Mike looked around and saw the bathroom door was closed. He knocked softly.
‘Mom?’
No answer.
‘Mom?’ The door was locked from the inside.
Mike ran to the desk and demanded a key.
‘I’m coming in, Mom, OK?’
The door opened a crack, but something inside was blocking the way.
The door yielded slightly when he pushed but not enough to get through.
‘Mom?’ he called again.
She was wedged against the door, slumped on the floor.
He eased the door forward and felt something shift on the other side.
‘Mom, can you hear me? Mom? Marge? I’m coming in for you. Everything’s fine; you just fell. It’s gonna be fine, Mom. OK, Mom?’
Mike groaned when he saw her: she was crumpled on the floor and a stream of blood trickled across the tiles. He picked her up in his arms and was amazed by how light she was. Staggering out of the bathroom into the ward, he slipped on the polished floor but managed to keep Marge aloft in his arms even as he jolted painfully to his knees. The nurses took Marge from him, bruised and barely breathing with a gash in the side of her head from her fall, and lifted her into bed.
When the doctor came from her bedside, his face was grim. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Her pulse is faint. For all intents and purposes she’s in a coma. We’ll have to carry out a scan, but I fear there may be brain damage.’
Doc clasped his palms to his face and sank into a chair. ‘Marge, Marge, where are you?’ he was sobbing. ‘Don’t leave me, Marge!’
Mike turned away.
Stevie tried to comfort Doc but he leapt up angrily to harangue the hospital staff. ‘What in God’s name were you thinking about?’ he yelled. ‘Why the hell did you let a fragile post-op patient go to the bathroom alone? And when she was in there, why the hell did no one come and get her out? I’m a doctor, you know. I’ll sue this goddam clinic for every cent it has!’
Tom and Stevie took their father by the arm and led him away. For the next two days Marge hovered between life and death. Mary flew up at once, but Marge was comatose and did not respond to voices or the touch of hands. The results of the scan came back and the doctor said they indicated severe damage to the brain stem. He took Doc and the children to a consulting room and explained that Marge was being kept alive on a ventilator.
‘I’m afraid the outlook is not good. Her injuries mean her chances of coming out of the coma are infinitesimal. She is unlikely to survive without the machine she is attached to, and if she stays on it she will likely be in what we call a persistent vegetative state, or PVS.’ He paused and his voice grew very quiet. ‘I am sorry to have to ask you this question, but you will need to decide whether or not you wish the ventilator to be switched off.’
Doc rose angrily to his feet, but the children calmed him down.
Mike turned to the doctor. ‘Look, we’re gonna need some time to talk about this.’
In the end they all agreed it would be cruel to keep Marge artificially alive, but Doc was adamant that if she had to die, she must first be taken ‘back home’ to Florida. When they explained this to the hospital administrator, they discovered that the clinic would not sign the papers for her to be released while she was still attached to the ventilator. Doc was furious.
‘So that we can’t sue you for negligent release if she dies?’ he snarled. ‘Well, let me tell you I already have so much I can throw at you that we’re gonna sue your ass anyway. Your staff are to blame for what happened and there’s no way you’re gonna get away with it!’
The stand-off continued for three days. On the fourth day Doc hired a private jet with a nurse and doctor, arranging for it to be at Rochester Municipal Airport the following morning. But the hospital administrator continued to refuse to sign.
In the end it was Mary who settled it.
‘You know what?’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘To morrow morning there’s going to be an airplane at the airport and I want my mother put in an ambulance, and I want her taken to the airport with my father, and I want them to be able to fly out together tomorrow. Do you have any objections to that? Because if you do, I’m gonna have something to say about that right now.’
In the face of Mary’s indignation and heartache, the administrator signed the release form. A week later in Florida the family unhooked Marge’s ventilator. She died on 2 June.
Doc was angry and confused: the sudden loss of the wife on whom he had depended for all practical matters had left him wounded in the world.
