Message of Love

by Jim Provenzano

  “Which makes it worse.”

  “No, which makes it a misdemeanor and not a felony, probably.”

  “Look, I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll do something downtown. City Hall’s fine. I’ll just never get a job there. So we’re in the same boat.”

  “I dunno,” I pondered. “Didn’t other politicians who got elected, like, protest the Vietnam War?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But what if you get arrested? Don’t you need bail money?”

  “I don’t know. I should probably get some cash. Mother’s little helper.”

  “Your what?”

  “The credit card?”

  “Right.” I put away the cleaned cups and dishes and let him head off to our room.

  “But if you did do it,” Everett said, about twenty minutes later, in bed. He sat up, cleared his throat, thought a moment, and said, “Eperiri in uniformis et nutrientibus tue erecta gallus.”

  “I heard ‘erect’ something.”

  He sighed, then offered a flirtatious grin. “If you try it on, you get a prize.”

  The morning of the protest was sunny and brisk, calm and quiet, since it was a Saturday. Everett spent a few hours making calls to the various participants with reminders and an eager enthusiasm that encouraged me. And yet, by the time we headed out for our drive downtown, inside, my stomach growled from nervousness and hunger. With all the preparations, I’d forgotten to eat anything since breakfast.

  We found a parking spot a few blocks from City Hall, then headed toward the nearby corner where we’d agreed to meet the others.

  “Remind me again why we’re doing this on a Saturday?” I asked I walked beside Everett.

  “Slow news day,” he said as he tugged on his wheels. “That means more coverage. Jacob’s been working with one of the Penn student journalism majors on a big feature.”

  “But nobody’s here,” I said as I gestured to the sparsely populated street.

  “That’s not the point,” Everett countered. “We get our visuals, make our statements, and that becomes the story. See? Some of the guys are already here.”

  He pointed toward the corner where a few of our conspirators were gathered.

  “Hi, yes. I’m Park Ranger Conniff. I have the wheelchair tour group we’d scheduled.”

  “You say you scheduled it?”

  The City Hall guard looked put off, until he saw half of the people in wheelchairs already outside on the sidewalk.

  “I don’t know where the ramp is.” He clicked a walkie-talkie, “Hey, do we got a ramp?”

  I raised a hand. “Actually, we have our own.”

  A wooden plank was being unfolded on the steps below him. The steps had been measured by one of Gerard’s hunky straight tech carpenter pals three days before in the scene shop, where I’d assisted in seeing my crude design made real.

  “Oh.” The guard seemed surprised. “Wow. Come on in. Check in at reception.”

  Everett wheeled up next me, recited, “Udaces fortuna iuvat or fortes fortuna iuvat.”

  “Not now!” I muttered.

  Despite me, he said as he rolled by, “Fortune favors the brave.”

  Once up the first set of stairs, the group of volunteer protestors lined up along the base of a large set of stairs inside the building. They stayed put and waited as a photographer took pictures. The hallway echoed as a group of tourists offered curious looks.

  After a few minutes, with people coming up and down the stairs trying to shove their way around the wheelchairs, the head of security, or at least the largest one to loom over me, demanded one thing or another, and then said simply, “Sir, have you asked your tour to step asi- roll aside?”

  “Three times, sir.”

  He simmered, looked at them, then at me.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Not me, sir.”

  He stepped away briskly, stood before the row of people, seven, including Marlene, Devon and others from Temple, and the guys from Everett’s basketball team, who’d parked their chairs in front of the City Hall stairs. They didn’t shout, they didn’t pull out signs or banners. They just parked.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you are intending to stay here, you are risking arrest.”

  “Our legal counsel’s the guy with the beard,” I nodded once to Jacob, the savvy member of the group who’d called a few newspapers and a TV station. “If it’s not on the news, it didn’t happen,” he’d said. Determined to wait for more of them to show, other than the eager student photographer from Penn, Jacob stalled as he talked with the guard.

