Now he doesn’t fight me. He has no fight left. I change his clothes, I wash his naked body. Sagging, bruised, delicate skin. Concave stomach, bony chest. So fragile. It’s impossible, sickening, to think about—one day he will not be here on this earth. But, sometimes, on the hardest days, I wish for his death. It’s a terrible feeling, to want that kind of peace and relief for him, for us. I’ve bathed him as I used to do when he was a boy. I’ve fed him. Changed his diapers. The hospice people bring pads and bedding, and I’ve thrown out sheets—the diarrhea, the blood. And it’s not just me. Andrew and Annie and Lettie—we’ve become the nurses, the aides, the caretakers. Everything stinks like sickness and shit and death.
How cruel—that I sit here, breathing, healthy, alive. When my mother was dying, I was hardly around. Now, I stroke my son’s hands, his face. Sometimes, he seems to sense other spirits in the room. I don’t know what he’s accepted or not. There are no profound words or secrets he tells me. His needs now are only concrete—I’m cold, I’m in pain, I’m hot, I’m hurting, I’m scared. I do what I can to make him comfortable. I press a washcloth to his brow. I tell him everything will be okay.
“Have you talked to Travis?” Lettie asks.
“I’ve called. He doesn’t answer.”
“He needs to get over here.”
We stand outside smoking furtively. Lettie doesn’t break down as often now. She looks harried and exhausted. We’re waiting. We don’t want the moment to come, we do.
Earlier, one of Brian’s old teachers and a girl he went to high school with and one of Lettie’s Bingo friends came by. The old woman from the gas station, Lucy Highsmith, brought cinnamon rolls. Turns out, she knew all along who I was, but never said a word. Relatives stand in the doorway, slouched with what I wish was remorse but is probably just discomfort and unease. Gus comes regularly. He doesn’t say much, just holds Brian’s hand. Wayne hasn’t come and Lettie does not mention his name. When Kyle stopped by, Lettie scolded him—“You ought not have said that on TV.” He apologized, but only to his grandmother, not to Brian, not to me. People who didn’t talk to him before now come out of duty. They stand far away, don’t get too close. Most of the time it’s just the five of us, and that is fine by me. Lettie, Annie, Jess, Andrew, and me—this strange family that Brain has built.
Annie holds the video camera. I hate it, but Brian insisted she record everything. He wants Annie to take the footage back to New York to do something with it—what? To show strangers what suffering looks like. To change their views about this disease, or homosexuals, or love. I want to believe there is a God and heaven and continual life. But all I see right now is the pain of the body.
I sit next to him. I hold his wrists, his hands, his face. The morphine Dr. Patel prescribed helps ease the pain, but it’s not enough. He hurts. Sometimes he still says a word or two, but most of the time he’s in another world: beyond the restraints of language, but still locked in a body. Or maybe he’s found some other plane of existence, seeing what the rest of us can’t—divine emotions and brilliant flashes of color and sound and tone, like being inside a song.
I unscrew the lid and dip the spoon in the orange mush. “Honey, here,” I say. Carrots were always his favorite.
I bring the spoon to his dry lips. He opens his mouth, clamps down, swallows. Lettie, Jess, Andrew, and Annie gather around, watching this strange newborn eat. I feed my son from the jar of baby food just like I used to do when he was so new to this world.
“He’s holding on,” Mabel says. “Not ready to go yet.”
I show up early in the morning, before he goes to work. A film of frost shines over the pale grass. Baskets still hang from the hooks in the porch ceiling, but the flowers are long dead—dried up, brown, shriveled. I stand in the middle of the kitchen and look around at the mess. Stacked plates with the remains of baloney sandwiches on the counter, empty cans of beer.
Travis walks in the kitchen, dressed for work, and doesn’t seem surprised to see me. He’s changed his hair—it’s buzzed, and he’s shaved his mustache and sideburns, revealing skin I haven’t seen in years. Instead of making him look younger, his exposed face makes him more severe.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I go to him, and he flinches like I’m going to hit him. But then, as I lean in, he puts his arms around me. We stand like that for a long time. I feel him shudder, trying not to cry.
