by William Poe
Fortunately, the doctor entered the room. “It’s best to let him rest right now,” he said. “The monitors are showing a rise in his blood pressure.”
We left as two nurses scurried past us on their way to check the readings.
Lenny’s room was on the twelfth floor and had a pleasant view of Pinnacle Mountain, a state park where I often went to drop acid with friends during my year of college prior to joining the church. I wondered what it would be like to drop acid again, a thought that at least distracted me from my current craving for cocaine.
Over the next few days, Lenny kept asking why he couldn’t go home, saying that he felt healthy. He had to have suspected that the drip wasn’t a cure, but he avoided the obvious question. What would happen when they took it out? The doctor only said that the medicine was helping him regain his strength.
I felt a much worse sense of doom than when I saw Lenny collapsed on the kitchen floor. That death felt inevitable, and natural. Lenny was now a fully conscious corpse, kept alive for a few extra days by scientific magic. Perhaps I should have used the opportunity to get closer to him, to view the situation as a last chance, but nothing about it felt real. I avoided being in the room with Lenny, spending most of the time in the waiting room reading whatever books were available in the hospital gift shop. For his part, Lenny never asked for me.
The night after the doctor removed the needle from Lenny’s neck, it was my turn to sit with him. As the days progressed, Lenny began having chest pains. The doctor added a morphine drip, which caused Lenny to hallucinate. He was terrified when left alone, and could only fall asleep when one of us was sitting in the room.
Lenny hadn’t made any sounds during the night, but in the morning he looked at me with horror in his eyes and said, “Last night I thought there were snakes in my bed.”
Saliva poured from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.
I thought about another time Lenny had seen things he couldn’t explain. I was eighteen, just out of high school. Vivian, Lenny, and I went on a trip to Florida. I smoked a joint at every rest stop and dropped a tab of acid before we arrived at our destination in Key West. On the return, Lenny wanted me to drive after he’d been at the wheel for over twelve hours. But I was fatigued from drug use. Instead, I talked to Lenny to help him stay awake.
“This is nuts,” I confessed, not caring at all what Lenny would think about it. “I see giraffes running across the road.”
Lenny’s face darkened. “Hush up,” he said, “I see them too.”
When the nurse brought in a breakfast tray, Lenny was too weak to sit up without help. While I was feeding him, he began clawing at his forearm. I was afraid he’d make his arm start bleeding if he didn’t stop. I signaled for a nurse, who increased his morphine.
Toward afternoon, Lenny’s lungs filled with fluid, and he began coughing up phlegm. Vivian and Connie took turns staying with him, while I napped in the waiting room. They were so exhausted when nighttime arrived that I volunteered to sit with him again. I knew it would be our last hours together. All sorts of things ran through my mind—things I should say, questions I should ask. As it was, I made sure that Lenny got liquid through a straw when he smacked his lips and that I had a tissue ready when he coughed.
Vivian relieved me at sunrise. The first thing Lenny asked when she arrived was for her to help him with a bedpan. He’d clearly needed to go for a while. I tried not to let it bother me, but it would have made me feel closer to him if he’d told me what he needed—if only to get a nurse.
I went to the waiting room and collapsed on the couch. While I slept, Lenny’s condition worsened. I awoke to find the waiting room full of aunts and uncles as well as Lenny’s closest friends. Connie had called them when the doctor said he didn’t think Lenny would make it another night.
Around dinnertime, a nurse came to say that Lenny would be passing soon. Vivian, Connie, and Derek went into the room. Without invitation, Nathan and Louise followed. I felt like telling them to get lost but deferred to Vivian when she allowed them in.
Two nurses attended to Lenny, who sat in a nightshirt on the side of the bed.
“Oh, God,” Lenny moaned, “don’t let me die.” He grabbed one of the nurses and pulled her to him, demanding that she do something.