Marge’s death was traumatic for everyone, but the shared sorrow brought Mike and Mary together again. Sitting on the porch in the Florida sunshine waiting for the day of the funeral, they chatted about their lives.
‘Nathan, well, he’s just changed my life, Mikey. I know it sounds sappy, but I live for him. He’s just . . . He’s everything to me. I realize that even more now, with Mom gone.’
‘Yeah? And still doing well in school?’
‘He’s the smartest eleven-year-old I’ve ever seen – since you, at least.’ Mary laughed. ‘And what about you? What’s making your world go round? You seem different now – more settled . . . more yourself. I don’t know. You seem happy.’
Mike looked at the ground and smiled, unsure of what to say. Mary shifted a little.
‘Do you . . . do you mind if I ask you a question, Mikey?’
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘Well, ever since you bought that place out in West Virginia, Doc’s been asking me who exactly Pete is. He just says, “So who is this guy that Mike lives with?” and I don’t really know what to tell him.’
She wished she’d said it better – something to make him want to confide in her – but Mike took her hand anyway.
‘You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mary – I should have told you a while ago – Pete and I are partners.’
Mary looked at him and blushed. ‘You mean like sexual partners, Mikey? Lovers?’
‘Hey, don’t say it like that, Sis! It’s not so bad, is it? That we love each other, I mean.’
‘I’m not saying it’s bad, Mike,’ Mary said quickly. ‘I’m really happy if you’re happy, you know that. You’re my brother and I love you whatever. I just – you know – all this in the papers about AIDS and stuff . . . It makes me worried for you.’
Mike nodded and looked serious.
‘I know, Mary. It’s a terrible thing and no one’s doing anything about it except yell and curse at gay people and talk nonsense about the wrath of God. Society’s pretty cockeyed when it comes to stuff like that. People listen to whoever shouts the loudest.’
Mary asked the question that Mike had been asking for months. ‘But Mikey, how come the government isn’t talking about it? You know, telling people what’s causing all the sickness and telling them how to avoid it and stuff? Is there nothing you can do in your job to make them tackle it, Mike? Someone has to talk sense, don’t they?’
Mike shifted and looked away. ‘I think the problem is Reagan depends way too much on the Moral Majority or whatever stupid name they give themselves. He can’t rock the boat, and he’s got a bunch of conservatives around him, so even if he wanted to say something or do something, it gets blocked.’
But Mary was not going to let it drop. ‘Sure, I mean, don’t like go and encourage people to be gay or anything, but at least explain how to avoid catching it. That would help everyone, wouldn’t it? Is there nothing you could do to get them to do that?’
Mike said nothing. The question simply had no answer.
‘Anyway, Mikey,’ Mary said, ‘it’s you I’m worried about. You don’t know anyone who’s got AIDS, do you?’
‘No . . . No, I don’t.’
‘Well, that’s the main thing. I guess you don’t want Doc to know about any of this, do you?’
‘God, no!’ Mike exclaimed. ‘I always thought one day I could tell Marge – I think she would have understood – but Doc’
s such a . . . such a . . . well . . . And the tragic thing is it’s too late to tell Marge anything now.’
EIGHT
1983–4
Mike returned to Washington, still grieving, still angry. His mother’s death seemed senselessly random in a world that turned on the whim of chance. He blamed the hospital and he blamed himself. When Pete tried to comfort him he snapped.
‘Don’t tell me it’s not my fault! That’s too damned easy. Everyone looks the other way; no one takes responsibility!’ He paused, sensed the antagonism in his voice and apologized. ‘Sorry, Pete, it’s my guilty conscience speaking. Not for Marge, though God knows that’s bad enough. It’s all the stuff I see going on around me every day, you know, in the administration. I never do anything about anything and I guess everybody else just looks the other way too. I keep telling myself, if I don’t stand up and do something, then who on earth will?’