“You need to see him,” I say.
“I’ll come after work.”
“No. Now. Go see him now. Talk to him.”
At Brian’s bedside, Travis looks at me with accusation, as if I didn’t do a good job preparing him, but it’s impossible to describe how emaciated he’s become. So light, you can lift him like a baby. He can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Each day, hour, minute, he grows further away from this world, or closer to some other place that I can’t see.
Brian wakes up. His eyes are open, cloudy, distant. He doesn’t speak, but he’s here.
“Talk to him,” I say.
Travis can’t. Or won’t.
He reaches down to pat his shoulder, and then too soon he takes his hand away. “I’m going to be late. I’ll come by later.”
“You, Travis,” Lettie calls after him, but he hurries out of the house, then I hear the rumble of his truck, the sound of leaving.
Brian no longer eats food. I hold ice chips to his lips. I suck water in a straw and then drop it into his mouth, like I’m feeding a baby bird. Sometimes, my son is air, sometimes he is fire. He opens his eyes, two blue pieces of glass. He sees me. He closes them. His lips move. I lean closer so that I can hear him.
“Where’s Dad?” Brian asks.
“He’s here,” I say. “He’s right beside you.”
Sorrow
Travis
His pickup smells like motor oil, tools, and some darker, denser smell—his body, his fear. Finally got the Chevy to run, after all this time.
Bullet hole is still there. He should replace the glass, but he knows he won’t. A clean circle hisses with the cold air. Fracture lines, a tiny web. He wants to look at it. To remember.
He drives away from town, toward frosted fields. The trees are bony antlers sticking up against the pewter-gray sky. He used to go hunting with his brothers, his nephews. Brian didn’t like it. Never went with them.
“If I found out one of my boys was a faggot, I’d shoot him,” Wayne said.
He overheard him talking at work. Their family’s name, smeared all over the papers. The way people still look at him when he walks into a store or the bank. Judging him, blaming him.
On the baseball diamond, he was perfect—a beautiful sight. Quick, strong, agile. He understood the art of the sport in a way that was so natural. What went wrong?
Back in his day, it was something to stay hidden. You didn’t admit it. You certainly didn’t flaunt it. There was a boy in the army, a nice kid—but weak. One night, the other guys wrapped him in a wool blanket, and took turns punching and kicking him. Fairy. Queer. Travis didn’t protect him. He watched in silence. Or maybe he hit him too.
It’s Sunday.
They don’t have a church to go to, but even if they did, he doesn’t want to be inside a building, all those people feeling sorry for him. Or feeling superior about their own lives, their children.
He never remembers the nightmares—it’s just a cold, black fear when he wakes up, a buzzing of dread under his chest. He once lived in the jungle. He couldn’t talk about it, not to his wife or his mother, not to his brothers, certainly not to his children. He didn’t know how to describe the endless rain and strange noises coming from the trees, or the fear that ate away at his insides as he waited for gunfire to suddenly light up the darkness. He watched his buddies get killed. The numbers kept rising. None of them knew what they were dying for. He killed men, he killed boys. None of it was in their control. It was just dumb luck that he survived.
Sharon sleeps in Brian’s room now. He expects she’ll lea
ve him soon. He’s been filling out job applications in other towns, places where nobody knows his name. Where is he going? He doesn’t know. Away. Not far. But he can’t stay in that house. His wife, crying in the basement, his daughter worried about the extinction of whales.
He pulls over on the side of the road and gets out. When he closes the door, although he does so gently, it sounds too loud, like a crack of gunfire. There is no one around—not even anyone driving by. It’s just him, alone. He crosses the road and walks out into a golden field. His boots crunch the frosty grass. His breath blasts the cold air, shivers of smoke. Chilled, he keeps walking out toward a stand of trees.
His son. He looked like an old man, bones and thinning skin, a skeleton with cracked lips, giant scared eyes, no teeth. Young men dying of a disease that has no cure. He heard on the news a prediction that there could be 14,000 new cases this year. The number of infected could be anywhere from 500,000 to two million. Millions will die of the disease all across the world if they don’t do something to stop it. Some deaths don’t matter, that’s what people think. There are people who are glad his son, and his kind, are dead. AIDS. Say the word. AIDS.
