It appeared Hubert remembered the excursion as clearly as Brandon did. His hand slid across the table, the tip of the pinkie finger caressed the cotton, and the air rippled with energy.
Brandon pulled out a wallet from his back pocket and deposited a twenty on the table. His eyes rose as Hubert stood in a fluid movement and reached for Brandon’s hand—the only thing different from that first pick-up. Before they left, Brandon placed the lock back in the box.
They walked close, shoulders rubbing, and fingertips brushing together. They moved across the plaza as the rain began to fall. Soon they were in the lobby, a bubble of energy drifting across the marble floors. They didn’t speak, just an occasional glance to the one walking beside. The doors to the elevator opened. Once inside, with that feeling of aloneness, they turned, their lips met. As the doors slid shut, their arms wrapped around each other.
* * *
The End
13
Anniversary Six Epilogue
Dear readers, there is talk of removing all of the locks—cutting them off, removing them before they destroy the bridge. It’s the six-year anniversary. I nearly missed it, but I couldn’t. I left the shop in the hands of my staff for the weekend, in honor of possibly one last letter on this bridge. There are so many locks on the chain-link; I can see it collapsing soon.
I read in the paper that there are sections that are crumbling under the weight of the locks. I still find it funny that I haven’t ever been able to find my lock* since that first year. And so much has happened in the year. I found my shop; it’s located in Le Mont Saint Michel. If you ever make it out there, it’s the only boulangerie in the area. I’m blessed to have found the location—I even have a flat above my shop. I had to convince the man I bought the property from that I would be able to work and live there, though we’ve argued about it on several occasions.
B&H aren’t doing well, they argue all the time, and when he finally arranged for my sale, she wasn’t even happy with his commission. She tells me that she’s happily having an affair, with H’s blessing. She confronted me one weekend, asking if he and I were having an affair, because he couldn’t stop talking about me. I laughed and said, “Right. Like we’d be having sex behind your back.” She laughed with me. And we put it to rest.
I don’t see them lasting much longer.** They have about as much chance of staying together as this bridge does.
My mother remarried. She and the baker who taught me everything I knew have connected. They make happy little cakes and cookies at the restaurant she owns. And J finally married that guy from a couple of years ago. They have a set of twins, and they are happily living in upstate New York.
I’m happily living the single life. I bake, I’ve gone to the abbey for prayers and to church. I have hoped that someone finds me, but I accept that when it’s the right time, I’ll be happy. I think this is one of the shortest letters I’ve ever written, but I only needed to write what needed to be said. Hopefully this bridge will be here next year, though from what I’ve read, I think this is the last missive I’ll leave in the chain-link.***
It’s been an amazing ride, readers.
Brandon
[email protected]
* * *
* I’ve since discovered the lock was removed a year after the anniversary, by my husband. We got married soon after our reunion. It was a private ceremony, with just a few close friends. But, we are happily married and running our shop that has expanded for the addition of a cheese section.
* * *
** She flew home to America. He sent me flowers and an invitation to rendezvous at the restaurant we first met. We had another get-together that has lasted until now. The bridge is a memory.
* * *
*** We slept through placing this letter in the chain-link fence and decided to share it with ourselves. And well you know. Our close friend, Sasha, asked if she could write an article about our love. The response to the article was so great that a publisher contacted us about sharing it with the world.
What you have in your hands is a copy of the box that Hubert slid across that table. It contains a scarlet lock of your own, the sheaf of anniversary letters, copies of several of the letters left around Paris, and twenty blank pages for your own words.
<<<<>>>>
14
Abuse Hotlines – Numbers & Websites
France – 01 40 33 80 60
www.counsellinginfrance.com/WHERETO/violence.htm
* * *
England – 0808 2000 247 (Women & Children)
www.refuge.org.uk
* * *
England – 0800 999 5428 (LGBT)
www.brokenrainbow.org.uk/help/helpline
* * *
America – 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
www.thehotline.org
The Palette
A Lifetime
Notes
Originally published in the anthology Never Too Late. Stories with characters over the age of 50.
As celebrated artist James Brash finally ties the knot, he looks back on his and husband Roy's fifty-year relationship, as told through The Palette - a rainbow-themed collection of James's art.
I’d had this story idea in my head for a very long time. Its original name was The Red Square. The house was always a large part of the story, I love that it’s told in an interview and takes place over a day, even though he’s talking about a fifty year span of time.
I’d thought of writing short stories about the paintings and how they came about.
The Palette – A Lifetime
I walked along the line of paintings that had been staged around the backyard by my daughter-in-law, Ruth, and smiled. As of two hours ago, after I’d said “I do,” I was officially part of the family. Even before that, Ruth had worked diligently to get my retrospective pulled together.
The Palette: a rainbow of life—told through the art of James Brash had been planned to include a final painting of that life, and it would be revealed at the reception, which had just begun. The guests milled about with programs in their hands; ice jingled in glasses as they stopped at each easel, while I stood there wondering if the final painting was ready.
