Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  “If you want,” I said. “If you really, really want to stay back, I’ll stay with you. I understand.”

  “No, you go. You’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “No. I wanted you to hear this composer’s work. It’s a special piece, I hear, and Corigliano is conducting it . . . live . . . in person. Well, it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  I was such a bitch. I knew he’d relent and I did not intend to stay back. Why are we such manipulative creatures? I mean, we get one life each to play like a fiddle. Why do we need to grab someone else’s bow and play our own concerto on their instrument? We could call it sharing, but no two people are so connected that their little ray of independent sunshine cannot be devoured by the pall of the midnight soul.

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  He sighed. I immediately felt bad, and could have stated the other option, but didn’t. I wanted him there. Perhaps, in my twisted fairy mind, I thought the pain would help ease him. The concert wasn’t dedicated to bashed drag queens, but death is death. I really had no notion about it, because death was beneath my radar, but if Matt needed to reach closure on Luis, perhaps the mournful tones of Corigliano would do it. Then he could have a good cry and we’d have a good talk and then . . . Luis would disappear from the scene. That was it. That was the down deep reason I steered Matt’s ship into this harbor. I don’t regret it, even to this day, although I didn’t realize the breadth of the shoreline or the width of the dock. I wish I had. I might have taken a different bearing.

  3

  The concert event began as most of these events — with a courtyard gathering. Between the parking deck and Boettcher Auditorium was a broad concourse, which all the GALA members used as a meet-up. In this case, there was a mini-buffet spread down the center. Finger foods and drinks (non-alcoholic). I mean, we wouldn’t want hoo-hoos to swan dive from the third tier balcony, would we? Matt had chilled out by the time we swept passed the canapés and cans of Diet Coke. The Jersey Sparrows were there in force, although there was a clear demarcation between Todd and Padgett and their respective contingencies. Still, out of deference for the event, there was no reenactment of the Montagues and Capulets across the pizza-puffs.

  The crowd was thick, at least seven hundred, and merriment less so than the day before, I assumed also in deference to the moment. Although being somber or being sober is a matter of perception. I still had the option to turn to Matt and say something like Well, we’ve eaten, but you really don’t need to go inside, if you don’t want to attend this thing. However, I just looped my arm into his and dragged him through the crowd, tickets in hand.

  It’s just music, after all.

  We had good seats — no third tier balcony this time. I managed to get orchestra — mid row center with the little cash I had recouped from my down payment. Not all the Jersey Sparrows perched with us, but enough to spot. Tim waved to me from three rows ahead. However, Russell just smirked, nodding his head. I wondered how things would fare when we all shared a ride into the Rockies next Wednesday. Soon the spotting and waving calmed down. The program rattling ceased and we listened as the orchestra warmed up.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to Matt.

  “Just fine, Pumpkin. As you say, it’s just music.”

  That smarted, because he was either buying what I was selling or was just appeasing me, which would have been disingenuous. Still, when the house lights dimmed and the Seattle Chorus mounted the risers, it was like Christmas all over again. Then the man himself entered — John Corigliano, climbing the podium as humble as I was sure he was. He bowed to the applause, and then turned to the readied forces in the pit and on the stage. He raised his arms, baton in hand and then . . .

  Crash.

  Thunderous and explosive canons fired at us. Arrays of kettledrums and strings and trumpets assaulted us.

  The piece was dissonant and turgid. I could see Matt squirm. I enjoyed the mesh of sounds that didn’t live well together. I had sung this composer’s Fern Hill after all, but Matt was more a Dixie boy. The shockwave rocketed over our mid-row, center orchestra seats unnerving him. I gripped his knee and he seemed to settle. Soon, the music transformed into gentle snippets of oboes and flutes with here and there a bass fiddle farting in the bulrushes. It wasn’t lyrical, but it spoke to me on some level. It prodded a place that wasn’t prepared to receive it. Now I squirmed. I could see many squirmers. The corkscrews were slowly preparing to decant us.

