in. In fact, he would insist on me living there free,
and that would be unacceptable. No matter how many freeloaders I
had had on my doorstep, I was not about to become one. Still, if I
had a plan in place, something with a spreadsheet and a contract, I
could hold my own. The thought of having a contract was too much
like marriage for me, but after all, wasn’t that the only purpose
for marriage? If the State of New Jersey ever let gay folk marry, I
think it would be all about contracts. But I wouldn’t worry about
that. This country would elect an African American President first
before it ever considered gay marriage. A long shot at best.

Then my answer came from the least expected place. I
shouldn’t say the least, because deep in my soul — where the voices
lingered and harassed, I knew Viv would see the practicality of the
matter. She had popped over unannounced one evening when I was home
switching out clothes.

“You’re home, shithead,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The last three times I dropped in, you weren’t, but
you wouldn’t know that would you?”

“Sorry.”

She was wearing a red sweater and the tightest pair
of toreador pants I had ever seen. Thin as she was, I thought she’d
split them wide open when she sat.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I mean, I do come by to
see you, but if you’re gonna be out, at least keep the fridge
stocked. The last time all you had was moldy yogurt and some
leftover Chinx.”

“Sorry.”

I was only half listening to her. She could come and
go as she pleased. She could even spend the night here — entertain,
if she promised to change the linen, but at that moment, I was
picking through a week’s worth of clothing. While I was bent over
my line-up of shoes, Viv pinched my ass and giggled.

“Stop that,” I said, not unkindly. She was playful
and sober, a rare combination.

“So this thing with this guy . . . what’s his
name?”

“Matt.”

“Matt. It’s serious. Are you gonna have one of those
gay beach celebrations this summer? I’ll come. You know that if
you’re servin’, I’m drinkin’.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “It’s serious. But . . .”

“But what?”

She scrunched up on the couch, her chin on her
knees. Those pants were destined to split. I was sure of it.

“Well, you see what I’m going through.”

“You’re packin’. Big deal.”

“Yes, I pack every week. And I’m getting tired of
it.”

She sprang to life. The lights came over her eyes.
Brilliant.

“You’re thinkin’ of moving in together.”

I stopped my machinations and plopped beside her on
the couch. She hit it squarely on the head, but I was hesitant to
discuss it with her. Her wisdom was always so wise-ass. If she had
found life’s mysteries, I wouldn’t even be here.

“I’m thinking about it, Viv. But here’s the thing.
The man is devoted to me. I’ve never had such attention.”

“Not from me, you haven’t.”

“You’re just my mother. You did your one act.”

“It was painful.”

“Get over it.”

“Still, shithead, you mustn’t lose sight of what I’m
seeing. Hear ya tell me that he’s attentive, but I see your ass
scurrying through closet for a change of clothes. What’s wrong with
this place that he shouldn’t move in with you?”

She had a point. Matt’s place was bigger, but mine
was . . . familiar to me. It had become . . . well, it was home. I
sighed again.

“I was thinking of giving up this place altogether.
Save money.”

“Saving money’s always a good plan, but . . .” She
gave me a shove. “Don’t be a little fool. There’s no guarantee that
anything lasts for more than a year. This is prime property, and
besides I have a key.”

“It’s always about you.”

“That’s true. And it should always be about you. So
you’re packing your shit for a week’s vacation at the boyfriend’s
place. So what. Until you tie the knot . . .”

“You know we can’t . . . “

“You know what I mean. Whatever you sweetie-pies do
to make it binding. Until then, keep a place of your own. You’ll
need a retreat. And as for saving money, cut out the smoking.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Good. Bad habit. And expensive. See, you’ve already
saved money. Well, since you’re not offering me a beer, a beer you
don’t have, I’ll be going.”

She kissed me, pinched my chin and glided to the
door.

“Remember, shithead, it’s all about you, until it’s
not.”

She was gone, but her cheap perfume aroma lingered.
As ditsy as she was, it was true. Why should I give up this place?
Matt wasn’t forcing me, and then there would be the merging and
consolidation of stuff. Whose toaster would be tossed? Whose
kitchen table would go in storage? Where would my little stash of
books — Dickens and Melville and Twain and the like, go? Beside his
computer books? I don’t think so. So I sighed for the twentieth
time that day and resolved to leave things as they were. Although I
took a resolution to insist that Matt stay at least one weekend a
month at my place — near
The Cavern
, and all that.

Spring brought the crocus, the lilacs and the big
ass Spring Concert at Richardson Auditorium, which stood behind the
White Church on campus. Richardson was an old rotunda with all the
charm of the Bastille peppered with Tiffany windows. It was created
with my voice in mind, an acoustical wonder that kissed any
audience with rich tones and harmonies. I was destined to sing
three
soli
in the concert — the little one in Mozart’s
Ave Verum
, a catchy one in
Spring is Here
, a medley
of Rodgers and Hart and a pathetic tearjerker in
When He Left My
Arms
, one of those AIDS anthems that every GALA chorus were
required to sing — like the obligatory red ribbon.

This concert was very special, because not only did
I ace Jasper out for all three solos (Woohoo), but also Matt was
bringing the Kielers to Richardson. Actually, it made me nervous,
because they had never heard me sing before. I knew I’d be great,
but it was like having an extra set of judges on the panel — judges
whose opinion actually mattered.

“You’ll be just fine,” Matt said as he helped me
with my cummerbund. Lately I had forgotten how to dress myself. We
had managed to dress each other so often, I thought I might forget
how to tie my shoelaces. I took to wearing loafers.

“Do my tie,” I asked.

He fumbled with it.

“You know I can’t tie this thing for all the . .
.”

I kissed him.

“I had a frog in my throat this morning.”

“Only a frog?”

He laughed. I pushed him away.

“I’ll get some one else to finish the tie. My
throat’s a little scratchy. I want the
Ave Verum
to be
perfect for your Mom.

“She’ll love it.”

“As for your Dad, I hope he doesn’t think I sing
just soppy numbers.”

“He’ll understand.”

“I mean that weepy last number.”

“He’s heard the weepy numbers before.”

Odd.
Had the Kielers been exposed to the
morbid side of GALA already? Matt shrugged.

“My Dad likes snappier numbers, true, but if you see
him nodding off during your last solo, just stop, come to the edge
of the stage and sing:

If I were in the land o’ cotton,

Ole times there are not forgotten.”

I chased him around the living room table until we
fell on the couch. He tickled me.

“Stop it. The cummerbund snapped off again.”

“Don’t eat so much.”

I smothered him with kisses. It would be a good
concert after all.

One nice touch to our concert was the guest
appearance of the Erastes Errata choir, our Lesbian brothers in
vocal virility. They pounded out the feminine sets like Rosie the
Riveter in three-four time. I mention this because my friends,
Leslie and Ginger, were there and after the concert, we all got
together at Woolfies for some burgers and brewskies, as the
straight set say. The Kielers took a shining to Ginger and Leslie,
and my lesbo godmothers took a shining to sister Mary. Now, as far
as I know, Mary Kieler was as straight as Meryl Streep, but with a
few beers, Mary was flirting with the best of them. It raised
curious possibilities in my mind. Still, when Sammy Kieler’s silly
jokes had subsided, the question of summer vacations went round
robin.