The nurse took out a syringe and injected Lenny with a huge dose of morphine. She helped Lenny get back into bed. Then, obviously concerned that we saw how much she had administered, said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “It doesn’t matter how much we give him.”
I never felt so selfish. All that mattered to me was that Lenny would be gone, and I’d never have another chance to know if he loved me. I went to a spot near the door, where I couldn’t see the deathbed drama. I leaned against the wall, folded my arms, and stared at the floor.
One of the nurses asked me if I was all right.
I wasn’t. Not at all.
Nathan’s voice rose above Lenny’s moans. “You’ll soon be in the bosom of Our Lord,” he said. “Put your trust in Jesus.”
I wanted to kick the fraud out of the room. To hell with Jesus. This is death. The end. Let my father go in peace, I wanted to shout. If Vivian hadn’t been there, I would have.
Better to keep my torment to myself than for everyone else to suffer.
Lenny was flat on his back with a washrag on his forehead when I forced myself to stand at the foot of his bed. Derek was praying, having joined hands with Nathan and Louise.
Get the hell out of here, I yelled internally. Go somewhere else to address your fantasy god. This is reality! This is pain!
Connie dashed into the hallway, crying tears I could not find within myself.
Moments later, a doctor pronounced Lenny dead.
CHAPTER 5
At night, the still-rural area around our home was alive with riotous cicadas, bellowing bullfrogs, and the snarl of an occasional bobcat. The barn, with its gray cedar planks and rusted tin roof, was home to a colony of bats. Most of our inherited property was gone, sold during the years when times were tough. Lenny ended up with ten acres, including a swamp and the stream that fed it.
Vivian had no idea where she stood financially, but she feared the worst, given Lenny’s frivolous expenditures during his final days.
“Well, Vivian,” said Derek, going over the finances one Saturday afternoon and coming to a welcome conclusion, “I don’t think you have to worry too much.”
Vivian gazed out the window. “I remember when we came to this house,” she said. “Lenny didn’t care what I wanted. He said we were moving out here, and that was that.”
“I know, Mother,” Connie said, taking Vivian’s hand. “But he’s gone now. You can do whatever you want.”
Nevertheless, we all knew that Vivian would stay put. All the friends she had in Little Rock from the old days were dead or forgotten. And because of long-standing tradition, not to mention an old will governing disposition of the Sibley property, she couldn’t sell the house.
After the funeral, I felt adrift. The best years of my adult life were gone, wasted on the misplaced pursuit of religious ideals. I was no further along than I had been at eighteen, when an acid-induced revelation led me to follow a group that said it knew God’s plan for humanity. It was just too bad, for me, that the core of that plan was to promote heterosexual marriage as the path to salvation.
All I could think about was getting high. My thoughts must have telegraphed a message to Los Angeles. I received a letter from Scott, a junior lawyer in the firm that worked on Reverend Moon’s tax evasion case. The letter said that Lyle had gotten in touch with Sandra, the firm’s secretary, and that they were living together! From the tone of his writing, Scott clearly found that humorous.
My blood boiled. Sandra, Scott, and I had gone out almost every night in Los Angeles during the year I shuttled transcripts. By that time, I had given up on trying to live a religiously devout life. I kept company with hustlers and hung out in gay bars. I knew the world wo
uld come crashing in on me, but drugs and alcohol helped me avoid thinking about it.
The day I received the letter, I set off in my Topaz toward Little Rock’s gay disco, a place on Asher Avenue called Sergeant Preston’s. Much had changed since I was a teenager and the only gay-friendly bar was after-hours at the Drummer’s Club in the Manning Hotel, which had long since been razed to make way for a convention center.
A drag show was getting underway as I found a seat in an open area at the back, where a stage had been built, illuminated by mosquito-repelling torches. I watched a few acts, breaking away between performers to refresh my gin and tonic. Rail drinks were a quarter during the show. I was rip-roaring drunk by the third performer.
