Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  I moseyed to his side. He glanced at me with those wonder-eyes. He was tempting me to forgo my notions of meds and lectures on diapers.

  “How about if we just take a dive into the bed and call it a night?” he suggested.

  Tempting, but . . .

  “It’s still daytime,” I said. “And you’re going to take your meds or the nice people at Axum Labs will be finding themselves a new wunderkind to finish their super-duper database project.”

  He pouted.

  “I hate it with peanut butter.”

  I looked him in the eye.

  “Tough shit. If you don’t behave yourself, I call your mother.”

  “She wouldn’t make me wear a diaper.”

  A chink in the armor.

  “Let’s call her and find out. Or better still, I’ll call Viv.”

  He surrendered. He took his meds on bread with butter and honey. He still gagged, but the God of T-cell counts was served. Then he dozed and I crept out to buy a package of Depends, that is, after I soaked his crappy under drawers and got a stain and the stink out of his suit pants. Thank God for lavender linen spray. I knew the dry cleaner wouldn’t touch them in their native condition. By the time I finished these chores, dropped by my apartment for the mail, boiled the silverware to keep the germ population down, washed the kitchen floor for the same reason, made a cheese plate to bind Matt’s rear and wolf down a cold cheeseburger I had picked up at McDonald’s, I was ready for bed. However, I never made it there. I fell asleep in a chair with one sock on and one sock off. I woke up at two in the morning just in time for Matt’s meds . . . bread, butter, honey, pills and resistance — the perfect combination for a little Miss nobody like me who just wanted one thing now. To fight the odds and not be unbrave.

  2

  Good days. Bad days. I knew them well as we moved toward Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was never sure when I’d get the call at work to retrieve my cowboy from a dizzy spell or a faint. I did win the diaper war. He even carried a spare in his attaché case. Still, I was called on the carpet by my blue pencil on the job for reading instead of folding. I had told her that Viv was having some problems. I could never admit to a lover with AIDS. I would be sent to the stockroom and never emerge. And as for the reading, I mixed the pamphlets in with travel brochures so no one would suspect. With Russ no longer at the Tux shop, I took my breaks alone and read and read and read. I was learning a new language, an education in immune systems and retroviruses and serum conversion. I had learned that AIDS wasn’t a disease but a condition, like diabetes. No one ever died of diabetes. With diabetes, you always went from kidney failure, a heart attack or too many toes and legs lopped off. With AIDS, it wasn’t the bug, the HIV (excuse me the Human Immune-deficient Virus) that got you. It was the critters that invaded your body because the white corpuscle police were nodding off somewhere. In fact, you could host the virus (or, as I learned, the retrovirus, although that always made me think of sperm swimming backwards — ass-backwards), and never get sick. If you developed . . . complications, then you had full-blown AIDS. I was learning, and the lingo was difficult, and it got harder as I progressed.

  Matt had full-blown AIDS, because his immune system was compromised and that bout in the hospital was pneumonia. But not just any pneumonia. A special kind. How sinister. It was PCP — Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. It was rare in healthy human beings as it was caused by a parasitic virus that infected the lungs making it difficult to breathe. In fact, although he had survived it, he still had it. If he went off his meds, it could take over again. Doctor Farrell told me that most full-blown AIDS patients had multiple episodes of PCP and would be periodically hospitalized. I was fearful. Every time Matt coughed, and it was often, I had my hand near the phone ready to dial. There were worse things, which to my knowledge he didn’t have like Toxoplasmosis, a deadly parasitic infection you caught from cats, and Candidiasis, which he did have — a fungal infection of the tongue and mouth. That was controllable. I was constantly on the lookout for Kaposi’s sarcoma, a cancer that only old men contracted — until now. The patient broke out in blotchy, purple lesions. Every little bruise I found on Matt’s hand or leg was suspected now.

