Look Away Silence (14 page)

“Lot’s of hard work, I know,” I said. “I don’t think
I’ve ever tasted anything so good.”

“Thank you, but I have. I have tasted better.”

She dipped her hands in the water, a plate immersed
in the suds. She washed it as an afterthought, placing it in the
rack. She handed me a dishtowel. I remember that it as a soft
towel, more a bath towel than a tea cloth. I grasped the dish and
began my task.

“My mother would have twenty for dinner. Her turkey
stuffing was unbelievable. I try to duplicate it, but some things
go to the grave and stay only in the mind.” She washed another
dish. “I miss her so, and yet at Thanksgiving, I pray for the
mothers of this world who need to watch their children grow and
then let them fly into the unknown. Yet, we know the road and we
cannot tell them where the pitfalls lay. They wouldn’t believe us.
Not for a second.”

Suddenly, she turned. I thought she was going to
chase me out.

“You know, Luis used to come around at Thanksgiving,
when we lived in Houston.” She touched my chin, the water dripping
down my shirt. “He was such a beautiful child. Yes, his eyes were
like emeralds. His smile charmed anyone it shone upon. He worried
me so.”

“Worried?”

“Well, Luis was more like a daughter to me than a
son. However, he had a disquieting fire that made Matthew unsettled
at times. Life pulsed in his veins, but death called from the
sidelines. Well, Luis is gone, his soul’s at rest.”

“Yes,” I said.

I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to stay there,
even with the beck and call of household duties. This gracious
lady, as refined as porcelain, had opened the kiln of her heart. It
was fiery and unsettling. She must have sensed my discomfort.

“I shouldn’t talk like this to you. I guess Luis
crops up now and then between you two.”

Odd. I always sensed Luis there, but Matt had never
mentioned him again after that first night on that wintry
volleyball court.

“Actually, never,” I said.

Louise frowned, but then blossomed into a smile.

“I’m glad. Perhaps the issue is settled. All I want
for my children is happiness and you make my Matthew happy.”

I gazed into her eyes. They were Matt’s eyes. The
tender charm that attracted me to my Cowboy that day over the tie
counter was evident in this woman.

“I love your son, Louise,” I said. “I love him
beyond myself.”

Her sorrow turned with the warmth of a summer’s day
in autumn. Those eyes twinkled like a cloudless sky.

“Now, I need to ask about your mother.”

“Viv.”

“Viv. Yes, Viv.”

“Viv is Viv.”

“Yes, but why does she call you . . .”

I laughed. That’s all one can do when explaining why
the woman who shot you out between her legs in those days of yore
called you something that motorists on the New Jersey Turnpike
shouted at one another.

“It’s an endearment.”

“I see. And you call her Viv. Never Mom or Mother or
. . .”

“Oh, I call her other names, but never Mom or
Mother.”

She chuckled.

“Martin,” she said. “Sweet Martin.” She kissed my
forehead, and then slipped the towel from my hands. “You may call
me Mom.”

So we finished the dishes and listened to the
chatter from the living room. It was a warm feeling to be among
warm people . . . even Viv, who was giving a symposium on the art
of sculpting nails. When the washing up was finished, we tackled
the leftovers and the cling wrap.

“Not that,” Louise said as I wrapped a protuberant
chuck of brown turkey meat — hard and round and as brown as the
earth. “That’s the Pope’s Nose and that’s a special treat . . . for
the cook.”

“Really,” I said. “Never heard of the
tradition.”

“My mother always saved the Pope’s Nose for herself,
although in her day they called it the Parson’s Nose, only we’re
Presbyterians. However, this year the honor goes to . . . you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“You must,” she said. “Or if you’re not up to it,
give it to . . . Matthew. I know he’ll gobble it up.”

The idea intrigued me. Here was a mother’s gift
given to me and I could bestow it on my lover. Louise retrieved a
silver platter from the bottom cabinet. She placed the globular
morsel in the center. She quickly peeled and quartered an orange,
arranging it about the ecclesiastical schnozzle like the choir at
St. Peter’s. It’s always about the presentation and I was
impressed.

When I entered the living room carrying this prize
like a coronation crown, Louise announced our entrance.

“Orange slices to cleanse palate,” she said. “And
the Pope’s Nose.”

