Message of Love

by Jim Provenzano

  That grasp of knowledge displayed itself in the first round. The topic that year was whether the U.S. should be barred from military intervention in the Western Hemisphere.

  One of Everett’s teammates cited the increasing recession and high unemployment figures as an example of a need to, he said, “return our focus on our own country.”

  While one of his opponents rattled through his references in a style that, Everett had told me, was allowed, he sounded almost unintelligible and rushed.

  Everett, however chose one specific example, and from one card, seemed to wing it with the expertise of a political talk show guest. A few abbreviated citations confused me, but overall, he presented a case against weapons proliferation by diverting the argument to solutions; building infrastructures for cultures prone to violence, and finding ways to remove them. “specifically, drug trade, poverty, South American economic strife that not only grows healthy botanical exports in addition to plants grown for drugs or communist regimes.”

  His opponent countered with examples of failed attempts to convert drug farming to agriculture.

  As he went on for a few minutes, I watched as Everett handed his partner a few cards with citations, and Donny nodded. At his response time, Everett quoted an article about charity tourism, and the growth of natural habitats as a diversion to deforestation.

  His opponent then fumbled, it seemed, having been put in a position to defend drug cartels via something called Posse Comitatus. It wasn’t exactly the case, but Everett had positioned it so.

  After a bit of shuffling of whispered voices and notes, the referee made a “call for cards,” and the round was summated in some arcane process that eluded me. I was too busy gazing at Everett, and since the room had less than a dozen viewers, eventually, a sly grin tossed my way.

  The elation of their victory lent itself to the team discussion over pizza. A six-way argument over where to go resulted in the obvious conclusion; our house. Mrs. Kukka was pleased to have a few more visitors.

  Over paper plates and soda, the team sat in various chairs in the front room. Everett had put on one of his cassette mixes that kept the mood light but not raucous; a little pop and jazz. It felt very adult. With several conversations going, I parked myself next to him on the sofa with the front windows behind us.

  It wasn’t exactly a rowdy event, by any means, but at one point, a toast was raised for the victory, and Donny Yang started a chant of “Speaks! Speaks!” aimed at Everett.

  “Could you explain the derivation of this ritual?” I asked in a professorial hush.

  “I got the most speaker points. ‘Speaks.’”

  I nodded. “Cute.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s safer than lacrosse.”

  “You want some more pizza?”

  “Definitely.”

  When I returned, Everett, Jacob and a few others had shifted to discussing a lingering local issue, Penn’s misappropriation of funds meant for accessibility improvements. The scandal had been in both the university and local papers, a small pile of which Everett had collected; just the pages, in an increasingly stuffed accordion file. Only recently had it been “rectified,” according to another article.

  “The apartheid protestors are going to force them to divest. I think some sort of action would do the same for this,” Everett said.

  “It’s a legal issue. They pay it back after sucking up to more donors,” Jacob added.

  “Start the Grace Kelly Memorial ball,” another sniped.

  “Dude! That is harsh. She only died last month.”

  The tragic car crash in Monaco that had killed the actress had been extensively covered by the local media, and the student newspaper, given her roots in Philadelphia.

  But another lingering issue had not been reported as much. The university had failed to fulfill their already funded requirements to make more buildings accessible, which understandably bothered Everett. He fumed about the lack of resources for disabled possible new students, despite the university’s outreach and limited scholarships.

  “Yeah, but aren’t you different? Aren’t you wealthy?” Donny asked.

  “Well, I’m not, but my family is.”

  I didn’t add, ‘You will be, by a wide margin.’

  “What does that have to do with it?” Everett countered.

  Donny argued, “You claim to represent a constituency, you say people like you should get disability benefits, yet your family is wealthy. Why should taxpayers support you?”

  “I’m a dependent and I don’t work. I’m a student.”

  “But you did work for that summer camp?” Jacob tossed in.

  “And we got paid almost nothing.”

  “And the cabins were far from luxurious,” I added.

  “And yes, my family has money,” Everett admitted. “I’m lucky. My grandfather invested well. If it means I have a car, and better medical care, and am able to travel, so what? If it gets me in the building, great, because there are a lot of people who can’t get in the damn building to change that. And my being able to get in, to have the time, not fighting for another welfare check, helps me represent those who have to do that.”

  Donny and Jacob clapped in approval. But Everett wasn’t finished.

  “Some problems need to be solved through money, or politics or awareness. But the issue of disability, and how it relates to you, is apparently your primary focus.”

  Donny blinked at the swiftness of the insult.

  “One of the greatest impediments to my qualifications is one of the easiest to solve; architecture.”

  No one offered a rebuttal, until Jacob called out, “I think we have a winner!”

  Everett and I had almost finished cleaning up the kitchen after everyone else had left.

  “So, you enjoyed the debate?”

  “Which one?”

  “Sorry. I got a little worked up,” he said.

  “You’re sexy when you argue.”

  “You’re a bigger nerd than I am.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Did you know?”

  “Did I know what?”

  “You inspired one of my most daring points.”

  “I did?”

  “Remember when you were talking about that two-thousand-year-old plant, and how you wanted to go see it?”

