They didn’t talk much at first because it didn’t seem to fit into their agreed-upon ritual. But soon, they began a casual exchange. George particularly enjoyed discussing his children, DeeDee and Jonathan, detailing the incidentals of the children’s daily lives, mundane activities only a dedicated parent could fully appreciate. When George was particularly low, Donald prompted him with leading questions about the kids and he would immediately pep up and transform into the confident, well-tailored man he’d first seen striding to the front of the Staten Island ferry each morning.
Any talk of the “missus,” however, was off-limits. If George could not be faithful to Karen physically, he’d carved out a chunk only the two of them shared. And Donald respected that boundary, depended upon it almost.
During their breaks, the days and sometimes weeks during which George beat back his dependency on Donald, he was forced to seek temporary asylum. He did not actively pursue other men. He stumbled upon them on a springtime stroll or while shopping at a local market. The men would look, then quickly look away, then back again. Donald viewed the non-flirtation flirtations as bizarrely comical and marveled that whiplash wasn’t more common.
Ostensibly, these men were better acclimated to their needs than Donald, though he discovered them to be no less fractious. While Donald was willing to endure George’s dourness and his own, he had little stomach for their irritability. He was having enough trouble coping with self-recrimination without having to listen to his inner voice coming out of someone else’s mouth.
From among these disconsolate souls, Donald did manage to make a few friends whom he occasionally welcomed to his bed. Reynaldo was his age and masked all his anxieties behind a macho façade. Sexually, he was fierce and boasted he could satisfy women as well as men. He opted for men, he said, because women were more trouble, and he already had one bastard in the Bronx.
Terry was older, a veteran with a peripatetic nature. He was also a total charmer, down to earth and soulful, particularly when he talked about his “good buddy” Monty. Terry lit up at the mention of Monty in the same way George did when he spoke of his children. Donald became Terry’s last chance saloon after a fruitless evening on the prowl. But he didn’t mind. The void created by George’s self-imposed exiles required many such compromises.
These stopgap measures, however, were not enough to obviate the sticky patches of loneliness and longing. And in moments of claustrophobic distress he took solace in the babble of the noisy stream outside his window. And if that was not enough, he would head out and become part of the flow, roving the busy streets until his legs gave out.
One night, after another wanderlustful evening, Terry rang the doorbell at two a.m. While they were at it in the bedroom, they heard the lock turn. Suspecting a burglar, Terry rolled off him and searched for a weapon. George was already on him by the time Terry’s hand fell on a metal teapot atop the kitchen stove. Terry was thrown to the floor, his nose cracking under George’s hammy fist. He might have done more serious damage if Donald hadn’t yanked him away.
“Get out!” George screamed as Donald struggled to hold him back. Terry gathered his clothes, limped off, and dressed in the stairwell.
“I’m sorry, Terry. I’m so sorry,” Donald called after him.
Pointing a finger at him accusingly, George cried, “Who was that? What was he doing here? You’re mine. Don’t you know that by now?”
Donald stared at him and quietly shook his head. Of course he was George’s, but hearing it out loud forced him into denial. He’d promised himself never to complain, no matter how long it took for George to return. He would not act the part of the abandoned wife, even if George now insisted on behaving like a possessive husband. Later, after he left, Donald would lock himself in the bathroom and expel his bile. But not in front of George; never in front of George. If he did, he would lose him for sure.
*
“What do you mean no?” George pleaded.
“You have your life, George, and so do I,” he said calmly. “You’re always welcome. But if you react this way again, I’m changing the locks.”
He could hardly believe he’d made such an empty threat. But while he might be inured to George’s impotent tirades, he saw no reason anyone else should be subjected to them.
“Do you think changing the locks would keep me out?”
“Then I’ll move,” Donald said with a flint of defiance.
“I’ll find you, I always do,” he countered.
“Then I’ll move again. Someplace far away.”
“I don’t understand what you want from me.”
A list? Was that what George wanted, a list? How much time did he have? Instead, he merely said, “Come to bed.”
“Not until you clean yourself and change the sheets,” George scowled.
“It’s the only set I have. I’ll take a shower and throw a coverlet over the couch.”
His sangfroid manner only served to rankle George further. “Why do you let me treat you like a whore?” he yelled.
“I like being your whore,” he said and was shocked by his own words. But why should he be shocked, he reasoned. That seed had been planted the first time he noticed George’s impeccable suits (“A tailor on Delancey fits them for me. Guy’s a genius,” he once explained).
“Don’t you hate yourself for that?”
“A little,” Donald admitted.
“Well, I hate you. Every day I pray I’ll open the paper and read your obituary.”
Donald wanted to laugh. How much more proof did he need that George loved him, loved him so hopelessly that he wished him dead? “That’s one way out,” he said. “As long as you don’t die. I couldn’t bear that.”
Donald wrapped his arms around George’s waist. “Don’t. You smell like…” he complained, but didn’t push him away.
“I know,” Donald said, squeezing him tighter. “I know.”
They kissed, and he could almost feel the anger and hurt drain from George’s body.