Ruth jiggled her baby boy in her arm, the stack of programs clutched to his chest. I went over.
“Do you need some help?”
“No, it’s your day. You should prepare for the interview. JB will hand them over now.” She spoke pointedly to the child on her hip.
The look of determination in the little boy’s eyes eventually faded, his fingers unclenched, and she was able to place the programs on the table, under a large quartz crystal. “I can’t believe the day has finally arrived.”
“I’ve been waiting—been worried it’s too over-the-top.” I glanced at the line of people walking toward the house. “I hope it doesn’t bother Roy too much.”
“He’ll be fine. My father-in-law loves a spectacle—he’s probably wishing he had his camera.”
We both laughed at the truth of that. I looked over my shoulder at Roy, hands stuffed in his pockets, talking to his son. “I’ll be right back.” I kissed their cheeks and took a quick walk to the back door.
We’d bought the house with Roy’s sister. It had been a place for experiments in art, mostly—a place for her to escape her old married life, and somewhere for me to bring boyfriends and hide them or paint them or draw them. The parties were wild, the passion infectious; the artistry that bubbled in the air of the home was contagious. Artists arrived with ideas in their heads and love in their hearts, and we worked those visions into pottery, canvasses, wood, bodies, and cloth.
As I opened the door to our studio, I recalled the conversation we’d had that night, after Roy had moved in. He’d said he needed a place to develop his photos, and suggested maybe we could share the studio.
I turned to him and shook my head. “People don’t share work spaces.”
“We could change that.” Roy walked to the closet on the left of the room. “
What about this space? You just have some old canvasses in here. I don’t need much room.”
“Old canvasses…my love, for you.” I kissed Roy’s ear as he opened the closet and piled the four colored canvasses against the wall, along with the paint box and a drop cloth. It held nothing else, as if it had been waiting for the right materials.
Flipping the switch installed outside the room, I pulled on the door handle; the well-oiled door opened without a sound, and I slipped inside the red-tinged space. I’d left Roy’s gift on the table for him to discover when he decided to get back to work but Ruth’s comment changed my mind.
With the gift under my arm, I shut the door behind me and stared at the final painting, moving closer to inspect the canvas. There were touches from the paintings lined up outside. It needed something else, but there was little I could do about that now. I walked back through the house to Roy and, with a kiss on the cheek, presented the gift.
“Oh, James. I didn’t get you anything.”
“No, you did. You gave me this.” I swept my hands around me, my eyes landing on Bernard Quinn, his…our son, Ruth and JB, the guests and everything. “You’ve given me this life.”
Roy laughed and hugged me—his two-hour-old yet lifetime partner. “James.”
“Just open it. And use it,” I said. I heard my name—a crisp shout—and turned to see Ruth shaking the hand of a young Asian man. “I think our interviewer is here. I’ll call you over when he’s ready.”
Roy looked at the box in his hands then into my eyes, even as he was ripping the paper off. “You…really you shouldn’t have.” Within seconds, the box was dropped and his hands were caressing the body of the camera that would be glued to them for the rest of the day.
“Only the best for you, babe.” I left a kiss on the top of the camera, connecting with the knuckle of Roy’s right hand. “Remember, I’ll call you over when Mr. London is ready to speak.”
There was a subtle whisper of words from Roy’s lips as the camera rose up to his eye, and the shutter clicked. I shook my head, laughing, as I left his side. I loved how he could find a perfect shot in the shittiest of conditions—not that the backyard was in horrible shape, though I couldn’t imagine what people dressed in summer clothes, carrying wine glasses, would reveal. Still, Roy’s eye would find exactly what it wanted to find.
“Mr. London, my agent told me you’d be dropping by this afternoon,” I said, holding out my hand as I reached him. “I’d like to assure you this is not a setup.” I looked around for Ruth, but she’d slipped out of sight.
“Please, call me Peter,” Mr. London insisted. He was, in fact, a slight Vietnamese man who could pass for a child in the right clothing. His piece for the Advocate on gay rights had won him several prizes, and my agent had thought this afternoon’s revelation would be the perfect place for the interview we’d planned. “I didn’t want to intrude, but your assistant said it would be fine.” He smiled warmly, though his messenger bag still hung at his side as if he didn’t intend to stay. “I do hope the festivities die down soon.”
“Well, the vows were uttered and accepted a couple of hours ago, but the reception is just beginning. The paintings have been set up, and the final one will be revealed later this evening.”
“That’s wonderful. I haven’t missed everything.”
I saw Roy mingling, moving through the crowds, smiling like he was twenty-eight again—he never looked any older to me. I pushed away the thought of how we’d celebrate that later, when the guests had left, and indicated the three stools beside the tall mahogany table. “The interview area is set up over there. Why don’t you take a look around, and when you’re ready, just holler and I’ll bring my husband over?”
“Thank you. I will.” Peter picked up a program and made his way through the paintings.
Ruth reappeared with a tray with bottles of wine and glasses for the interview area; I moved to intercept her. “Thank you, sweetie. When you see Peter come over here, can you pull my husband away from the lens and have him head over?”
