Sensing Light

by Mark A. Jacobson

Herb drove to Diamond Heights after ICU sign-out rounds. He stopped on the way at a gourmet deli to buy garlic roast chicken, roasted bell peppers, a baguette, and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

  He had been to their apartment the previous summer. Marco had been in good spirits that evening, but his sunken frame and the anemic pallor of his lips and nails were unmistakable signs he was nearing the end of life. The idea of Kevin witnessing his lover’s daily deterioration had distressed Herb, though he was uplifted by seeing how competently Kevin dealt with Marco’s many needs, parsing them into smaller components, each having a practical solution—a minor medication change, setting alarms and posting reminder notes for Marco, hiring help for whenever he had to be away.

  The last time he was here, the upstairs glass wall of their apartment had been ablaze, reflecting an ocher sunset. Tonight, the windows were black. He wondered if anyone was home, but within seconds of pressing the buzzer, Kevin opened the door.

  “Thanks,” Kevin said in a flat, numb monotone, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the bag of food Herb carried. “I should eat.”

  Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Marco’s in a coma.”

  He led Herb to the only source of light, a reading lamp at the far end of the apartment. Standing by the bed, they watched Marco breathe.

  “Would you examine him? I can’t trust my judgment.”

  He gave Herb his stethoscope and rubber reflex hammer and retreated into the darkness.

  Herb left the bedroom navigating blindly until his eyes adjusted. He found Kevin in the living room, staring out the window. Herb coughed politely.

  “What do you think?” Kevin asked in the same monotone.

  “A right hemisphere lesion,” Herb said uneasily, “Could be an infection, tumor, maybe an infarct or a bleed?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Kevin’s attention was directed at the waxing crescent moon setting in the western sky.

  “It might be toxo,” Herb suggested.

  “I know. I already started him on sulfa and pyrimethamine. Not that it matters. It’s better for him to stay here, isn’t it?”

  “Did he say he wants to die at home?”

  Kevin nodded.

  “Can you…?”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “He could be made comfortable in a hospice.”

  Kevin’s face hardened.

  “Herb, do you have any personal experience with hospice?”

  “I do. Remember Sister Anna? She spent the end of her life in a hospice. I thought the staff was incredibly attentive. She had a little tape deck playing Gregorian chants. It was…serene.”

  “Sorry, Herb, but an impression based on a cameo appearance you made there is not a persuasive testimonial.”

  “Kevin, I was there a lot, daily during her last week. I was very fond of her. It was more than a doctor-patient relationship for me.”

  “Herb, no way! Don’t tell me you had an affair with a nun.”

  Kevin laughed until tears blurred his vision. He arose, stumbled into the kitchen, switched on the lights, and opened two beers.

  “Let’s eat,” he called out.

  They each succeeded in swallowing a few bites of food. Kevin opened two more beers.

  Halfway through the third round, Kevin asked, “Were you ever in Boy Scouts?”

  “I was. Why?”

  “Just curious. They have scouts in Mexico, but Marco never joined. Probably his parents thought it was beneath him. I belonged for a while. Why were you a scout? Because your friends were, or did your parents make you do it?”

  Bewildered, Herb answered, “Actually, it was my idea.”

  Raindrops began spattering against the kitchen windows, and Herb recalled a wet, autumn evening, standing at attention in a damp church basement. The smell of mildew was nauseating. He concentrated on the freshly laundered khaki scent of his uniform and the bright merit badges he was proud to have on his sash. The boys were clustered by patrol. His was the troop’s smallest with only four members—Herb, two boys whose parents were from Latin America, and a kid who rarely spoke or looked anyone in the eye. None of them had been invited to join other patrols. Herb hadn’t minded. He was grateful to be allowed to wear the uniform.

  Herb saw Kevin was waiting for an explanation.

  “I must have believed being a Boy Scout would make me a real American boy.”

  “That’s great!” Kevin roared, “You wanted to be a real American boy. So did I, Herb. So did I.”