Pete was surprised. ‘What do you mean, Mike?’ ‘I mean if I keep on keeping quiet – pretending to be straight and ignoring what’s going on – then I must be responsible for what’s going on. I see all the briefings, you know. There are 4,000 AIDS cases now and over a thousand dead, but every time someone suggests spending money to deal with the thing, the zealots jump in and block it because it would “reward homosexuality” or some specious crap. It’s like there’s a holocaust beginning and no one will offer a helping hand. When the Health Department proposed direct-mailing a fact sheet about how it spreads and how to avoid catching it, Bill Bennett at Education opposed it, and this guy Gerry Hauer in the White House writes to say there’s no need because “There isn’t a breathing American who doesn’t already know you get AIDS from sex. And if there is, he’s probably not the kind of person who reads his mail anyway.” Can you believe the complacency of it?’
Pete nodded. ‘It’s not just complacency, it’s madness. What on earth does Reagan think he’s doing?’
‘He’s an enigma, Pete. I don’t know if he’s scared of the born-again Christians or if he thinks this thing is like measles and it’ll just go away.’
During the week Mike and Pete lived in the apartment in the Wyoming Building; on Fridays they fled to the country. In Washington Mike was forced to live a double lie: concealing his sexuality in his official life and dissembling about his work in his social life. Several gay friends who were aware of what he did had already dumped him and those he knew who were suffering from AIDS he could no longer look in the eye. Keeping his two worlds apart felt like wrestling with two sparking electrical cables that flailed uncontrollably in his hands – any connection could be fatal.
Weekends in Shepherdstown were an escape, breathing spaces when Mike and Pete could relax and enjoy their relationship. Knowing Sally Shepherd and her parents was an entrée to the community – they were invited to dinner parties and country fairs and people greeted them in the street like old friends. When the weather was good, they would spend weeknights there too, catching the early commuter train to DC in the morning. At the end of 1983 they bought two dogs to share the cottage with them. Mike christened them Finn McCool, for the legendary Irish giant, and Cashel, for the Tipperary town thirty miles from his birthplace. Walking them in the centre of Shepherdstown the following day, he was amazed at the number of people who knew about the dogs, even their names; when he asked how they had heard, the universal reply was, ‘Oh, we know everything that goes on around here.’
Mike looked at Pete. ‘My God, there are no secrets in this place! I wonder what else they know about us.’
In the spring of 1984 Pete bought a horse, which they stabled at the cottage and employed a local farmhand to feed while they were away. Mike used the modest inheritance Marge had left him to buy a new Harley Davidson FXST Softail with customized chrome frame and wheel arches. He got a leather biker jacket, pants and boots – although since they had been together Mike had resisted the lure of the leather cruise bars. For the first time he was finding life with a steady partner satisfaction enough. They were content with their own company out in the country and for the most part shunned the DC party scene. In Shepherdstown they cultivated their garden and Mike made preserves from the fruit they grew on their land; he baked bread and cooked while Pete rode out with Sally Shepherd. They invited friends over for tea and swapped recipes with the local ladies. Mike started canning his produce to enter in competitions at the county fair and won ribbon after ribbon. He printed his own labels and called his products the Almost Heaven range – he thought that was what he had found.
To those who knew him, Mike’s life seemed to have reached a plateau of contentment. He had told no one about Harry Chapman or about the sad final missive he had received from him – ‘Dear Mike, I’m writing to all my lovers because I fear there is something I need to tell you . . .’ – but the thought of it was always in the back of his mind. The image of Harry sitting down to write those letters as death approached in his loveless, empty apartment cast a shadow over Mike’s happiness, and it gave added personal urgency to the stings of his conscience. The administration he worked for was dragging its feet in the battle against a disease that was cutting down thousands of young men and leaving millions feeling they were under the shadow of the gibbet, and he was doing nothing about it.