Sam twisted about. He gazed at the platter.

“You didn’t scoff it down, Louise, like you usually
do?” He turned to Viv. “She usually carries it off like a
squirrel’s nut and devours it in a secret hiding place.” He
laughed.

“A new trend,” Louise harked.

I offered the orange slices around until I came to
Matt.

“The Pope’s Nose goes to Martin this year,” Louise
announced.

“And I’m giving it to Matt.”

“Pumpkin.”

Matt was astounded.

“Just like Luis,” Mary said. “Newt, don’t you eat
that thing. You know I want it.”

She reached, but Matt plucked it off the platter and
popped it into his mouth.

“I don’t get it,” Viv said. “What’s so special about
a Turkey’s ass?”

Matt nearly spit it out. Mary grabbed for him. I
almost dropped the platter. However, the golden sound about the
room was Louise’s hearty laugh. She evidently found Viv’s comment
rib tickling good fun. It was then that I knew I had found my
family.

It was Christmas again. Holly, angels, appliances,
and carols sung by Jersey Gay Sparrows. The whole nine-yards
including the expectation of another appliance — this time a
blender to make Margaritas in the comfort of one’s own home (or
apartment or the apartment of your . . .oh, never mind). Christmas
was even better this year, because I shared it. Not with the
heartbreak kid of the hour, but with my own
bona fide
boyfriend . . . hubby, if you will, deuces take the law. I had a
ring. I had a hand and a heart. There’s nothing like buying a
Christmas tree together, and then decorating it with sparkle and
shine. We used my sparkle and shine, because Matt didn’t have any,
although he bought the lights. He even rigged up an electric candle
in the front window. Then together we made cocoa and love. Then, in
the morning, when Viv knocked on the door (she had no key here), we
bantered, exchanged presents and mixed up a batch of
Margaritas.

My life had been transformed. Working retail was not
just
working retail
. Russ avoided me now. He waved at choir
rehearsal, but he no longer swooped down on me from the Tux shop
and shot the breeze during his break. It was fine with me. I had a
wise old queen once tell me that close friends sometimes get
jealous of the new lovers. However, that queen also told me
lovers come and go, but friends are for life.
Well, I guess
Russ had become an
acquaintance
. Things change and shit
happens.

Life settled into a routine. It was different living
for two, planning for two and finding out all the annoying habits
my cowboy had. No matter how hard I tried to train him to depart
from the room before farting, he’d let one rip whenever he saw fit.
Announced it, even.
Pumpkin, I believe your ship is coming
in
, he’d say, and then foghorn Flannigan, the room would
rattle. I hated that. I’d wave my hand about and complain, giving
him instructions, and then pranced out of the room while he laughed
his ass off, which is a better use for it than cutting the cheese.
Matt was easier going. Never complained. However, I suspected he
got annoyed when I’d stopped mid-sentence, run for the dust devil
and clean crumbs off the sofa. Despite this, we had made it to the
first Christmas and beyond.

Matt even started to come to rehearsals, which
surprised me. He would drive, because
after three hours of
practice, Pumpkin, you should rest your eyes.
He would sort my
music and could even handle the temper of Brian, the Librarian.
Matt would sit quietly by the window, or if called upon, turn pages
for Tim, the accompanist. At break time, he’d help with the set-up
and clean up, and got to be a favorite with all the sissies in the
choir. He managed even to hold Todd and Padgett at bay. He could
distinguish between the three Rons and even had a kind word for
Jasper. Russ rarely approached him, but I think Matt was fine with
that. I guess he sensed that whatever Russ and I had as friends,
Matt and I had in spades now. There was no room for a third
wheel.

Matt had to have patience with this whole Gay Jersey
Sparrow business. I mean, he didn’t sing, except that warble of
Dixie
, which I never encouraged him to perform. He couldn’t
read music, but enjoyed it, and to sit through all the exercises,
prodding and poking and even the directorial hissy fits — well, if
I didn’t love it so much, I would have never subjected
myself
to it. Matt took mental notes. So much so, when I
practiced my inevitable solos back at the apartment he’d yawk like
a frigin organ grinder.
You were supposed to hold that note
longer and crescendo.
He was always right, and I usually
bristled at him. Critics I could take (well, barely), but tone-deaf
music coaches were a bit much.