  It was somber stuff. Well, it was a piece dedicated to a host of fallen souls to a plague that insidiously crept in our midst. Soon the chorus hummed in Latin and Greek or some language, I knew not what. I peeked at my program for a translation, but couldn’t read it. Too dark. Suddenly, the orchestra swelled again, harmonic and moving and building to an emotional climax.

  Then . . .

  Silence.

  The piece halted suddenly. I knew not to applaud, even though I saw a few hands raised and then dropped in hasty recognition. John Corigliano turned to the audience.

  “Now comes the tolling of the bells,” he said.

  Tolling, chanted the Chorus.

  “There are many among the missing,” a voice came from within the Chorus.

  Three men stepped forward.

  “We are the remnants of the Seattle Gay Men’s Chorus,” said another.

  “We have lost one hundred and thirteen members to AIDS.”

  There was a shudder through the audience. A quiet murmuring was soon replaced with bawling.

  “Join us as we call the ghosts to witness our love and devotion,” said the third chorister. “We miss you.”

  My heart hitched. The chimes tolled — slow and regular while the names of the fallen one hundred and ten were called out. The names overlapped. Soon audience members stood, shouting out their lost lovers names — friends, family, faces young and wizen — gone, only their names remaining and the memory of their lives — traces of those who may have dreamed of Colorado and GALA festivals, but arrived here in the hearts of others.

  One by one, the names were called between the tolling of the bells. The wailing and weeping inundated me. I held onto Matt, cursing myself for having brought him here.

  Suddenly, Matt pushed my hand away. He stood, trembling. I thought he would fall.

  “Luis Sanchez,” he shouted. “Luis Sanchez,” he shouted again. “Luis . . .”

  He collapsed into his seat. I reached for him.

  “Luis,” he muttered.

  He was dashed. I held him tightly.

  “Let it all out,” I said. “He’s at rest, baby. You be at rest too.”

  Suddenly, I wanted to leave. I wanted those god damned chimes to stop and those hundreds of names to be silenced. They swirled about my head. Strangers as they were to me, I nonetheless realized that the world was fighting a war beyond my little sphere and I was the most unbrave of soldiers.

  Finally, the names faded and the tolling ceased. The composer dismounted from his podium, his orchestra packing up in silence. The chorus filed into the audience, while the audience — the war wounded, hobbled out through the lobby, clustered on shoulders — a sea of the mournful with just too many remembrances to think of survival.

  I saw other Jersey Sparrows, all affected by the trauma, and that’s what it was — trauma. Mass trauma, inflicted on us with the hope that our departed sisters might return and sing yet another verse — yet another refrain. False hopes. Dashed dreams. Young lives gone for nothing.

  Matt still wept on my shoulder as we emerged onto the Promenade. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do for him, for me or for the hundreds of grieving folk who staggered out into this world that condemned us. I was seized by a momentary anger. I grabbed Matt and pulled him forward.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I pushed through the resistless crowd. “Please. We need some air. Please, let us through. Please.”

  We reached a safety zone by a railing. I leaned against it, only to spy Leslie and Ginger aiming for us
. I pulled Matt away, but he bucked like a mule.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said.

  I swallowed hard, and then turned to hug Leslie and Ginger in turn. They were a mess also, but had the presence of mind to engulf Matt.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m just fine now.”

  I was glad he was, because I certainly wasn’t. I gazed out over the recuperating mob. Voices were beginning to stir again. The silence faded as the trauma passed. I reclaimed my cowboy from the lesbians.

  “I need a drink,” I said.

  Matt smiled dimly, and then kissed me.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Luis would like that. Yes, he would.”

  There was something in this endorsement of a drink to dead lovers that didn’t settle me. However, the girls shuffled us out of the Promenade, our backs now turned from the tolling, from the names and the ghosts that still hovered. It wasn’t just music, after all.

  Chapter Four

  Estes Park

  1

  Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don’t give it a second thought.

