Out of the Box

by Don Schecter

  I got it all now. Just need the right time. I’ve been practicing and researching…it’s amazing what you can find on the internet these days, especially when you’ve got plenty of time on your hands.

  Without school, Tate was without activity aside from the gym. His diversions were another man, another party, another love affair. He was lax about teetotaling, and repented at AA meetings. After a while he stopped attending. He experienced his first sexual dysfunction when, for novelty, he brought home from the bar a pair of twins in their fifties, expecting to enjoy “double your pleasure, double your fun.” He found it wasn’t what he anticipated. He wished the twins were one, and he couldn’t perform. He blamed it on liquor, but he wondered if he were getting too old for that kind of shenanigan.

  He sent a very positive-sounding email to Ben saying at last he had found the man he could live with for a lifetime, that he was still with him in his condo, and when the fellow went home, he’d have time to write in detail. Ben returned the usual congratulations and best wishes.

  Now! Now’s the time. Looks like Tate’s about to knock another guy’s legs out from under him.

  I got the Valium while he was in the hospital, and I stockpiled ’em. I wash those little jobbies down with a fifth, then I lie on the bed, position the tank between my legs like a lover…put the mask on…pull a plastic bag down over my head to ensure results, and away we go.

  …I feel great…I’m happy, I feel really happy…I see light. Everything makes sense… at last…

  Tate made a date with Fred for dinner one Wednesday night and, as usual, Fred made an especially fine meal for him. But the food grew cold because he never showed. Fred shrugged. It was a first, but he was well aware of Tate’s proclivities: he knew that if Tate met a hot man during the day, he would forget about dinner. He phoned and got Tate’s machine. He left a message requesting a callback.

  In the morning, promptly at 9:30, Fred phoned and again got the answering machine.

  He thought, that’s strange; that must be some helluva man he’s with. By 11 a.m. he was worried, very worried. Tate ran like a clock; he never missed a morning call, even when he was traveling. Fred drove to Tate’s condo and rang the bell. When there was no response, he let himself in with the key he used when Tate was away. His heart fell when he saw a half-empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Tate laid out in bed, sleeping it off. But JESUS CHRIST! he had a plastic bag over his head. He snatched it off and saw the facemask drop to one side. It was attached by a thin tube to a small tank lying between Tate’s legs.

  None of Tate’s friends knew of a reason for him to take his life. They remembered him only as happy and smiling, drop-dead gorgeous, the life of the party, beloved by everyone. And this was perhaps the worst part of his passing. It seemed an inexplicable waste of fantastic raw material.

  Ben Lyman felt a strange stirring in his heart. Like movie stars who die young, Tate would always be frozen at age thirty-two, unlined and unknowable. But, in a way, Ben was grateful to be freed of the frustrated hope that someday Tate would accept his love. It simply wasn’t going to happen.

  What Friends Are For

  “Has he ever been to bed with a woman before?”

  Harris poured a good single malt over an ice cube in each of two glasses. He crossed his elegantly furnished living room and offered one to Margaret who was fidgeting uncomfortably in an easy chair.

  “Yes.” He looked straight into her eyes and smiled. “With your lover…twice.”

  Margaret accepted the glass. “No, no. I mean before Ellen.” From long association, she knew Harris was being funny.

  “If you believe young men, Baring told me he’d fathered an illegitimate child in college.”

  “Really?” She paused. “Have you ever enjoyed sleeping with women?”

  “Married twice. Three adult children.” Harris took a sip and pretended to consider the question seriously. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

  “Then we can assume he’s not sterile.” Margaret jumped topics like a nervous hen.

  Harris shrugged. “If you can believe hysterical co-eds. The child might not have been Baring’s.”

  “How can you take all this so calmly?”

  He was, in fact, patience personified. Harris understood the situation was harder for her than for him. “Oh, come now, Margaret. Relax. Making babies isn’t rocket science, you know. Even I made three.”

  The two of them fell silent. They sat there avoiding each other’s eyes, looking almost like brother and sister. Both were tall, with a commanding presence; a certain prosperity showed in their rounded appearances. Their bodies were still quite firm in their late fifties, faces essentially unlined. They had gray hair, his thinning, raising his forehead considerably; hers neatly coiffed in a bobbed wave. He had a tendency to be jovial, make a remark he expected to be funny, and then look intently into his listener’s eyes to signal that it was time to laugh. If the recipient didn’t catch his humor, Harris looked away with a self-deprecating “Yes, well…” and went on to something else. Margaret was by far the more serious. A woman in a man’s financial world, she was used to being prepared, rarely taking a step without scouting the land before her and testing it for soft spots. This had been key to her success in a staid and stodgy underwriting firm.

  Harris broke the stillness by offering his companion a cigarette and lighting it for her. Anything to dissipate the tension in the air. He took one himself, despite wanting to quit. Whatever are we doing here, the two of us, chatting with each other in calm and civil tones, while our lovers fornicate in the bedroom? “Does she love him, do you think?”

  “She loves me!” Margaret snapped back, caught off guard.

  “Yes, yes, my dear; I certainly hope so, considering why we’re here tonight; but does Ellen have any feelings for Baring?”