  Turning reflective, he added, “Boy Scouts didn’t help.”

  Herb imagined coming of age in the early1960s, knowing you were gay. Had that fear of being discovered been worse than his own childhood nightmares of Japanese soldiers invading the United States to exterminate every Chinese who had escaped the war?

  Kevin interrupted this train of thought.

  “Do you remember any of the Boy Scout Law?”

  “I think so.”

  The third beer kicked in, and Herb automatically recited, “A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

  “Amazing! How did you do that? You are the last person I would have expected to know all twelve Scout virtues, and in the right order, too.”

  “I didn’t realize you had such a low opinion of me.”

  “Touché,” Kevin laughed.

  He immediately became serious again.

  “Did you believe in the code? You must have if you still remember it.”

  “I guess so. The Scout Law did embody the ethos of the times.”

  “Was there a hierarchy? I mean, were some of those virtues more important to you than others?”

  Herb was mystified, but he could hardly begrudge Kevin.

  “Let me think…trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, and kind. Those all fit with what I thought Americans were supposed to stand for. I’m not sure about the rest. I do remember the oath we had to recite made me nervous. ‘On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law.’ I worried I’d be putting myself in jeopardy if I ever broke one of the rules. I even asked my mother if swearing to obey the law was OK.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She told me not to take it so literally. She was all for assimilation.”

  “Interesting,” said Kevin as he gazed off into space.

  Afterwards, parked in his driveway, Herb sat in the car mulling over what he had wanted to ask Kevin but of course never would. Last summer, when Marco told him how the two had met, Herb deduced they must have become lovers before anyone would have known that gay men who didn’t use condoms might be transmitting a fatal disease. On hearing Marco was sick, Herb had commiserated with Gwen, but she revealed nothing. Maybe she knew no more than he did. He clutched the steering wheel in frustration. He couldn’t think of any way to help Kevin.

  XII

  AS HERB GOT OUT of his car, he saw Cecilia’s silhouette pass across an upstairs window. He noticed her car wasn’t in the driveway or on the street. He went inside and paused in the front hall. The only noise was the whoosh of sheets dropping down the laundry chute to the basement.

  “Where’s Martin?” he called out.

  “Piano lesson. He took my car.”

  No one has to pick him up, thought Herb.

  “Cecilia, if we got a car for Martin, neither of us would have to be a chauffeur again.”

  They hadn’t discussed this since Martin got his driver’s license. Cecilia had been opposed in principle then to any teenager having his own car. But now, when one of their cars was available, Martin always drove himself places and reliably returned it. Perhaps she was ready to revisit the idea.

  “Cecilia?” he shouted.

  Hearing no reply, Herb went upstairs. Their bedroom and bathroom were empty. In Martin’s room, he found Cecilia kneeling on the floor, motionless except for her twitching han
ds which held a dog-eared, glossy magazine. The color had drained from her face.

  “Oh, my God! Herb!” she wailed, showing him the crumpled magazine.

  It had no titles or text, just photos. Nude men flexing their muscles and coupling in various positions. Close-ups of penises thrust into mouths and anuses.

  Disoriented, Herb knelt next to her. It had never occurred to him that Martin might be gay. He wanted to reassure Cecilia but couldn’t think of anything to say—anything that didn’t include a terrifying acronym.

  She looked at him, imploring wordlessly.

  “I’ll…I’ll talk to him,” he stammered.

  Cecilia and Martin ate a late dinner in silence. Herb sat with them, reading the newspaper. The lack of conversation didn’t seem to bother Martin. Cecilia pushed food around her plate, then said she had to call her sister and left the table.

  “Martin,” Herb said, “we need to talk.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not angry. We just need to talk. OK?”

  Martin grudgingly followed his father into the living room. Herb sat on a love seat. Martin remained standing.

  “Please, Martin, sit down. This will take more than a minute.”

  Martin sat on the edge of a stuffed chair.

  “We need to have a matter-of-fact discussion about sex.”