  That’s what the voices told me that evening while I get drunk. I didn’t even get Corigliano’s autograph and, now that I think of it, it would have been a sad reminder. The concert didn’t spur on a discussion of the trauma or the closure, if there was closure. However, that was Matt. He wasn’t an analyst when it came to personal feelings. Things were what they were. When emotions bubbled close to the surface, he just let them burst, never discussing the whys or wherefores. I, on the other hand, needed to account for all my feelings and, as we were partnered, I thought it important to account for his. Still, as I meandered through the balance of the week, through meals and rehearsals, I decided to let it go.

  Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don’t give it a second thought.

  However, it lurked. No matter how funny the Sparrows’ antics were; no matter how wonderful the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus sang, the shadow of the Remembrance Concert drew aside my expectations of a good time. All I wanted now was to sing my Cree solo and go home. Still, there was the Estes Park trip. I did anticipate that fondly.

  The world beyond Denver’s boundaries was flat and ungainly to the edge of the hills that creased the borders of the towering crags. Then the forest line emerged and the road, straight and endless turned serpentine and finite. It was good to get away from Denver for the day. To put it behind us. Put it away. We let Russell drive, because it seemed best that way. The once boisterous queen of Tuxedos had become demure — staid and decorous. I wasn’t sure whether it was because he still disapproved of my choice of man or whether it was some new found maturity for the benefit of Tim, the accompanist. I never knew Russ to hold a grudge, but he displayed all the earmarks of despondency. He had lost weight, his already bony figure bonier; his eyes deeply set now as if he rarely slept. And the silence — that deathly silence. It was so un-Russ.

  The journey did not lack conversation, however. We had Padgett, who flirted with the passengers in passing cars, waving with a queen’s twist to anything with a head.

  “I wouldn’t do that here,” Matt warned.

  “And why not?” Padgett said. “They’re probably Festival hoo-hoos anyway.”

  “Might catch a bullet,” Russ said.

  It was a spacious vehicle — a mid-range Honda. Padgett sat with us in the back seat. Tim careened about peeking over the back of the suicide seat.

  “Might be they’re here for the rodeo,” he said. “That’s here too, you know.”

  Tim was a brilliant pianist, but was one note short of a full chord when it came to conversation. He reminded me of a big old sheep dog with mystical talents, but would run behind car tires on an interstate just to sniff the piss of a fellow sheep dog. Russ liked them tall, talented and single-threaded. Tim met the standard.

  “Could be?” I said, and then shrugged.

  I clasped Matt’s hand. He had the window rolled down, the breeze blowing through his hair, his lid having slipped to the floor.

  “We don’t have mountains like these in Texas,” he said. “In fact, we don’t have mountains at all in Texas. These are the highest I’ve ever seen.”

  We were approaching a sheer, craggy wall — a fortress rising into a tower above the plains. I whipped out my map as navigator, although Tim had offered, but unless we were headed for Wyoming, I thought it best to leave him to Chopin while I handled Rand-McNally.

  “Let me see that thing,” Padgett said.

  The map left my hand, the prissy preener bringing the folds to his nose.

  “Where are we heading?”

  “Estes Park,” I said.

  “Past Boulder,” Russ echoed.

  “Oh, here’s Boulder. I found Boulder. There should be a sign somewhere ahead. In fact, I thought I saw a sign for Boulder a few miles back.” Padgett lurched toward the window. “We didn’t miss the turn off, did we?”

  “No,” I said. I grabbed the map back. “It’s coming up on your left, Russ.”

  “Maybe we should eat first,” Padgett said. “Does anyone need to pee?”

  Tim glanced back.

  “I could, if I tried, but I think I can hold it.”

  I ignored them. I traced my finger across the map locating Estes Park, deep in the Rockies. I nudged Matt. He nodded as I tapped my finger on the spot.

  “There’s the place,” I said. “It’ll be cool. Glad I brought a jacket.”

