"It's all about perspective," I tell him.
"Do you ever think about what it might be like if we'd stayed together?" Jack asks me. "No," I lie.
"Yes, you do," says Jack. "You answered too fast. That's how I always knew you were lying when we were kids. You were never good at it." "Of course I've thought about it," I tell him. "Not in a long time, though."
"Same here," says Jack. "I think we would have driven each other crazy."
"We did," I remind him. "Several times."
"I used to think that's why you left New York," says Jack. "Because of me."
"You always give yourself too much credit," I say. "It's not always about you." "Says who?" Jack teases.
"You were only part of it," I say. "I just had to get out of there. I felt like a dog chasing its own tail." "Have you caught it yet?" Jack asks.
"I stopped trying," I tell him.
"Do you remember the fight we had over the comic books?" he says. "About Superman and Batman?"
"I'm surprised you remember," I say. "I didn't think you really noticed." Jack picks at a roll. "I noticed," he says. "It was the first time you ever stood up to me. I just pretended not to care because I was afraid you might figure out you could take me." He puts the roll on his plate. "I needed you, Ned, and I was so afraid you would leave because I wasn't as smart as you were."
"Says the man with the Dr. in front of his name," I say.
"I'm serious," Jack says. "I never understood why you put up with me."
"It was because I loved you," I say. "That's all."
"When I was in seminary, I used to beg God to make me straight," Jack says. "At least until James suggested we sleep together. Even then, I hoped it was something I'd grow out of." "Why?" "You and Andy were off in Vietnam being heroes," says Jack. "I was the one hiding behind God. I was sure you'd end up together somehow, and I'd be stuck in some church, preaching sermons and thinking dirty thoughts about my male parishioners."
"I never did think you'd be a very good minister," I say.
"I wished I was more like you," Jack says.
"Funny," I tell him, "I always wanted to be more like you."
"Do you still?" he asks me.
I wait before answering, so he knows I'm not lying. "No," I tell him.
"I like who I am."
"Same here," he says. "It took us long enough to figure it out."
Our food arrives, and we eat. Outside, the October afternoon is gray and cold. Jack and I talk some more, filling in the gaps of the past fifteen years. When Andy's name comes up, we toast him with our water glasses and take turns remembering stories about him. I forget that it's been only a few hours since his death. Already he seems a happy memory. Maybe Jack is right, and one day I'll feel his death more acutely. For now, I'm happy to put him to rest.
After lunch, we walk beside the Chicago River, not quite ready to return to Andy's apartment. It occurs to me that my grandmother may have walked here sixty years before me, contemplating the death of her husband and trying to make sense of her life. She's gone now, having passed peacefully in her sleep at 87, and I am the last of her blood. Perhaps, with Andy's death and my return to the city where Violet Renard O'Reilly believed a curse fell upon her, we have come full circle. Maybe Jack is right and I have, in my clumsy way, saved him from the tragedy shown to me by the angel all those years ago. We walk without talking, two men who were boys together. Soon we will return to our separate lives. But we will never be far from one another, linked forever by the bond formed before our births. Our stories are inextricably bound together, and although the endings have yet to be written, the pages contain tales enough to fill a lifetime.
EPILOGUE
They say that when the last mystery is solved, the world will end. I don't suspect that will happen, or, if it does, it will be long after my own death and I won't be around to care. Unless Thayer is right and we all keep coming back until we've figured out what we did to deserve being human. Given what I know of humans, though, I have faith that we never will figure it out, and that the death of the world will be due instead to the burning out of the sun or the stupidity of George W. Bush's great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandchild. Until that happens, there will always be friendship and love, and between the two of them, there are mysteries enough to last lifetimes. I've spent mine trying to figure them out, and have only begun to scratch the surface. If I'm lucky, in the end I'll be the tiniest bit closer to understanding why I've loved the people I've loved and where doing so has taken me.
Not that I really want answers. Sometimes the best part of a mystery is that it can never be solved to our satisfaction. Like God and death, the question of what drives the heart may be one we never fully understand. The possibilities are many and, like the true identity of Jack the Ripper or the source of creation, are a matter for endless debate. And although some will doubtless be disappointed when no clear answer arises to give them comfort, those who look carefully will find that in the search—in the questioning and wondering and raging—there is beauty beyond reckoning.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2005 by Michael Thomas Ford
Lyrics from "You Turn Me On, I'm a Radio" by Joni Mitchell © 1972 Crazy Crow Music. Used by permission. Lines from "Ceremony After a Fire Raid" by Dylan Thomas, from The Poems of Dylan Thomas , copyright © 1946 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. FromCollected Poems , published by J.M. Dent and reprinted by permission of David Higham Associates.
Excerpt from Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin © 1978 The Chronicle Publishing Company. Used by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2005928275
0-7582-1950-4
Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle Page 47