“Certainly…Dad.” She kissed my cheek.
“Dad?” I choked up on the word and wiped a stupid tear from my eye. “Thank you, kid.”
“Mr. Brash, it’s been fifty years since that fateful weekend when you lost your sister and her daughter. Was that a major part of your development, or perhaps how you catapulted yourself to success?” Peter sat across from me asking the questions.
“First off, please just call me James. Second, would you like a glass of wine?” I poured the White Zinfandel into three glasses. I handed one to Peter and one to my husband Roy. I grabbed last one for myself and placed my hand on Roy’s knee. “Go ahead, drink up, boy. You’ll need something to get through this lifetime.”
The party was going strong; the lights that hung from the large banyan tree in the backyard brought a brightness to the otherwise dark landscape.
“I do owe my sister for my success, but not her death. Her life. One afternoon in the seventies, I stumbled upon some articles that featured some of her studio work and her pottery. She was an accomplished artist in her own right—not just the popular pottery designs, but her commercial work.”
The reporter reached for the glass of wine, holding his recorder in front of him and nodding his head for me to continue.
I smiled. “The wine always helps my lips to get looser. So, where was I? Yes, the seventies. Roy had just gotten married to Ella.” I squeezed his knee and he picked up the story.
“Ella and I made a marriage that worked for us. We were both bisexual, and our parents wanted us to have happy lives and successful careers, but it was a different time. LGBT rights were only discussed in basements and dark backrooms of clubhouses.” Roy looked at me, a tear in his eye. “It was probably the coward’s way out, but we caved to our parents wishes and got married. We made it work as long as we could. When Lyndie discovered some letters…we tried to explain.” Tears were rolling down his face.
“Maybe we should go back further, hon? Let Peter hear how we have come to this momentous day, celebrating our lives through the death of the past?”
Peter sipped the wine, glancing between the two of us, a glint in his eye.
When my publicist, Charlie, found out that Roy and I were getting married, he had an epiphany. He wanted to get the best publicity for the affair and suggested we tie the knot on the anniversary of Joan’s death. It was a celebration of her life, our union together, and the retrospective of my art, using Roy’s pictures. He knew I’d been working on a biography and wanted the best reporter to write an article that newspapers would clamor for. Peter had won a Pulitzer the previous year for reporting on LGBT rights in Orange 45’s world.
“Do you have time on that recorder? My biography is broken up into the colors of the rainbow to symbolize the many parts and facets to our lives.
“Let’s go back to the Red period—1968. It’s a year after Joan and Linda’s death in my shiny new red Camaro. Roy had been driving like a wild man. We were screaming and laughing, and just as he calmed down, the car wouldn’t stop speeding. The Camaro went out of control, and his front end hit the center divider.
“On the first roll, Roy flew from the front seat, followed by myself as the momentum grew. My sister Joan and her twelve-year-old daughter Linda weren’t as lucky. We were told they didn’t suffer as they died in the back seat instantly.
“The days after, weeks even, strung out. I organized the two funerals…Joan had wished for cremation.” I looked at the large tree in front of us and remembered the balmy summer night, the fog pushing the heat down around me as I’d sprinkled some of her ashes around the base. “She’s at the Hollywood cemetery along with Linda. It was a simple service, just myself and their urns, interred in one square of the mausoleum.
“I jumped right back into my work, sketching the cartoons that were on order. Nothing ever hit big for me, but I had steady employment. When I couldn’t come up with ideas for single panels, I came up with a cute
gay comic strip that was sold on the black market or would run in small gay mags overseas. And when even the comics couldn’t be drawn, I would take one-off jobs lettering for other artists’ work. The one thing Joan forbade me was to get into advertising.
“She’d tell me, ‘It killed Linda’s old man, it won’t kill my baby brother, too.’ She never spoke of her ex-husband except as ‘Linda’s old man.’ Edward, his name was. Edward Simms—a wealthy advertising executive who loved his whiskey neat and his cars fast. Joan used to say, ‘I’m going to die the way Linda’s old man did, in a car accident,’ because she hated fast cars, and she couldn’t pay attention to her surroundings.
“And she did just that. I remember her last words—‘Roy Quinn, you stop this jalopy from doing those swerves. I can’t see the scenery’—and all the while, Linda was beside her laughing and screaming, ‘Faster, Uncle Roy, faster!’
“Thank God they went quick. Roy broke his hip, and I smashed my head pretty hard, but we survived.” I leaned on Roy’s shoulder. “Do you remember sliding across the highway to me? I remember them lifting my head from your lap after the ambulance arrived.”
Roy laid his hand on mine. “I’m still so sorry for even getting behind that wheel.” Though he was looking at Peter, he was talking to me, repeating what he’d told me many times before. “It took me a long time to drive again, not just because of my hip, but the thought of putting someone else’s life in danger…just gutted me.”
We all had tears in our eyes, but I pressed on. “Then the year after, you came back to me…to tell me the terrible news which, when I met her, wasn’t so terrible after all.”
In His Arms Page 6