  They conferred. Everett offered a steely determined grin.

  I had to lean against a cool marble column. After facing off against the campus security men, I’d lost about half a pound of water weight in sweat.

  Finally, a TV camera crew and a photographer from one of the daily papers joined the Penn student journalist, got interviews, and after less than an hour, the point had been made.

  “That’s it?” I asked as the others began to disperse.

  “That’s it,” Everett beamed.

  “I’m glad nobody got arrested,” I added, calmed and a bit underwhelmed.

  “Please,” Everett scoffed. “No cop or security guard wants a picture of himself dragging some cripple into a paddy wagon.”

  My twenty-first birthday party, combined with the post-protest celebration two days later, brought together the most unusual collection of people. Gerard’s artsy pals mixed with Everett’s older teammates from the basketball team, his debate teammates, and my own classmates Devon, Eric, who chatted with a few of Mrs. Kukka’s colleagues. I felt a bit overwhelmed to see these people from such different points in our lives mingling, laughing, discussing everything from politics to gardening.

  The wheelchair traffic once again made for a slight challenge, solved by moving some furniture. I’d set up some folding tables Mrs. Kukka had borrowed from a church down the street, arranged them in the driveway, and for a while the party spread from the yard to the rooms of the house, until the cake and food were served. Most people wheeled or walked inside as dusk fell.

  Even though we had said ‘No gifts,’ a colorful stack of wrapped boxes and cards in envelopes had accumulated in the dining room side table.

  Everett beamed with pride over his additional bit of fame, perhaps because it was all a successful group effort. Copies of the local and student newspapers articles were stacked on the table beside the gifts, and everyone marveled over them.

  “Just make sure you all show up for the city council meeting next week,” Everett scolded as he handed out copies of the clippings.

  The protest had gained the attention of at least one local politician. While we knew that strength in numbers might persuade the city to step up some aspect of accessibility improvements, it might also fall on patronizing ears. Nevertheless, Everett had been chosen to be the lead speaker at the upcoming hearing.

  By the time the cake presentation and “Happy Birthday” singing took place, Everett turned up the cassette mix he’d prepared –nothing too raucous, a medley of new pop songs and old standards from his collection.

  At one point, Devon wheeled up beside me in the driveway, a bit cheerful from a few beers.

  “I’m headin’ out before I get too drunk,” he grinned. “I just wanted to congratulate you.” We shook hands.

  “It’s just a birthday. Oh, you mean the protest? That wasn’t my–”

  “No, I mean you and Ev.” He nodded toward Everett, who was on the other side of the yard, laughing at someone’s joke. “Remember when I met you, back when you were a freshman? You were all sad-eyed and tellin’ me how much you wanted to be with him.”

  “Wow,” I must have blushed. “That seems like so long ago.”

  “Well, you did it.”

  I reached down to hug him, until a car horn tooted out on the street.

  “That’s my ride. You keep on keepin’ on, Reid.”


  “Okay.”

  “An’ if he gets on you, tell Ev I said you’re a good man.”

  As the afternoon shifted to dusk, some of the other guests bid us goodnight and left in small groups.

  I stepped outside to drop a bag of garbage into one of the cans beside the driveway. In the darkness, a tiny coal of orange lit up, swirled.

  “Just me; a fag for a fag.” Gerard stepped into the porch light.

  “Just make sure the butt’s out and put it in the garbage,” I said. “Our beloved landlady’s picky about her garden.”

  Gerard held up his nearly empty plastic cup, dropped his cigarette in with a wet hiss.

  “Congratulations on your fabulous media event. Sorry I couldn’t make it.”

  “Well, it was kind of focused. I was just the decoy.”

  “Still, it’s good. Much more focused than Gay Jeans Day.”

  I chuckled. While pretty much the gayest friend we had, even Gerard dismissed such attempts at visibility.

  “I should get back inside.”