  I figured that the more I knew about these complications and their prevention, the better I’d be to combat them. However, the question was how to do this and still live. The only easy time I actually had was at work. It was almost downtime as it turned out. Even on the good days, when Matt could get around on his own — working on his computer and not under my feet, I still had a strict schedule. He insisted I go to rehearsal, but that was a short-lived fancy. I went to the first one, was greeted by an enthusiastic throng of well wishers, but when presented with the assigned solos, I sighed and declined.

  I expected Jasper would do cartwheels, but actually he had changed. I guess our Colorado experience made him more aware of his vocal shortcomings and his ascension to my tenorial throne was assumed with humility. In fact, he was sorry to see me go — and go I did. I couldn’t concentrate on the music. I had no patience for the note by note honing. And . . . Russ was among the missing. Tim couldn’t give me much information. They were an item only at the festival, Tim jumping ship shortly after their return home. One of the Rons said Russ was in the hospital and I immediately demonstrated my grasp of the lingo (not intentionally) by asking PCP? This got me a shrug. I had decided that I should stop up and visit Russ, but it never happened. I’m not sure whether it was the lack of time or AIDS overload, but I never made it up there. I didn’t even mention it to Matt, fearing it might upset him. What kind of friend was I? What kind of human being had I become? The unbrave, as Viv dubbed me. I guess that numbed me to everything but my cowboy and getting him through these turgid waters.

  3

  “Marty,” Jasper called to me after the rehearsal.

  It was dark as I passed Richardson Auditorium on my way to the car. I recognized the voice and even succumbed to the sacrilege of anyone calling me Marty. In days past, I would have ignored Jasper’s hark, but I needed the company now. I heaved a deep sigh.

  “If you’re going to try to talk me into staying,” I said, “don’t waste your breath.”

  “I understand,” Jasper said. “It’s a shame. The sound will suffer . . . greatly.”

  “Thank you. I guess we’ve had our ups and downs.”

  “My fault,” he said.

  I looked at his goofy expression in the street light. It wasn’t so goofy as I had recalled.

  “It’s been mutual,” I conceded. “Our duet was brilliant.”

  “It was. But that’s not what I wanted to say.”

  I feared that maybe I had sparked something incorrect in Jasper’s soul. Mixed signals. I mean, why would he be so attentive to me in Colorado? It was beginning to make sense. I raised my hand, and then continued toward the car.

  “You need a buddy,” he stammered.

  “I’m flattered, Jasper. Truly, I am.”

  “No, no. You have it wrong.”

  I stopped. Did I? What was he talking about?

  “Do I? Then set me straight — in a manner of speaking.”

  He giggled.

  “I mean, you need someone from Buddy Services. I work for Buddy Services.”

  Comprehension gelled. In my reading on cures and treatment, I came across a mention of the corps of volunteers that helped out with AIDS patients and their caregivers. This was a sweet offer.

  “Are you offering to . . .”

  “No. I mean, yes. Buddies are assigned, and I already have three buddies, so I think I’m maxed, but I suggest that you apply for one.”

  “I don’t think I need that right now. It’s too soon.”

  Jasper shrugged. He looked at me as if he saw something I didn’t.

  “What?”

  “Well, you’ll hate me for saying it, but it’s only been a few months since Denver and . . . and well, you look like shit.”

  “Well, thank you.” I think I laughed, but them’s
fightin’ words.

  “No, I mean, your drawn and tired looking. You may have things under control, but wouldn’t it be nice to have someone come by and run some errands — do the dishes, or the laundry.”

  Someone touch my All-Purpose Cheer? Unlikely. But pick up the mail or scrub a floor. That might be an option. The germ was set. But it would be a perfect stranger. A perfect stranger. That sounded like music to my ear . . . especially the perfect part.

  “Matt’s Mom and sister help out.”

  “I’m sure they do, but listen to me, Marty.” I cringed, but decided Jasper could call me that. It would be his special privilege. “Things could get . . .”

  “Worse. I know. I’ve been reading. Reading a lot.”

  “You should join Hyacinth?”

  “Is that where they keep the Buddies?”

  “Yes, but you can learn a lot more, and there’s support there.”