  “The Mediterranean Cypress.”

  He gave me an expectant glance, until I remembered; “Cupe…cupressus sermpervirens.”

  “Good boy. But it’s in Iran, which is not the safest place for a couple of Yankee imperialists to visit.”

  “Right. So?”

  “Well, that got me thinking, which is the point of the whole shebang. But we’re on the opposing side next time, so it won’t be pretty. Unless you can inspire me to defend arms proliferation and the occasional CIA-assisted junta.”

  It was funny, his ability to argue about anything, but I sensed that he just wanted a night with his friends, so I let it, and him, go.

  The next week, Everett considered running for class president, but settled on running for president of the Debate Team. With only himself abstaining, he won overwhelmingly, 5-0.

  Chapter 36

  December 1982

  Beautifully naked, the small fir tree stood in the corner of our living room, with boxes of ornaments set below it on the floor. My parents had once again awaited my return before decorating it.

  “What happened to Robot Tree?” I asked.

  Mom offered a sassy pose, arms akimbo. “Santa gave it to a needy family by way of the Goodwill.”

  It was one of several changes I noticed. Mom had also rearranged a few pieces of furniture and added more modern art prints in the living room. Was it a sign of restlessness, their fight against what Mom called the empty nest syndrome? I wasn’t sure.

  “So you got another cut one?”

  “Check the base,” Dad said as he hung up his coat.

  I knelt before it, taking in the pine scent. The branches seemed moist. Und
er the holiday skirt, a silver bucket strained to hold a burlap-wrapped bulge of roots and what smelled like damp peat.

  “Sweet! This is the best Christmas present ever!”

  “Oh, then I can give your other ones to Goodwill, too,” Mom joked.

  “You can start with any sweaters I’m about to get,” I replied, as I admired the little tree. “So, are we gonna plant it in the yard?”

  “You’re the expert,” Dad said.

  “Really? Then we can get another one next year and make a whole forest in the back yard.”

  “Well, we ought to plant a few. Make a great windbreak.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Hungry from the drive, I ambled to the kitchen, which pretty much looked the same from Thanksgiving. On the countertop, a large basket sat, full of what looked like…

  “Fruit? Yum. Who sent this?”

  “Your aunt and uncle.”

  “Oh.” I almost pulled away, but the pears looked nearly perfect. Pyrus Rosaceae bounced in my head.

  “What are we bringing?” I asked with an obvious tone of dread about a return visit.

  “Nothing,” Mom replied with barely contained satisfaction. “They have decided to take a holiday vacation to Orlando.”

  I deadpanned, “This is the best Christmas. Ever.”

  Until Dad added, “But we’re still driving to visit your grandparents.”

  “And,” Mom added, “fortunately, they like fruit.” She swatted my hand.

  “That’s cheating!”

  “No, it’s being economical.”

  Despite the pleasant changes at home, I felt an eager anticipation toward visiting Everett in Pittsburgh. His mother had practically crammed his weeks with engagements, meetings with board members of some nonprofit she’d joined; scholarships for “less fortunate” high school graduates, lunches with her new friends. She had even tried to barge in on our New Year’s plans. We had decided to skip the opera party in favor of Holly’s plans for a gay bar night. That scared their mother off.

  We had a bit more champagne than a single toast as the hired limousine pulled up to Pegasus Lounge on Liberty Street.

  “Don’t be freaked out by the stairs,” Holly assured us as she patted my knee. “I took care of everything.”

  “You had them install an elevator?” I muttered.

  Everett, in an attempt to brighten my worries, sang, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my boyfriend,” as he raised his arms in preparation for my shoulder-carrying skills.

  The doorman, either charmed or bribed by Holly, let us cut in front of a short line of patrons as the women preceded us down the stairs, holding his chair. Everett hugged me tightly.

  “Try to have fun,” he whispered.

  “You sure it’s not too late to join your dad at his old people party?”

  While dark, except for flickering disco lights, the nightclub was full of men and women, eager to celebrate. As Everett settled into his chair, we were led to a reserved banquette against a wall. Everett scooted off of his chair, which I set nearby. We chatted up Holly’s friends, shouting jovial comments as onstage a series of towering drag queens performed lip-synched songs.

  A bottle of champagne arrived, served by a friendly waiter with a paper hat atop his bald head, and we toasted, although midnight was an hour away. I bashfully accepted Holly’s invitation to dance, as one of her friends kept Everett company at our table. By the time I returned to the table, I felt better, and offered him a smooch as I scooted next to him.

  “Hey! It’s almost time,” Everett beamed, his face shiny from the heat of the nightclub.

  After a few more sips, we’d decided to stay at the table, which afforded us some near privacy as most others took to the main floor to stand ready for the ritual of a cheerful New Year’s kiss. Holly’s friends were somewhere on the dance floor.

  As the buoyant joy to the midnight moment arrived and passed, we kissed again.

  “Happy anniversary,” he smiled.

  Balloons were dropped, confetti strewn, the music grew louder, but we remained seated, until Holly returned.

  “So, boys; what are your plans for the new year?” she asked.

  “To graduate, hopefully,” Everett smiled.