  “Wait. Come sit.” He parked himself on the porch, patted the plank beside him. “The party’s great. It’ll keep. Relax.”

  I wiped my hands, reluctantly sat. “Certainly an interesting mix.”

  “Our friends are a reflection of who we are.”

  “I guess so. And thanks for the present.” Gerard had gotten me a snazzy vintage dress shirt. He had thoughtfully spared me a gift in any wild colors; just a deep green that I actually liked.

  “Feel any different, being twenty-one; legal?”

  “Nope. Just happy.”

  “You should let me take you boys out to a few bars.”

  “Oh, I don’t know how long this’ll go on. Besides, I don’t know if Ev’ll want to. He gets a little tired sometimes, doesn’t show it. But I can tell.”

  “Maybe some other night.”

  “Let me ask him, after we take a, what’s it called? A disco nap.”

  Gerard sighed, stretched his legs. “You know, I really admire you. I always have.”

  “Really? For what?”

  “You’re …what’s the word? Stalwart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Strong; steadfast. You’re so protective of him. I knew when we met, you were always going to be there for him. It was so funny you being jealous of me. I would never–”

  “I’m sorry. I was so stupid. But I don’t see that as being strong.”

  “Maybe not, but you are, and you know, it’s not about him or you. It’s what’s between you, the connection. People can see it, even when you’re trying to act casual. They don’t want you, or him. Well, some do. But I think it’s more… they want that energy, that ungraspable …something between you two.”

  “Is that love?”

  Gerard smiled as he patted my shoulder. “Maybe someday you’ll find out.”

  Chapter 29

  May 1982

  “Those daffodils are a bit brash, don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Kukka knelt before the flowerbed, giving the brightly colored blooms a doubtful glance. I’d helped her plant the bulbs back in the fall, but she wanted to trim the grass around them. The canvas pad below her knees was similar to one my mother used in her own garden, but our landlady’s was more worn from years of use.

  Crouching beside her, I compared the new plants jutting up next to the settled blossoms of more subtly tinted plants; the ferns, lavender and wild thyme. She’d even let a cluster of wild daisies spread beyond the outskirts of the lawn, and a few varieties of common moss had formed a fuzzy coating over a few decoratively placed rocks.

  We had pruned the side yard’s clusters of jasmine and a lovely blue ceanothus bush, the clippings of which she saved for later. “Perhaps some bouquets for a few of my friends, oh, and in the living room,” she said.

  But the daffodils did sort of stick out. “They’re definitely perky,” I surmised, not wanting to be critical.

  “I suppose we should give them a chance.”

  A month before, when she had casually mentioned that she needed a few gardening supplies, I offered to drive the van with her to a shop outside of the city. Everett perked up at the mention of shopping, and the three of us had made a day of it.

  “You know, Eugene’s ashes were buried right under that redbud.” She nodded to her left toward the small tree at the edge of the front yard’s garden.

  I didn’t remind her that she had already told me that, but simply admired its still-flowering magenta buds. In my mind, I was playing the Latin-naming game, but without Everett nearby to coach me, the terms eluded me.

  “I’m so glad I found those clippings,” she said.

  “Which ones?” The week before I’d helped her carry a few boxes downstairs in the hallway. I’d peeked inside one, found a series of magazines and newspaper clippings sorted in manila folders. The next day, they were gone.

  “The ones about that disease. You boys need to be informed. Part of my husband’s work, the basic sanitary structures prevented so many cholera and malaria outbreaks in some of those countries he visited. You know, an anthropologist isn’t supposed to interfere with a culture, but sometimes he would just rail over the ineptitude of those governments, as if they were deliberately allowing those poor people to die.”

  She wiped her hands of dirt, then fumbled to rise, until I helped her up.

  “A little gardening tip for you; ashes don’t make the best fertilizer, no matter what anyone says.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Now, how about you get the hose and we give it all a sprinkle.”