  Martin rolled his eyes and whined, “Again? Dad, we’ve been through that before.”

  Herb was at a loss for how to begin.

  “And I’ve had it in school up to here,” said Martin, sticking a finger into his throat.

  As Herb pondered over what to say next, Martin rose and backed away. Reluctantly, Herb pulled the magazine out of his jacket pocket.

  “We need to talk about this.”

  Martin flushed. He stared at the carpet.

  “You searched my room?”

  “No! Mom found it by accident while she was changing your bed.”

  Martin refused to make eye contact. Herb saw shame and defiance battling across his son’s face.

  “Martin,” Herb said, his voice cracking. “Mom and I love you. We want to protect you. It’s totally fine with us if you’re gay or bisexual. You know we have friends who are gay, who we respect a lot. We’re scared because if you’re not careful, if you got infected with the AIDS virus…so many young men have died already. Magazines are not the issue. We want to be sure you know how to be safe, that you’ll be careful.”

  Martin looked up and saw Herb shaking.

  “Jesus, Dad! Get a grip!”

  “I will if you’ll talk to me.”

  “This is humiliating. We do not need to have this conversation. I know about AIDS and the blood test. I’m not an idiot!”

  Full of regret, Herb put a hand to his forehead.

  “Look, Dad, I am being careful. All right? We’re not going into details. End of discussion.”

  Martin stomped out of the room.

  Herb didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. At seven, he was in the kitchen, half-heartedly trying to make a double cappuccino with the espresso machine Cecilia had bought him for his birthday. He couldn’t stay focused long enough to follow the instructions and kept having to start over. Martin padded in barefoot. Ignoring Herb, he went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice. He stood at the sink, facing away from his father, pouring juice into a glass. Herb set down the metal pieces he hadn’t been able to fit together.

  “Martin, can we finish talking?”

  “Dad, let it go. You need to trust me.”

  Herb was in check. A stalemate might be the best he could salvage.

  “I want to trust you. And I meant what I said yesterday. This doesn’t change how I feel about you, not by an iota.”

  “If that’s really true, promise not to bring this up again. OK?”

  Herb couldn’t think of a counterargument and conceded. He shut the steam valve, abandoned his cappuccino, and went upstairs. Cecilia was dressing for work. He slumped onto the bed and told her what Martin had said.

  He began to apologize. Cecilia held a finger to his lips.

  “My turn,” she said.

  Herb followed her downstairs and stopped outside in the dining room to listen.

  “Martin,” she said calmly, “I’m going to trust you to be safe.”

  “Good, Mom.”

  “Will you trust me enough to give me honest answers when I have questions? That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “No, Mom, that’s not fair. I don’t ask questions about your sex life, do I? What’s fair is that you respect my privacy like I respect yours.”

  Herb waited, but Cecilia had no reply. He trudged back upstairs. The mother’s gambit, he thought, played perfectly and still a stalemate.

  XIII

  MORNING SUNLIGHT CREPT DOWN the bedroom wall, crossed the floor, and reached Marco’s face. The heat on his left cheek woke him. He turned his head away from the light and tried to roll over. Nothing happened. On his second attempt, Marco realized his right arm and leg were missing.

  “Kevin!” he tried to scream, making a barely audible sound.

  He clenched and unclenched his left fist, confirming some part of his body still existed. Terrified of what he might find, Marco inched his hand across his chest. Once it passed the mid-line, that hand disappeared too, only to reappear when he pulled it back in horror.

  “Kevin!” he shrieked repeatedly, making muffled whimpers.

  Half asleep on the living room couch, Kevin heard gurgling noises. He ran into the bedroom. Marco’s eyes were open, his mouth twisted. He was mumbling incomprehensibly. Torn between the reprieve of having Marco back and the pain of seeing his anguish, Kevin wept.

  Marco had never seen Kevin cry. This final proof of love soothed him. It made everything clear. Marco accepted the missing side of his body. He was ready to leave the rest of it now and closed his eyes.