  Actually, as good as support sounded, most times I wanted to crawl away alone and free myself of the growing world of information overload. I closed my eyes, while Jasper popped out a card. I passed it under my eyes, now opened and perhaps for a doss of enlightenment. Hyacinth Foundation, it read. It was in New Brunswick. A bit far, I thought — I who traipsed all the way to Princeton to sing and to New Birch for a mug of suds. Any excuse would do.

  “I’m not promising anything,” I said.

  “Just think about it.”

  And so I thanked him, and then left him under the lamppost. I tucked the card in my wallet, where it sang to me for a few days. I mused at it at home. I even picked up the phone once to call, but stifled it. I even found a reference to the Hyacinth Foundation in the literature. Then I had a thought. No, less a thought than a notion. I was hiding Matt’s AIDS status from the world out of fear. No one understood. No one could help me beyond Doctor Farrell and the AZT fairy. But here, screaming at me from an organization card, was help — support, people who understood and, moreover, cared. So I took a resolve.

  “Have you ever heard of the Hyacinth Foundation?” I announced to Matt as he crammed over the computer.

  “I think I have. Not sure. Why?”

  “I think I’m going to get you a buddy.”

  “I have a buddy.”

  “No. I mean someone who cares.”

  “I have someone who cares.”

  “Not a perfect stranger, you don’t.”

  Not a perfect stranger.

  Chapter Two

  Perfect Strangers

  1

  “Now what is this organization called, dear?” Louise asked.

  She sat at the kitchen table opposite Matt, who read the Asbury Park Press. He looked up.

  “Hyacinth,” he said. “And honestly, I don’t think we need them.”

  “Well, it can’t hurt,” I said.

  Louise stopped over twice a week and we still traipsed over to Holmdel on Sundays, when Matt had good days. Today was a good day and I was almost embarrassed that when the Hyacinth representative would arrive, he would be confronted by three healthy souls. Perhaps Matt was right and we were wasting a valuable resource that could be applied better elsewhere.

  “And how much do they charge, Martin?”

  “They’re volunteers. In fact, I’m thinking of volunteering too.”

  “Don’t you have enough to do?” Matt said, this time not looking up from the Op Eds.

  “Hush,” Louise said, grasping his hand across the table. “Martin knows that when we take, we must also give.”

  Did Martin know that? I thought. I wasn’t sure that I did. Taking always felt so much better than giving. I mean, I wasn’t a rich man, especially when I was trying to upkeep two places on my meager income. Matt’s salary was fine. I never really contributed to his place, but more and more our money mixed together — not our bank accounts, mind you. That was a Viv no no, and I abided by her advice on that score. However, on bad days, it was hard to get money from a sleeping man when the fridge needed stocking. I was also worried about these meds. AZT was an expensive item — twelve dollars a pill, and Matt was consuming a hundred dollars worth a day. The pharmacy provided a hefty bucket full — a tub more like it, but the bill was floating between insurance claims and hadn’t come home to roost. Of course, Sammy told us not to worry about a thing. If push came to shove, he’d foot the bill. Still, Matt wasn’t happy with that and I wasn’t entirely sure that the Kielers were related to the Rockefellers. Before I could confirm or debunk Louise’s confidence in my sense of giving (or my propensity for taking), the doorbell rang.

  “Should I be in bed?” Matt asked.

  “Why?”

  “Well, won’t this buddy guy expect me in a full-blown Camille?”

  “Please,” Louise said. “Don't be so dramatic.”

  “Drama Queen, Louise,” I said, and went to answer the door. “It’s Drama Queen.”

  I was surprised at the person on our threshold. He was a thin Black guy. I guess it would be better now to say African-American. This didn’t matter to me. He could be anything, for all I cared, but I had a mental image of a tall white-bread dude named Hank LaCrosse. I soon found out that his name was Henri LeCroix, which over the phone came out Hank LaCrosse.

  “Hank?”

  “I’m here for Matthew Kieler.”

  “Yes, come in. I’m his . . . his partner, Martin. We spoke on the phone.”

  He followed me into the living room, where Louise had taken the couch and Matt edged toward the comfy chair.