  “She loves her not-yet-conceived child. That’s her motivation, and she has an iron will. I feel such compassion for her. It’s a damnable shame. He may or may not have had a few stumbling liaisons; to my knowledge she’s never been with a man before—other than their first two couplings, that is; there’s no physical attraction between them to guide the way. It’s all very…well, I mean, making love shouldn’t be hard work.”

  “You needn’t worry, Margaret,” Harris assured her. “The boy has a sex drive second to none. I think he could impregnate a tree if there were a knothole in its trunk.”

  “That’s not very complimentary to you, Harris.” This time she looked intently into his eyes. “But I hope you’re right, just the same.”

  They could spar this way because they had trusted each other for more than thirty years. Although they worked in different areas, Harris and Margaret had joined Connelly, Connelly, and Johnson on the same day. They met while waiting to be interviewed and had remained friends, watching each other’s back, ever since. Both had climbed the corporate ladder with confident, sure steps, and were now vice-presidents, having put in a good word to advance the other’s career whenever possible. At work, only they had knowledge of their same-sex orientation; after all the times they showed up together at corporate functions, most people assumed they were a couple.

  “Are we sure he’s healthy?” she asked.

  “He was when we got together, and we’ve been monogamous for the past three years. I don’t think you have anything to worry about on that score. Besides, it’s a little late now.”

  “I know. I’m just being stupid. We’ve gone over everything carefully up front. I’m just rattling on; the paper reported an increase in HIV cases today.…How long have they been in there?”

  Harris consulted his watch. “Oh, about ten minutes.”

  “I’m afraid I feel like an outsider. I know it’s irrational, but it’s how I feel.”

  “I completely understand, my dear; I feel something similar myself. If Baring were with another man, I’d know precisely what I feel and how to express it.”

  “Yes,
” Margaret said. “Exactly. But in this case I also worry about a transference of affection. How can you let a man enter you and not feel something for him? Hell, even rape victims get tangled up in feelings for their assailants. And Ellen’s been with Baring three times now.”

  “Yes, I know. And he’s goddamned handsome and appealing, and…” Harris shrugged. “…the very reasons you selected him in the first place, right? You see, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Come, pull yourself together, Margaret. What could be worrying you? When you called tonight I was elated. Fathering a child seemed a much better prospect than watching The Thornbirds on TV again. I was just surprised, that’s all.” He looked at his friend curiously. “Why did it have to be tonight?”

  “May I have another scotch, please?” She proffered her glass. “I was nervous, that’s why. This business of dining together, and their retiring to the bedroom to screw while we have after-dinner drinks, was getting too sophisticated for my tastes. Women get confused at times like these. They leave their lovers for other women, for men, for security—like changing knickers. I’m afraid Ellen will get too attached to Baring.”

  “Then I should worry as well, shouldn’t I? She’s a very lovely and intelligent creature, I’ve always thought.” He put on his innocent face. “But just think, with them out of the picture, you and I could get married.”

  She ignored his attempt at humor. “I just want her to get pregnant and get it over with. They were randomly coupling, like married folk. At least, with a thermometer in hand we can approach estrus in a more scientific way. Ellen’s temperature was elevated last night; but a few hours ago, it spiked. So here we are.”

  “She might be coming down with something,” Harris teased as he handed Margaret a fresh drink.

  “Please quit these sophomoric attempts at being funny. The only thing I want her to come down with is a bulging belly.” Margaret tossed her scotch back. She swirled the ice cube in the empty glass and stared at the fire. “What about us?” she asked.

  “What about us? For three years Baring has been pining about never being a father… loving me, but tossing away his chance to procreate. I had no solution for that, and then you came along like a bolt from the blue with the most remarkable proposition I ever heard in my life. And here we are, in the anteroom, so to speak, awaiting the moment of conception.” His eyes went wide, and he flicked his fingers open as if to say voila!

  Margaret smiled as she thought about the future. “You know I’ve always wanted a child, even though I’m old enough to be its granny, so I was enthused when Ellen asked if we could adopt. I wanted to leave something behind, be responsible for more than just my own selfish happiness. Then, one night, sitting in our pajamas, drinking cocoa at the kitchen table, a light went on in my head: I thought of Baring. Ellen was instantly onto it. She listed his qualifications: looks, brains, personality—you are a very fortunate man, Harris—so we invited you to dinner.”

  “It makes some sense to know the father’s qualifications and, in Baring’s case, lineage. I didn’t know he knew his genealogy for generations back. The only sticky point then was, were they willing to do the deed?”

  “We could’ve done it in vitro but it seemed an unnecessary hassle and expense,”

  Margaret said. “I asked Ellen if she was willing to climb into bed with Baring, and she said she found the idea intriguing.” Her smile vanished. “Right now, I wish we had decided on the test tube.…How much time have they been in there?…She said it was more important that I was comfortable with the idea. Well, he’s my best friend’s lover; I adore you both. I have no reason to object. He was, after all, my idea.”

  Margaret could see the wall clock from where she was sitting, but Harris answered anyway. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Isn’t that time enough? I mean, you’ve done the dastardly deed before; you should know how long it takes.”