  At dusk, Kevin awoke from a dreamless nap. The window shades were outlined by a chrome yellow glow. It must be five o’clock already, he thought. He sat up and suddenly felt trapped in a spinning teacup carnival ride. Afraid of falling, he didn’t move. Nausea rose and crested. Kevin forced himself not to vomit. As soon as the impulse to heave subsided, he looked around the room. The floor, walls, and ceiling were fixed in space, but the swirling sensation persisted. Baffled by why he would be having an attack of vertigo, he noticed the fingertips of his right hand were tingling—the same fingers that had just brushed against Marco when he sat up. Then he understood.

  Closing his eyes tightly, Kevin touched Marco. Living flesh was warm, elastic, yielding to the least pressure. Marco’s skin was cool and stiff. Another wave of nausea mounted. He rushed to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet.

  After the coroner left, Kevin remembered something Gwen had told him when her mother died, how the death of a parent removes the last blindfold keeping us from seeing our own mortality. Kevin hadn’t experienced that when his father died. He did now.

  At his desk, he found a pen and a clean sheet of paper. He made a list—people to call, funeral arrangements, an obituary to write. He reached into a file drawer for three folders, back-burner projects he had hoped to initiate one day.

  “No more waiting,” he said aloud.

  Green Hills, 1988

  I

  GWEN HADN’T SEEN KEVIN for two months, not since he left to be a subject in a trial at NIH. Though he had sounded upbeat and energetic on the phone, confident the new medication was working, she needed to lay eyes on him to be convinced. Today would be her chance. He was flying back to San Francisco.

  A year earlier, Kevin’s T cells had dropped below 200. He started AZT, and his T cells rose. Despite the drug-induced anemia, which made exercise impossible, he could work. But the treatment’s immune boosting effect was transient. Six months later, his T cells were below 200 again, putting him at risk for lethal complications of AIDS. He sank into bitterness then resignation as hollows formed in his temples and thighs. S
imply getting dressed and driving to the hospital exhausted him. Gwen had to take over running the program. Kevin continued to come to the office, though he rarely did more than gaze across the bay at the Marin peninsula. Then a phone call had come from NIH. A newly synthesized medication with potent activity against HIV in cell culture had passed animal safety tests. It was ready to be tried in humans.

  Gwen finished clinic early and drove to the airport. While waiting at the gate, she saw a middle-aged man looking in her direction. He cocked his head with an impish grin. Gwen assumed she was blocking his view of someone else and stepped aside. Then it registered. The gaunt, depressed face she had said goodbye to two months ago had filled out. He must have gained twenty pounds, she thought. Reading her mind, Kevin patted his new paunch to prove it.

  Gwen embraced him. She gingerly touched his plump cheek.

  “Go ahead,” Kevin laughed. “Pinch and ye shall believe.”

  “DDI did this?”

  “No,” he snorted. “It was high colonic enemas. Of course it was DDI. My T cells are 300 and rising.”

  Pointing to his daypack, he crowed, “I’ve got a three month supply of pills and they’ll send me refills as long as I send them back lab results.”

  Gwen realized Kevin’s weight gain wasn’t the reason she had failed to recognize him. It was his merry exuberance. How long had it been since she had seen him this happy? Life for Kevin had been constant worry about others, beginning with her needle-stick, then crisis after crisis at work, then Marco. And just as he was moving beyond that grief, his own health had deteriorated. Seven years, she counted, since she had seen him being carefree. Slipping her arm inside Kevin’s, Gwen steered him toward the baggage claim area. She resolved to stop discrediting her senses. This man truly was Kevin reborn.

  “Did Katherine and your mother get to visit you?”

  “They took the train down to Washington last week, and they’re flying out here in August.”

  “They OK?”

  She still felt strange and was aware that all she had done so far was to interrogate him.

  “They’re fine. You know what’s amazing? After a lifetime without affection, they’re everything to me now.”