Roger Allan Moore had been away from the office for several weeks ‘feeling a little under the weather’. His workload had been picked up by Mark Braden and by Mike, but without Roger the place seemed bereft. Davis v. Bandemer, the vital gerrymandering test case, was making its way towards the Supreme Court, and Braden and Mike missed Roger’s reassuring evening drinks, where they had tested out each other’s ideas and the arguments they planned to deploy in court.
Roger phoned from his country home in the middle of May to check how ‘the boys’ were getting along without him. He said he was feeling better and hoped to be back at work soon; he would certainly be coming to town for the White House reception at the end of the month.
‘Ahm, in fact I’ve two tickets for the reception – there’s a concert and a dinner – and since Mrs Moore can’t come, I wondered if Michael would like to take her place? Ahm, the reason I say Michael rather than you, Mark, is that Ron and Nancy are hosting an Irish delegation that night before they go to Ireland to seek out – don’t either of you laugh, please – Ron’s Irish roots.’
Mark and Mike did both laugh. Reagan’s ability to endear himself to vast swathes of the electorate was legendary, and the trip to Ireland was shamelessly aimed at securing the shamrock vote.
‘Whoy, oi don’t moind bein’ patronized if it means oi get a ticket to yer ball, Mr Moore,’ Mike replied. ‘So sure and oi’d be deloited to come along widja.’ And then, more seriously, ‘I’m just happy you’re feeling well enough to go, Roger. It’ll be marvellous to see you again.’
On the day of the White House ball Mary called to say Doc was not doing too well. He had been pretty depressed in the twelve months since Marge died and seemed to have lost much of his old energy. He had hired lawyers to sue Mayo Clinic and they had subpoenaed the hospital’s records, but having seen all the evidence they advised him there were insufficient grounds to bring a negligence suit. Doc had taken the news badly and was floundering.
‘You know how Marge always used to say Doc could do nothing for himself?’ Mary asked. ‘Well, she was dead right. I’ve had the last year driving down every weekend to his house, doing his laundry, making meals and cleaning. He can barely make coffee. And I’m thinking in a couple of years, you know, it’s possible he might be gone. So, anyway, I just wondered, do you want to come down and see him? Just in case – you know.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Sis,’ Mike replied, ‘but there’s no way I want to see him. Maybe in a few years when things are way in the past, but right now I can’t stop thinking of all the stuff he did to us as kids and the way he treated everyone, including Marge and James and all. Let me send you some money to help out with caring for him, but please don’t ask me to forgive him. I’m sorry.’
NINE
1984
After the austerity of the Carter years, the White House under the Reagans was dazzlingly reborn as a social venue. Where Carter had ordered thermostats turned down and low-wattage light bulbs in all federal buildings, Reagan had switched the glitz back on. Mike had arranged to meet Roger Allan Moore in advance and they chatted as they stood in line with the other black-tie guests waiting to go through security.
‘It feels good to be back in town after what has been . . . an uncomfortable few weeks,’ Roger said, looking at the bustle around him.
‘So . . . are you OK now?’ Mike asked.
‘Ahm, yes. Well, I stand with old Marcus Aurelius on that one. “Give thyself relief by doing every act of life as if it were the last,” you know. Don’t look so upset, my dear fellow! I am content with where I am. “When a thing tempts you to be bitter, say not ‘this is a misfortune’ but ‘to bear this worthily is good fortune’.” ’ I am dying, Michael. That’s the short of it; but for the rest I intend to find the happiness of life within me. I’m sorry to shock you.’
Mike felt an overwhelming desire to put his arm around the man and clasp him to himself, but some scruple – the proximity of the White House or the TV cameras? – held him back.
‘Roger, that’s terrible. What is it? What did the doctors say?’
‘Oh, that it’s the oesophagus and much too late now, you know. Too much of this’ – he tapped the lit pipe in his hand – ‘too much, too much, too much.’
They entered the East Room to the sound of an Irish harp playing traditional melodies and found their place cards on the dining tables. They were not seated together and Mike toyed with the idea of moving the cards, but Roger shook his head.
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