It was shortly before the spring concert that Matt
sprung his biggest surprise.

“Pumpkin, I was thinking. Since we’re both going to
GALA Festival, I thought I might foot the bill.”

I was appalled and elated.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have the money.”

“Barely.”

“How do you know that?”

He knew. I had cried poverty over that trip for over
a year. All he could do is smile.

“Well, if you don’t want me to do it . . .”

But I did. What kind of
shit
was I? Here was
a man who gave me his all — his very being, and I was now willing
to wallow in his cash wad. How different was that from the
fireflies at the Otterson estate who vied for the Professorial
favors? Wasn’t it the same thing?

“Something tells me, you’ve already done it.”

He grinned. He held an envelope behind his back. I
tried to grab it. When I succeeded, I was even more surprised. It
was a check for $ 800.00 — my check.

“Your deposit,” he said. “I retrieved it and paid
for us both — in full.”

I shook the check at him.

“Well, I’m buying you lots of stuff with this when
we’re there.”

“You can buy me a beer in the dust up, ‘cause the
Gay Rodeo is there in town at the same time.”

I hugged him.

“I’ll buy you two beers and a steak.”

He kissed me long and hard.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,”
he said.

“You too.”

“I want to make sure you have the most wonderful
memories of me in Colorado.”

That I found strange, because I would always have
wonderful memories of my cowboy . . . always.

The solo for the Festival that I had landed was a
plum. I didn’t expect it to be when I was told it would be a world
premiere of a new AIDS memorial piece. Although I had never sung a
world premiere, I have sung a crop of the maudlin, weepy memorial
numbers. Now don’t get me wrong. At the time, I was rather
ambivalent about the disease. I wasn’t heartless. These musical
pieces were overtly moving and I heard the blubbering when I sang
my solos. In fact, a full third of our singing canon had AIDS
pertinence. When I sang
Bring Him Home
from Les
Miserables
, I recall a young man collapsing into his
neighbor’s lap, bawling. I knew it wasn’t necessarily my rendition,
although I sailed a high G-flat that echoed throughout the venue. I
admit that when we sang a short concert over a portion of the AIDS
quilt, I found it emotionally moving. However, it came with the
territory. If you sang in a GALA Chorus, you warbled requiems over
the mounds of loved ones. Again, I wasn’t callous then, just
untouched by it all. It was a bubble somewhere
out there
. I
knew about safe sex, but didn’t give it much credence, although
Matt was near clinical about it. Youth knows only immortality. The
furthest thing from my mind was the grim reaper and the news items
from New York and San Francisco. I mean, weren’t Haitians getting
the disease too?

Still I was surprised at this world premiere
memorial number. It was entirely in Cree. Not Creek. Cree, which I
learned was a Canadian tribe, and somewhere along the inevitable
line, the Cree managed to give birth to a one-hundred percent Gay
warrior — a dancer named Little Fox. He was evidently a brilliant
interpretive dancer and amazed audiences nightly at the Winnipeg
Ballet. Then, like Nuriyev, he contracted the disease and withered
away. His lover was a composer and thus wrote this memorial piece.
It was rhythmic, filled with war-chants. I had a soaring solo —
like an eagle. These wonderful vowels would let me throw passion to
the wind and take flight. Surprisingly, the piece wasn’t
depressing. It had all the
in vogue
dissonance. A paean to
life — I think. Not a word of it was in English. However, the
musicality of Cree and the pulse of the composer’s remembrances
defied translation — it didn’t need one.

Jasper also had a solo in the piece — a secondary
tenor line. We even had to sing
a duetto
for six measures,
where he inevitably tried to blast me out. I knew I would need to
sit him down for a serious talk. I mean, I understood his jealousy.
Who wouldn’t, but this piece became a badge of honor for me — for
the Jersey Gay Sparrows. Finally, when he upset the balance for the
fourth time in rehearsal, and the director had given up, I did
something I had never done before — and never since. I volunteered
to relinquish the solo, to great protest from all. The flack so
embarrassed Jasper that he took me aside and asked if we could
give it one more go
. I agreed. Perfection. He may have
begrudged me my spotlight, but he finally realized that there was
more at stake here than egos.