Rechanneled, those emotions proved potent and Donald was transported—another glorious moment to store in the bank vault and reflect upon during George’s unbearable absences. Half a loaf, half a loaf, half a loaf onward.
Later, Donald gazed at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to watch George get dressed. Affecting a cheery lilt, he said, “So tell me; what are you and the kids up to this weekend?”
“They’re away. Karen’s folks have a summer place in the Poconos.”
“Then feel free to stop by again,” he said, adding, “I’ll plan to be alone.”
“I had considered sleeping over but—”
“You can’t sleep with your whore,” Donald said, finishing the sentence for him.
“You’re not my whore. I’ve never thought of you that way. Never. That’s why I got so crazy when I saw you with… Why do you we have to talk about this? If I sleep here, next thing you’ll want is for me to…”
“No. I won’t. I would never jeopardize what you have. Your devotion to them is part of what makes you so special to me.”
“Stop doing that to yourself,” George cried. “You are…you are…you are…” He choked as he repeatedly tapped his chest with the flat of his palm; and Donald reveled in the swallowed words. “Now ask me to stay,” he beseeched. “Please. I want to do this for you.”
“Stay the night, George, would you? But only this one time, hear? I wouldn’t want you to make a habit of it.”
The Second Time Around
Maryn Blackburn
“Thanks, Karen, but I got it. Really, I’ve been dressing myself for a while now. Jeff hardly has to help me at all.”
My sister does not laugh. She’s as stressed out as I am by having too many people around and too little time to herself.
“What you could do is talk to Reverend Cole until it’s time. When I peeked out she was standing alone, which has got to be awkward. I’d really appreciate it if you could make her feel welcome. Maybe introduce her to Mom? And Jeff�
�s parents.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“Thanks. Jeff’s mom is Donna, and his dad is Jeff, too, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t. See you in a bit.”
Once Karen closes the door to the bedroom, I’m alone for what feels like the first time in a week. Even in the bathroom, people have come in to pee while I was in the shower. “It’s me, Matt. Lindsey. Sorry, but I couldn’t wait,” she called. “Just stay in there a second, until I’m done.” It’s not easy hosting guests in a one-bathroom house.
I showered first today. My shave is close, my haircut recent and a little too short, my shoes shined, my new suit pressed. It’s identical to my first navy suit except a larger size to accommodate the last twenty-five years. The tie still fits, though.
Jeff, the healthy bastard, is wearing his original suit, purchased for a commitment ceremony with no legal standing, also navy but double breasted. The trousers are snug against his hard thighs. “That’s what thirty years of running will do,” he announced when he tried it on.
“Now aren’t you sorry you don’t sleep in like me?”
“Spoken like a true couch potato.”
“Your couch potato.”
“Exactly.” He examined the brass buttons, which were tarnished. “Which is the whole reason we’re doing this.”
This meant a real wedding like we should have had the first go-round. We hunted down the guests who’d attended our first ceremony, praise God for Facebook and LinkedIn. Time and the job market scattered people, but we found nearly everybody and agreed to a days-long sleepover for those who couldn’t afford hotels, although now I wish we’d thought that through. The invitation list grew with current friends and more family than we’d had then.
We held the original commitment ceremony in our friends’ backyard, but Pat and Lydia’s place is too small for the expanded crowd even without the deck taking up a third of it.
At least our jobs are stable and let us stay local. We bought this house nearly a decade ago, and our standard joke is that we hope to have it fully renovated within another three or four. The yard isn’t especially nice, but it’s big and flat, which is really all you need for an outdoor wedding. I check my tie in the mirror, which is tilted wrong for me. It would be easy enough to adjust it so we can both use it, but that’s the kind of job that can always wait. I can’t see most of my head, but the knotted silk at my throat looks good. A postcard from Jeff’s brother is tucked into the frame of the mirror. A beach at sunset. I can’t remember where they went, but our disagreement about our “real” honeymoon after today’s wedding is still painful.
Jeff wants to go someplace fabulous. “Aruba? No, Tahiti. Or Paris! How many times are we going to get married, ya big lug? Let’s splurge.”
“Let’s gut the bathroom instead. We could get years of pleasure from a new one, instead of a week.”
“Redoing the bathroom isn’t exactly romantic.”
“But it’s what we were saving up for when the legislature saw the light.”
I finally wore him down, but I still feel bad that I can’t take him to Paris and Tahiti. Maybe if I can keep my truck running for two more years. Maybe.
A fast peek out the gap between the curtains, and I see nearly all our guests have arrived. I’d been grateful for the sunshine and warm temperatures earlier, but despite the white tent keeping direct sunlight at bay, Mom is fanning herself and leaning on Donna a little. The chemo is kicking her butt.
In a perfect world, Dad would be here for her if not for me. Karen reports he’s really great about doing every little thing for her, anticipating her needs, making light of lifting her into their high bed, announcing he can’t tell her wig from her hair, which is a flat-out lie. But Dad made it clear when I came out of the closet that he no longer had a son. Unlike most people, his stance has not softened with passing years and changing public opinion. Mom and I phone and email, arranging to see one another pretty often, but even when she felt like shit on toast, Mom made sure Dad and I wouldn’t run into each other at the hospital.