  I nodded in agreement.

  “But after that?” she pressed.

  Everett and I shared a bewildered glance. Back at the house in Philadelphia, a stack of graduate school applications awaited us both. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in school, or whether I wanted to stay in the city. I wanted Everett to make the first move. The idea of leaving him, being separated again, seemed unthinkable.

  Everett offered a giddy, slightly drunk forecast. “We drive off into the sunset!”

  Holly smirked, but pressed on. “Has Mother or dear Dad made offers of accommodation?”

  Everett assured us that staying with his mother was out of the question. “It’s like she’s showing off a new pony,” he said. “And Dad hasn’t exactly jumped in to help me, except to offer that bland studio apartment on the backside of his building, with a lovely view of an alley. Plus, I think he’s still a bit skittish about marrying the girlfriend.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “After our mother, it’s understandable,” Holly rolled her eyes.

  “A lot of reasons, one of them being that she doesn’t really like me,” Everett admitted. “I kind of creep her out.”

  “Really?” Holly gasped in mock astonishment. “Because of the chair?”

  “She would probably feel the same way about me anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, she pops a kid and there’s a will to rewrite.”

  “What?”

  Holly, leaned forward, as if joining me in her conspiracy with Everett. “Reid, my dear boy, let me explain a little bit about a world you’ll fortunately never live in. It’s called heterosexual privilege. Mom got alimony and Dad never even cheated on her.”

  Everett added, “And if Miss Alexis Carrington-to-be latches on to him, then if she dumps him, she gets some, too. Just because.”

  “And we get dumped, too, financially speaking,” Holly said.

  “You think she’s like that?” I asked.

  “Oh, we had a little chat a while back,” Everett said.

  “What did she say?” Holly asked.

  “She didn’t say anything so much as flash the dollar signs in her eyes while confessing her ‘admiration’ for my dad.”

  I tossed in, “Well, what did you expect, ‘He’s a hot daddy?’”

  “What? My dad is not… Okay, but yours is, too.”

  “He is,” Holly giggled.

  “This is already weird.” I had to change the subject. “Would you like to dance, Mister President?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  “Miss Forrester.” I bowed to Holly before helping Everett into his chair. We pushed our way to the edge of the dancing crowd.

  That night, the club became our party, our celebration. We danced in that funny awkward way only a couple in and out of a wheelchair can do, until he coaxed me to sit cautiously on his lap, and we nestled, cuddled and celebrated our sort-of anniversary.

  We were so happy, because we had no idea what was around the corner.

  Chapter 37

  January 1983

  The news came to us in a strange way, vicariously.

  Wesley had left a call for Everett, a strange one, an almost nonsensical combination of Christmas carols. Everett called back, but didn’t get an answer. Our Christmas card to him was returned in the mail.

  Then a week went by. Everett called again, but it just rang and rang. When someone did pick up, it wasn’t Wesley, but his landlord. He was evasive and suspicious, and only offered a number for Wesley’s family after some outright begging.

  As Everett crooked the phone on one shoulder, he kept nervously folding his legs into different positions. I sat on the edge of the bed in our room, waiting, wanting to support him for what seemed inevitable.

&
nbsp; “Three weeks ago?... Yes, from Pinecrest…We were friends… I … I just…I’m sorry. Yes, I understand. It must have been… no, we saw him last June, and we’ve talked a few…Excuse me?... Yes, sir.”

  Despite the lowered volume, I could hear a male voice, tinny through the phone, but growing increasingly terse. Everett’s face tensed and he eventually ran out of words.

  “I’m sorry about…No, I understand...When you can. Yes, thank you.”

  As he set the phone down, his gaze remained on it, then the blanket beneath him, his legs, anywhere but toward me. Not knowing what to say, I slid over to the bed and held him.

  The fact that we had missed his funeral, and even wondered if we, or just Everett would have, or could have even gone to it –Wesley’s family lived in Bradford Woods, a rich suburb of Pittsburgh– added to the lack of closure.

  Expecting him to cry, I didn’t let go, until he eased back.

  “It’s okay. I’m… It’s not like we didn’t expect it. I’m just… a bit stunned.”

  He didn’t cry, not then. We simply lay back in bed, and held each other. I could almost feel him thinking, though, wondering, perhaps the same thoughts as mine. Who could we tell? Who could hear this news and not worry for us or ask more questions? Our parents might panic, and couldn’t be told of his close connection. Holly, perhaps. It was then that I realized, perhaps Gerard would be our only true friend who could understand.

  After almost dozing off in thought, Everett shifted to roll over, facing me sideways as we lay in the bed.

  “Promise me something.”

  I waited.

  “If I get sick…”

  “Ev, you’re not –”

  “Promise me you won’t leave.”

  “Aw, Ev.” I clutched him closer, dug my face in his shoulder. It wasn’t right to remind him that I was the one who begged to stay with him after his accident, and that if anything happened to him, it would be he who might tear us apart again. “Never. Never ever. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

  Despite my assurances, Wesley’s death weighed on him like a sledgehammer. He stopped going to classes, stopped going to basketball practice, even stopped eating for a few days, until I practically forced a few sandwiches on him.