  “It must be high,” Matt said. “My ears are clogged already.”

  “Mine popped,” Padgett said.

  “Mine too,” Tim announced.

  “How about you, Russell?” Padgett fussed.

  “How about what?” Russ asked.

  “Did your ears pop?”

  Silence.

  “Is this the turn off?” Russ asked me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I gazed forward of the line as the scenery changed from scrub grass to low pines. The green world closed about us and I was suddenly aware that I was alone even though I was in a car full of people. Not even Matt was there. It was one of those out of body experiences I had read about and Viv claimed she had at seances. I knew no one had actually left, but they were all lost to their own world as I was in mine. Then the moment fled when Tim clucked like a chicken, his version of laughter.

  “Well, will ya look at that.”

  The Honda rounded a curve and . . . there it was — nestled beneath a canopy of primordial granite — a breath taking sight. It didn’t need a sign. Boulder.

  2

  Aptly named, Boulder sat under a precipice of Rocky Mountain National Park. This was the bastion for Western liberality, or so Desmond had said because it has the University. Sort of a liberal Rock of Gibraltar. Suddenly tree lined streets and lush parks, buildings white and manicured, came into view. It was simply American in the fresh mountain breeze of the Great Divide. However, I wasn’t born yesterday. There was gold in them thar hills and Boulder was well heeled.

  My ears had finally popped, but my bladder was about to burst. So despite my inclination not to be a complainer (we had Padgett for that), I tapped Russ’ shoulder.

  “Maybe we could make a pit stop.”

  Russ didn’t complain. We had already passed four service stations and the next one came up quickly.

  “I could use an iced tea,” Padgett said.

  “Me too,” Matt said.

  He kissed me. I kissed him back. He was in a better mood today. What am I saying? My cowboy was never in a bad mood. He was as plain as the day is bright. If there were any mysteries about him, it was only for my lack of asking.

  “I’ll skip the tea,” I said. “Any more in and I’ll need water wings.”

  “Careful over the bumps, Russ,” Padgett said.

  Russ found them anyway, and I thought I’d wet the seat. I had to run for the bathroom key the minute we glided into the gas station — no apologies made. When I returned, Matt was propped on a railing, sipp
ing at his bottle and gazing aloft to the cliffs and crags. Padgett was flirting with the attendant, while Russ paced about waiting for the fill up. Tim was somewhere inside, probably stocking up on chips. He had munched on three full bags of chips even before we left Denver’s city limits. As for me, it was relieved, in the best possible way. The sun was warm, my kidneys were drained and I was happy for a moment of solitude. I was never a happy passenger cooped up in a car for any length of time. My legs would cramp, especially in the middle seat.

  I hesitated before joining Matt on the railing. He looked so pacific, I hated to disturb him, but when I stepped out, I suddenly felt light-headed. It was just a passing dizzy spell, but enough to halt me, forcing me to check my balance. Sitting was a necessity and, by the time I reached the railing, I practically fell into Matt’s lap. However, the faintness had passed as fast as it came.

  “Are you okay?” Matt asked.

  “Fine. Just was a little light-headed.”

  “Bubble headed, you mean, Pumpkin.”

  I gave him a love punch. He punched me back and then rubbed my back. His touched calmed me — better than the warm sun or emptied kidneys.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. It was more a venture than a statement. I didn’t expect a response, but I got one.

  “I know you are. Don’t fret about it. I needed to go there. I hate to say it, but it helped. It’s nice to know . . .”

  His voice trailed off lost to a thought, one that I was supposed to complete. I couldn’t, but didn’t much care to fill in the blank. Matt just glanced back to the car. The attendant had finished filling us up. Padgett still posed and flirted. It wouldn’t be long for the attendant to summon his redneck buddies to take out a car full of fairies. The thought alarmed me, but the attendant, although not very fay, seemed tolerant. This was Boulder after all — city of the liberal edge. He was probably a student working his way through a law degree. Padgett could sniff out a professional from ten miles distance.