Drag shows are all about donning outrageous costumes and lip-synching to popular songs. One singer did a routine to the song “Daddy’s Hands.” As she belted out the mournful lyrics about a loving father, recently departed, the drag queen picked up a pair of rubber hands from behind a tombstone prop. “I remember Daddy’s hands,” she sang, rubbing them against her phony breasts. “How I miss the touch of Daddy’s hands.”
The performance struck a nerve in my drunken mind. I went inside before she reached the end of the song. There were only a few people at the bar. About a dozen couples danced under the disco ball. I joined them, wheeling about more like a dervish than a disco dancer. Someone offered me a whiff of amyl nitrate—poppers. As my blood pressure spiked, the music became weirdly distorted. I began to feel nauseated and went out front to get some air. A stranger followed me.
“Hello,” the man said. “You new in town?”
“Do you know everyone in Little Rock?” I asked.
“All but you,” the man said, smiling broadly. “I’m Dean.”
Dean appeared to be in his fifties, judging by the indistinct contour of his chin and his receding hairline. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and his shirttails were tucked neatly into his jeans. A mat of thick hair filled the triangle at his open collar.
“My name’s Simon.”
Dean lit up a cigarette. “Want to get something to eat? I’m tired of this place.”
“You aren’t asking me on a date or something, are you? I’m not into older men. Not that you’re old, exactly.”
Dean took a leisurely puff from his cigarette. “It’s all right, Simon. I just like getting to know people. Let’s go to the Kettle and have a snack.”
The twenty-four-hour Kettle Restaurant catered to gay men after midnight. Dean and I found a booth farthest from the jukebox, which was playing an anachronistic Frankie Avalon song. I ate quickly, mopping maple syrup from the plate with a final slab of potato pancake.
“You were drinking like you wanted to forget something,” Dean said.
His directness caught me off guard. “Were you watching me?”
“You caught my eye. I won’t deny it.”
“My dad just died. I should be grieving, but I don’t feel much of anything.”
“So you drank to feel something? People usually do the opposite.”
I smiled. Dean had an unusual openness about him.
“You must think I’m boring,” I said after relating to him the circumstances of my father’s death and explaining about the last ten years I spent in Hollywood.
“I find that we aren’t so different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was a priest for a while, and then I became a college counselor for twenty years. My last stint was at Tulane. About five years ago, I faced the fact that I was gay. I haven’t taken Communion since. I came back to Arkansas because there aren’t many Catholics here. I didn’t want to be reminded of my faith.”
“That’s a unique reason for living in Arkansas,” I observed. “What do you do now?”
“Insurance. I’d like to find something better, but it doesn’t sit well with people when you say you were a priest. They want to know what happened. Thirty years are missing from my résumé.”
“I’m not sure which is worse: being an ex-priest or saying that you were in a cult.”
“What would you do now if you could?” Dean asked, blowing cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“If I hadn’t joined that group, my plan was to be an artist. It would be nice to start painting again. Do you think that’s crazy?”
“Of course not. I think it’s a wonderful goal.”
“If my dad had thought that way, things might’ve been different.”
“What did he have to do with your art?”
“Let’s see—where to begin. As I recall, the first time I showed him a painting I’d done of my horse, he responded, ‘Why in the hell are you fooling with such nonsense?’ I must have been eleven. It was right after my mother got me an art kit for my birthday. Lenny got upset when he found out about the present. I remember him saying, ‘No son of mine’s going to be a faggot artist.’ At least he got the faggot part right.”
Dean signaled for the waitress to refill our coffee. After it arrived, he continued, “You father’s gone now. He can’t say anything like that ever again.”
“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. But I keep feeling like I need his permission. That must sound crazy. Life was easier being in a cult. They told me to give up my art—just as my dad wanted me to do—but they said it was a sacrifice. ‘Sacrificing my Isaac,’ they called it. To give up what we love in exchange for absolution.”