If she doesn’t beat this damned cancer, fuck him. I’m sitting right in front at the funeral, my husband Jeff at my side. If Dad can’t breathe the same air as his queer son, let him be the one who stays away.
The thought makes me both sad and angry. Karen and I agree Mom falls way short of being forthcoming about her health, and there’s only one reason she’d do that. This makes us worry more. I haven’t said it to Karen or Jeff, but I think we’re going to lose her.
My vision blurs at the thought of putting my mom, who loves me no matter what, into the ground. It’s going to happen. Maybe not from this goddamned cancer, maybe not for years to come, but someday. An invisible fist grabs my upper belly and twists from the inside. Fuck, I can’t be thinking about that today. If I go out there and ask her to be honest about how she’s doing, I know what she’d say so well I can hear it in my head. “Matt, honey, we can talk about me some other time. Today is your day, yours and Jeff’s, and all I want in this world is for you two to be happy.”
I pick up the framed picture from our first ceremony. It seems almost funny now, especially our hair and Jeff’s looking like a very serious twelve-year-old. But the memories swirl.
*
“Pat says there aren’t any more chairs.” Lydia pronounced the shortage as she might a death sentence.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Anybody who comes a little late can stand over by the fence.”
“The neighbors play bridge. I bet they have at least four chairs. Maybe eight or twelve.”
“It’s fine. We read through it, and it’s short. People can stand that long.”
“And if anybody can’t,” Jeff added, “I’m sure someone with a seat will give it up. You ready?”
“I’ve been ready for the last four years.”
Jeff beamed. “Me, too, big guy. Me, too.”
The late afternoon sun sprinkled golden coins on our guests seated in rows and sparkled off the legs of the folding chairs as they sank into the grass a bit.
“At least the rain stopped for us,” I said.
“It sounds sappy,” Jeff said, “but may the sun always shine for us, huh?”
“I’m good with sappy.”
We stepped onto the concrete patio. Everyone lifted their heads and stopped talking. My big sister Karen, in the front row, was first to stand, giving me a thumbs-up and a huge smile. Her support eased my nerves a little, but it also reminded me my parents had chosen not to be here. Or Dad had, anyway, and he’d swayed Mom. Donna and Jeff Senior sat beside Karen, ghastly smiles frozen on their faces. What were they thinking? His father openly disapproved of Jeff’s “choice,” by which he meant being gay, although I guess he probably didn’t approve of me, either, being a big fat queer and all.
Our friend Mara took the bus all the way from Boston to officiate. Since our commitment ceremony was for us, not for the government, it didn’t matter that she was not an ordained minister but ran an underground bookstore-cum-coffeehouse that clung to the hippie spirit of its original owner, who’d sold it for next to nothing and left for Nepal.
She wore a flowing blue dress belted with shiny gold ropes, and a crown of flowers nested among her curls. I grinned when I saw her bare feet step onto the little platform Jeff and I had built the previous weekend.
“Good thing we sanded before we painted,” I whispered to Jeff. We’d given it two coats of white paint after work during the week. The lattice behind it came whitewashed. We should have painted it, but Lydia made it her project to thread the holes with greenery and artificial flowers in every shade of blue. The effect of Mara framed in flowers was pretty cool.
Jeff and I locked elbows, although I had to bend a little. We agreed we were each our own man, that nobody could or should give us away, although both families wanted to be rid of us. We walked up the aisle between the folding chairs slowly, giving everyone a chance to check us out in our finery. Most of these people h
ad never seen either of us in a suit.
We’d had to nix the idea of flower girl or ring bearer, but white petals lay scattered on the grass aisle. Up close, I could see them under Mara’s bare feet, too. She had one orange toenail.
We stepped onto the platform in unison, just like we’d practiced.
Mara’s big smile was genuine.
“Jeff and Matt,” she said, loud enough to be heard, “today you are surrounded by people who hold you dear. We come together to celebrate you, to witness your vows, and to rejoice at your union.”
We’d struggled with the wording when we wrote the ceremony together. It started as all the people you hold dear, but as it became clear my parents would not attend, and that Jeff’s folks could not bring his teenage brother or Karen her kids, that phrasing wasn’t going to work. We held those people dear even if it wasn’t always mutual.
“On this day and all the days to come, we will all remember your love is unique. Yet like all love, it changes and grows. There will come days of a love so much richer and deeper than what you feel today that its strength and size will cause awe. You will be so awash in love that you take it for granted, never doubting one another. We who love you wish you a lifetime of such days together.
“Yet we must acknowledge that love can also dwindle. Because we are humans, because we face pressures and difficulties every single day, because we forget our great love and speak sharply or fail to show our appreciation, one or both of you may fear that the light of your love for one another has gone out. Yet those of us who know you also know it remains, solid and enduring, awaiting its rekindling. A single spark can ignite it. I charge each of you, singly and together, to be the flint.”
We didn’t write that, but I liked it. We’d mailed Mara our first draft, expressing our horror at its quality and asking her to patch the holes and shore it up. Apparently she’d taken that as license to rewrite the whole thing.
Men in Love: M/M Romance Page 16