They used to play catch in the backyard, and they watched TV, side-by-side, his son snuggled up next to him on the sofa. His son, who moved to New York City, who was not afraid. His son, who saw what he couldn’t. Who recorded memories. Who made things.
Sharon has watched some of Brian’s tapes, and so has Lettie, Jess, and that Andrew. There is one marked FOR DAD, but he hasn’t watched it. Not yet. He didn’t watch any of the tapes until a few days ago, when no one else was home, and he chose one at random from the big box supposed to go to Annie. He pressed play. And there he was. His boy, talking, smiling, looking at him. Then, he wasn’t smiling. He read the names of the dead. Don’t forget. Say their names.
Three buzzards circle high. Clouds shift and the sun parts the gray sky and glistens on the naked trees wild with bird song. He walks toward the forest and stops at a stand of sycamores. Tall, with mottled skin, branches reaching like fingers to the sky. He saw and he did terrible things. Years later, after the war, the guilt and shame, along with the blasts of fear, came for him. He walks over to the biggest tree, touches it. It wasn’t just that he was embarrassed—there was that, but it was more. He was scared. He didn’t know how to protect his son, how to save him. That’s what went wrong: he let him down. The things people said, the way they acted. They helped kill his son. His silence. He helped kill his son.
His son, his beautiful son. An artist. He rubs his hand against the rough bark, scraping the skin until beads of red blood rise. A scuffle from behind him. He turns and sees a doe, wide-eyed, ears pricked, tail up. She watches him. He can hear his heart. She is beautiful. The kind he’s killed before. He’ll never forget. He holds his breath, and she stares back at him—and then turns and runs and leaps into the sky.
Starman
The sky.
Golden fields at dawn, at dusk.
Your grandmother’s strawberry shortcake, the strawberries soaked overnight in sugar, Cool Whip on top, syrupy sweetness.
Ocean waves, a shell pressed to your ear, a heartbeat.
The black, curled hairs on his chest.
You close your eyes and she sings to you and you’re back in the pool, but it’s empty, just you, floating, the water holding you up, lightness. Weightlessness.
Your mother dancing with a broom in the kitchen.
Lighter and lighter.
Now he’s on a stage, wings sprouting from his back.
Pink sunsets, beautiful men. Green woman with her crown and torch.
Give me your tired, your poor.
Sportscaster voices. The car windows rolled down because it’s summer time, the air smells sweet and hot. Your father takes the curves slow. It’s dark now, reflectors like orange eyes on either side of the road, trees looming, blocking the stars.
Choke up on the bat.
Keep your eye on the ball.
Your grandmother bakes cookies for you. Sugar cookies, chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin.
Your sister turns into a beautiful blue whale.
Annie is a mermaid.
She squeezes your hands.
It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.
The movie stars glowing in the night, brighter than the stars in the sky.
Brian, Brian, wake up.
You pretend you’re still sleeping, this is your favorite part.
I’ll get him, Dad says. Come on, buddy.
You’re outside playing, and you hear her voice through the treetops and the green grass and the dandelions and clover. Your mother calling you home.
Snowflakes caught in your boyfriend’s eyelashes. His smile. His strong hands reaching for you.
Twirling in your grandmother’s apron.
Applause.
Shimmering gown. Sparkling eye shadow. Red lips.
A giant sleek body raises up out of the water. Salty sea on your tongue.
Flock of birds, snowy wings.
Morning light, waking, your mouth finds his mouth.
New York, a city of dreams.
You stand in a field. The sky is blue and cloudless.
He picks you up. The crook of his arm sliding under your butt, his palm pressed to your back, his whiskers tickling your cheek.
You rest your head on his shoulder, and your father—he carries you in his arms.
Acknowledgements
I am immensely grateful to everyone who encouraged me to keep writing, and supported me over the years. PJ Mark, you are the best. Thank you. For believing in this book, for your brilliance and keen insight. And, thank you to Ian Bonaparte and to everyone at Janklow & Nesbit.