Dean laughed. “Hey, don’t get Catholic on me. Look, Simon, I understand that this isn’t a date, but you’re welcome to come over to my house. I don’t live far away. You can stay on the couch. It might be a good idea not to drive home tonight.”
“Are you referring to my drunkenness, or my state of mind?”
“I’ve not met someone as interesting as you in a long time. You’re welcome company.”
“That’s quite a come-on,” I said. “All right, you talked me into it.”
Dean lived in the Heights, a venerable neighborhood with houses that were stylish when first built in the twenties but now were mostly in need of repair. Dean’s house was a modest brick structure with a screened-in porch, cozy and companionable—a good fit to Dean’s personality.
I went straight for Dean’s kitchen cabinets looking for alcohol and poured a glass of gin. The next thing I knew, I was lying on Dean’s bed. My shoes dropped off. I felt my socks being tugged off my feet, then I was sitting up and my shirt was coming off. My belt loosened, and my jeans and underwear disappeared.
Details blurred in my memory the next morning, but the telltale soreness in my ass told me that Dean had seized his opportunity. He had kicked the covers off during the night and lay on his back beside me. I stared at his body, examining his hairy torso. Is that what Lenny had looked like? I wondered. In my whole life, I never saw Lenny naked, not even during the nights when he kept trying to pull off his hospital gown, screaming that his skin was on fire.
Dean made a breakfast of french toast and scrambled eggs. I felt calm and secure for the first time in a long while. Before I left, we exchanged phone numbers. Dean was my first new friend as I embarked on this unfamiliar journey. I considered it a good start.
CHAPTER 6
The main question I had to answer was whether I would return to Los Angeles or stay in Arkansas. If I went back to California, I would have to face Sandra and the fact that Lyle was living with her. And then there was the availability of cocaine, which I wanted to give up. But in Arkansas, I would have limited freedom if I expected to remain in the closet to my family. Everything got back to Vivian through gossip at the grocery store, even if the events happened in Little Rock. Then there would be the constant attempts by Connie and Derek to convert me to Christianity.
I didn’t have to deliberate for very long. The president of the church kept calling the house, insisting to speak to me. I wanted nothing to do with any part of my former religion, so I asked Vivian to lie for me. But when she said, “He’s not here,” her voice trembled. She was
a terrible liar.
The man stopped calling after a while, and I forgot about it. Then, one day, I answered the phone. At first, I was greeted by silence, and then I recognized the church president’s voice. We engaged in awkward small talk, but I knew what he wanted. As a church leader in San Francisco, I had purchased a three-story mansion. The seller had no idea that the church was behind the purchase. It was going to be used as a lecture center and dwelling for local members. The title to the property was in my name and remained so—one of the many loose ends I had not wanted to think about.
“You’re calling about the San Francisco property, I suppose. It’s in my name, you know.”
Dead silence.
“You intend to sign it over, don’t you?” the president asked.
“Not for free,” I said, the idea only then occurring to me. “You took a decade of my life. I deserve some sort of compensation.”
The president began what sounded like a rehearsed argument but realized right away that his words had no effect on me. “What would you consider fair?” he asked.
“How about twenty thousand dollars?” It was a miniscule amount compared to the actual value of the property, but I knew how the church operated and wasn’t surprised when he balked even at that amount.
“That’s not possible,” the president responded.
“Oh, come on! The leaders of the fundraising teams skim money off the reported results every day of the week. Anyway, your problems aren’t my concern any longer.”
The president continued to argue, so I made it easier. “Let’s settle on this. Pay me over time. After I’ve received the final installment, I’ll sign the papers.”
The president conferred with others in the background, barely covering the receiver to keep me from hearing.
“We’ll have to dole it out over a six-month period,” the president said.
“Then we are in agreement.”
For the president of the church, the experience on the telephone must have been like bargaining with the devil. I felt my head for any horns that might have sprouted during our conversation. A part of me felt that I was adding extortion to the long list of sins already charged to my cosmic account.