  “I’m Matt’s mother,” Louise said, extending her hand.

  “Have a seat,” I said.

  Hank preferred to stand. He eyed Matt, and then smiled.

  “Matthew?” he asked.

  Matt nodded. “In the flesh,” he said.

  He was being a wise-ass today. I guess it wasn’t easy to face this mortality — the eventual dependence on the kindness of strangers, as someone once said. The conversation hit an abrupt halt.

  “Would you like some coffee or a soda?” I asked.

  “Thank you. Soda if you have one that’s diet? If not, water.”

  “And sit.”

  Louise went for the beverage, while Hank replaced her on the couch.

  “I guess,” I said. “I guess we need to make a schedule or something. Is that how it works?”

  “Yes. Matthew . . .”

  “Matt, please.”

  “Matt, do you get out?”

  “You mean like dancing?”

  “No, smart ass,” I said. “He means just plain, fucking outside.”

  I was annoyed that Matt was resisting, and my comment met Louise as she came over the threshold. I never cursed in front of her. There was something sacrilegious about it. However, she giggled and gave Hank a Diet Fresca.

  “I see we have a bad patient,” Hank said. “That’s okay. I have some that throw things at me.”

  Matt blushed. I assumed it was a combination of being singled out in a group of recalcitrant sick people and, more than likely, being referred to as a patient.

  “Well, I go to work . . . most days,” Matt said.

  “Good,” Hank said. “Then I’ll not need to read you bedtime stories.”

  Louise laughed.

  “That’s my job,” she said.

  “How are we set for . . . meals?” Hank asked.

  “I feed him,” I remarked. “Doesn’t he look beefy?”

  That wasn’t exactly true. Matt was still fleshy, but he had lost about twenty pounds and his appetite was dwindled to about half of what I pushed on him. The half he ate sometimes came up, and invariably, it came out. Hank didn’t remark on that.

  “I guess I’ll start by helping your partner with chores,” he said. “You could use a break now and then, Martin.”

  “You said meals,” I asked. “Are you talking about cooking?”

  “No. Buddies don’t cook. I mean, if you’re not here and he’s hungry, I pour him some milk and plate up a stack of cookies. But Hyacinth can deliver two mea
ls a day, if you need them.”

  “Like Meals on Wheels?” Louise asked.

  “Exactly.”

  That was an idea.

  “What do they taste like?” Matt asked.

  “Probably better than the crap I make for you, but . . . let me think about it. We’ll see. And I could use some errands run.”

  “Laundry?”

  “More like mail . . .”

  “Mail?”

  “I’ll explain later. And sometimes it gets pretty quiet in here.”

  “You need some scintillating conversation?”

  I smiled. Somewhere in my warped mind I couldn’t imagine such a phrase escaping the lips of this man.

  “That’s my job,” Matt said. “Isn’t that a bit like a third wheel?”

  “Hush,” Louise said. “This isn’t all about you, lamb.”

  Matt pouted. I pouted also. It was all about Matt, but when I was bone tired and the reading drove me to questions, it might be nice to have someone nearby to give me answers.

  “Would that scintillating conversation include ways of detecting Kaposi’s sarcoma or the latest tidings on ACE inhibitors?”

  “It could. I’m a buddy. I have training. You can deploy me in any manner you think fit except . . .”

  Here were the provisos. Hank reached in his pocket fetching a paper. He flipped it open. A contract, I thought. I, Martin Powers, hereby assert that I shall leave my kidneys to the students at Robert Wood Johnson for dissection, and will donate an organ a week for every load of laundry that Hank LaCrosse does. An eye for each mail stack delivered. Three fingers and a toe for seventeen hours of scintillating conversation.

  “This is for Matthew, as I am his buddy,” Hank said, “but you might as well be the custodian of the rules.”

  “Rules are good, dear,” Louise said, smiling at Matt, who pouted again like a recalcitrant child refusing his spinach.

  “What does it say . . . in a nutshell,” I said. I was in no mood now to read the Declaration of Buddy Dependence.