Thank you to the small but mighty dream team—Betsy Teter, Meg Reid, Kate McMullen, Ashley Sands—and everyone at Hub City Press for shepherding this book into the world with such enthusiasm and genuine care, for answering all my questions and emails, for your endless hard work. Thank you to my publicist Alyson Sinclair at Nectar Literary for your attention and support, and thank you Luke Bird for designing such a perfect, gorgeous cover.
Megan Kruse, you’re a gem. Thank you for reading my work so closely, answering my many emails and calls, and giving me such excellent advice. Robert Gipe, I appreciate the helpful feedback, and for reading the manuscript in a day. Thank you Silas House for your generosity and support, your big heart. Thank you to De’Shawn Charles Winslow and E.R. Anderson for championing this novel. Thank you to my queer literary heroes and luminaries Paul Lisicky and Sarah Schulman. Lidia Yuknavitch—a million thank yous for your unwavering belief, and for inspiring me to be brave.
Thank you everyone in the Portland writing community, especially Tom Spanbauer and Michael Sage Ricci. To my Eastern Kentucky University colleagues: Lisa Day, Julie Hensley, Nancy Jensen, Bob Johnson, and Young Smith. For their friendship and wisdom, and for helping me navigate the complicated paths of employment, life, and writing: Miriam Abelson, Cara Blue Adams, Allison Amend, Katie Carter, Rebecca Gayle Howell, Liz Asch Greenhill, Chelsey Johnson, Karen Salyer McElmurray, Jessie van Eerden, and Toby Van Fleet.
Thank you to all my dear friends and family. Thank you to the editors who published my work, to professors who invited me into their classrooms, to the Hindman Settlement School, and to the low-residency MFA programs at West Virginia Wesleyan College and Eastern Oregon University. Thank you to all my teachers and mentors, and to all my students, who continue to teach me. Thank you dear independent bookstores, booksellers, and librarians.
The Regional Arts and Culture Council and Lambda Literary provided crucial financial support and recognition. For the gifts of time and space, I’m indebted to the Hambidge Center, the Sou’wester Lodge, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Michael and Martha Hoeye, and Cecile Dixon and Eugene Durbin.
During my research, I consulted many remarkable books, articles, and documentaries. The following were particularly illuminating: Surviving AIDS by Michael Call
en; “AIDS in the Heartland” by Jacqui Banaszynksi; Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir by Paul Monette; Personal Dispatches: Writers Confront AIDS edited by John Preston; My American History: Lesbian and Gay Life During the Reagan/Bush Years by Sarah Schulman; And the Band Played On: Politics, People, and the AIDS Epidemic by Randy Shilts; My Own Country: A Doctor’s Story by Abraham Verghese; Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration by David Wojnarowicz; Silverlake Life: The View From Here, a documentary by Peter Friedman and Tom Joslin; We Were Here, a documentary directed by David Weissman; and the ACT UP Oral History Project coordinated by Jim Hubbard and Sarah Schulman. The music of David Bowie inspired me to write toward the starry cosmos. The seed of this novel was planted nearly thirty years ago in an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show about Mike Sisco, a gay man living with AIDS in a small town, who decided, despite facing stunning prejudice, discrimination, and homophobia, to go for a swim—to live his life openly and courageously.
This book would not have been possible without all the queer writers, artists, and AIDS activists—those who came before me and those who are here now, all who make the world a better place. I especially write these words in honor of and with gratitude for the queer men and women whose lives were cut tragically short by AIDS, and who are not here to tell their stories.
And finally I want to thank José Cruz for his love, inspiration, and encouragement. He read multiple drafts, journeyed across the country for me (several times, along with sweet Roxy and Dolly), and always believed this was a story that must be told. This is for you.
NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER Charles Frazier generously supports publication of a series of Hub City Press books through the Cold Mountain Fund at the Community Foundation of Western North Carolina. Beginning in 2019, the Cold Mountain Series spotlights works of fiction by new and extraordinary writers from the American South.
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