  As I walked around the side of the house, I admired the simplicity of Mrs. Kukka’s plants. At first it had seemed somewhat haphazard, the arrangement of various clusters of flowering plants and shrubs. The trees offered a bit of shade without darkening the window views, and it all seemed to have a sort of balance.

  As I handed her the hose, uncoiling it to stretch to the front yard, she continued one of her stories about her husband.

  “He was always off on some adventure,” she said as she used a finger to tighten the water’s spray. “We often set in new plants, but never anything too exotic.”

  “Did you travel with him a lot?”

  “Oh, sometimes. Most often I had my own work at Penn.” She turned to me, almost soaking my leg before giggling lightly and turning the hose downward. “It must be so wonderful to have the world ahead of you, you boys.”

  I smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I just hope we can figure out what we want to do after school. Ev wants to go to grad school, but I just like getting my hands dirty. All this studying’s getting to be a bit much.”

  “You know, it takes finding a balance.” And then she offered another bit of advice. “You have to figure out where you can both be happy. Are you excited about working in the park?”

  “I guess so.”

  I had told her about my job interview at Fairmount Park, how I’d barely gotten hired. Despite being qualified, there simply weren’t that many openings, and my work would probably be relegated to groundskeeping, at first.

  “You know, if the nature study out in the woods doesn’t work out, you could always give landscaping a try; it’d keep you in the city, if that’s what you boys decide on.”

  “Well, thanks. That’s…I’ll consider that.”

  Her suggestion did sort of make sense. Instead of trying to take on an entire forest, shifting to a smaller goal, the beautiful microcosm of nature before us, contained in one home, began to resemble a possibility.

  Later that afternoon, Everett returned from his second to last final exam. “Cause enough for celebration,” he declared.

  We sat on the porch, sipping lemonade that Everett had spiked with a little bit of vodka he’d pilfered from a gathering of Mrs Kukka’s colleagues. We’d offered Everett’s video player, and a former professor showed converted films of his documentation of tribal dances from Ghana.

  “Anyway. What’s the job?
So, you’ll be doing what, weed-whacking?”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “Forgive me for saying it, but it sounds beneath you.”

  “It’s more money than I could ever make at another state park, and I don’t want to be gone all summer again.”

  “But you won’t come to the kid’s summer camp.”

  “Aw, Ev. I loved it, but it’s just not gonna work out. I’m sorry.”

  Everett sighed. “Well, the kids’ll miss you. Kenny’ll miss you.”

  “Please don’t guilt-trip me.”

  “I’m… Reid. I’m just trying to make plans. I can probably get something like that in the city, some summer school program. I’ll check with the Magee folks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I’m just making it up as I go.”

  We settled, sipped out drinks.

  “The garden looks great.”

  “Thanks. She’s been growing it for years, told me about some earlier versions.”

  The last of dusk’s sunlight glinted off the tops of nearby trees, giving them a golden shimmer, then fell away. A warm breeze passed, whirling across the porch.

  “So,” I said, after a moment.

  “So, if we don’t go back to work with the kids, do you wanna go camping this summer?”

  “Sure, if I can take a few days off. Where?”

  “Jacob and his lady pal mentioned Susquehannock.”

  “Did they? That’s a mouthful.”

  The sprawling trio of forests, including Elk, Sproul, with two smaller parks to the west, were high up on my to-do list. I’d never camped there. It seemed perfect. Going with a straight couple who knew who we were, and were cool about; it seemed great.

  “So, I could get the camping stuff when we go back home, unless we go someplace west, closer.”

  “Why don’t you help us figure that out, Ranger Reid?”

  I would have preferred to go alone with Everett, but if there were an emergency or anything, we’d have backup. Our previous few overnight treks were more limited, keeping near flat park areas. We took trails, but wide ones. I refused to carry him on any smaller trails. I told myself that he understood. He acted like he did. I was just happy that he wanted to make plans where we could be together.