  “Some things can’t be rushed,” he soothed. “It’s always possible they fell asleep.”

  Margaret started out of her chair. “Then let’s knock…”

  Harris smiled and held up his hand. “Please, Margaret, leave them in peace. It will all come to pass in its own time.”

  Margaret fell back again, but wasn’t about to sit still. “Where’d he ever get the name, Baring, anyway?” she asked testily.

  “It’s a corruption of Bering, as in Bering Sea. His parents didn’t want it pronounced like berry.”

  “But why Bering at all?”

  “I guess they hoped he’d be ‘Strait.’” He signaled quote marks in the air, making eyes at Margaret.

  “Oh,” she winced in pain, then smiled despite herself. “You are a very ‘punny’ man.” She wiggled two fingers on each hand back at him.

  “Did you ever consider,” he asked, “that their coupling is in some way a resolution of our relationship, after all these years?”

  “Yes. I see that. It’s good to have you in the family at last. If I were straight, I’d be looking for someone like you.”

  “A gay man?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. You’re trying to divert me.”

  “I am,” he chuckled. “I am, indeed. It took me fifty years to realize what made me happy, and if Baring wants a child, then a child he shall have. I’m not risking everything I want over a simple thing like the collision of two cells. Your proposition was a godsend as far as I was concerned. You keep him/her, we’ll support him/her 60-40, and take turns sitting by the bedside when he/she is sick. And let’s be clear. I’m not a co-father; I’m a grandfather. If Ellen is willing, you two can be co-moms, but I get gift-buying rights and you get the diapers.”

  “Agreed.…How long now? Why doesn’t that damned doorknob turn?”

  “Two minutes after the last time.” He held up his hand again. “Aha! Methinks I hear someone approaching.”

  Baring shuffled slowly into the room in bare feet, his shirt held together by a single button inserted in the wrong hole. Harris couldn’t avoid the thought that flashed through his mind. Hope he got it right with Ellen. However he was wise enough not to voice that thought.

  Ellen followed a few steps behind, self-consciously brushing at the lap of her skirt as though she wanted to call attention to what she had just been doing.

  They looked up at Harris and Margaret, and the two couples stared blankly at each other for a moment. Although they were all four skilled in verbal communication, and loved to play word games, the English language did not yet have any expressions appropriate to this carefully maneuvered moment. Then Baring grinned his charming half-smile and said with mock emotion, “Damn, the condom broke!”

  There was a millisecond of tense reaction—just long enough for Margaret to think so that’s why she didn’t get pregnant before—then she got the joke. Her chuckle started low in the depths of her bosom and they all erupted into relieved merriment. It was New Year’s Eve without the hats and streamers.

  Harris gave Baring a congratulatory slap on the back and hugged him from the side.

  Margaret pulled Ellen to her in an impassioned embrace of pure love. Through happy tears, Ellen whispered in Margaret’s ear, “Oh, Mags, I think we got it right this time.”

  Despite his age and weight, Harris jumped in the air and successfully clicked his heels. “We must celebrate!” He danced lightly to the bar and poured four glasses, but Ellen refused to take one.

  “I don’t think pregnant women are supposed to imbibe,” she announced grandly.

  Christmas Help

  for Ed Muth (1926-2002)

  Eddie Byrd walked — up and down the street in front of his home in Staunton, Virginia, to the convenience store on the corner, to the restaurant where he took his weekend meals, to the post office, to the video shop, to the drugstore: all within three blocks of his house. He walked several times a day, making his rounds, never leaving home and his medicines too far behind. Having exceeded the life span of every male in his family by twenty years, he was determined not to deviate from the patte
rn which had rescued him, and kept him hale since 1970, when he had his first and only heart attack.

  The doctor had said “Walk!” and Eddie obeyed. He was not about to check out of this life one moment sooner than necessary because, as the last surviving Byrd, he felt a familial obligation to make the wine last as long as he was able.

  Eddie lived in the house his mother had built when he was six. He was there when his father and brother died, he tended to his invalided mother many years until she, too, passed away, and he was content to end his days in the same house. The oldest furnishings were packed away in the attic to protect them from decay. A set of dishes, conventional in 1935, were now antiques in perfect condition, and scrapbooks that chronicled the lives that had flourished around him gathered dust along with other carefully boxed memories.

  Eddie knew the genealogy of every family for several blocks around, and all the current generation called him by his first name and accepted him as part of the neighborhood they inherited. Some rumored he was gay because he was small and neat, well-educated, well-spoken, and kept himself so fit. But there was never another man to link him to; neither was there a woman.

  In fact, Eddie was gay, had known it for forty years, but had never acted on it. He was content to live his mother’s expectations of him, except in one regard. She had sent him to Staunton, the town’s military academy, as she had with his brother before him, but Eddie dropped out. He wanted something more artistic, less physically demanding. They compromised on physical therapy—”It will do him good to use his hands; he reads too much,” she had said—and that’s how Eddie earned his living. The closest he ever came to touching anyone was on the job, in a “professional” way that satisfied whatever longings he may have had for more intimate contact.