1
I missed the singing, but I listened to the GALA Festival tapes often. Matt loved to hear me sing my Cree solo, which he had missed when we were in Denver. I’d put it on and whatever he was doing, he’d stop, close his eyes, and then smile, beating the tribal rhythms on the nearest table surface. When the last measure came, he would inevitably shout out Play it again, Pumpkin. It was soon threadbare. Once Hank had listened to it.
“You have a good voice,” he said.
“Thank you,”
“You should still be singing.”
“How can I with all I have to do?”
“Good point, but you should at least go to the concert.”
Good point. There was a concert in late October, sort of a pre-holiday special, mixing some of the works in progress with the established repertoire. In fact, I nudged Matt to consider it and I invited Hank as my guest. Matt was keen on the idea. He rarely got out socially, always worried that he would get caught short at an event and smell up the place. He had those fears with the concert also, but with two caregivers — bookends so to speak, it was a good risk.
My excitement was dampened when I called for tickets. I called one of the Rons (Ron Fesserstein) to book it and asked casually about the program. There were a few pre-seasonal medleys, old Dog Tray numbers (in Latin and in Coplandese) and . . . the Cree number. That startled me, because I couldn’t imagine that piece without me, especially since it had become elevator Musak in the apartment. My old vicious queen gene ripped through my spleen. It was as if Todd Moorehouse or Padgett Anderson dwelt in my swampy bottoms waiting to write a full bull Cyndy Adams review. When I hung up, I thought that perhaps Hank and Matt should go alone.
Then a different spirit overcame me, and it was even more off putting. I assumed my solo would be warbled by Jasper and that irked me. However, this was the new Jasper — the Jasper that I knew now. The one who I allowed to call me Marty. If I didn’t show up, how catty would that be? Then I gazed at my Matt, who dozed on the couch, his soft wheeze susurrating over the kingdom of his lips. I’ll get over it, I thought. The solo became a minor matter in the wake of this world.
The evening of the concert, Hank showed up dress to the nines, so us cowboys were quite out of place in comparison.
“Nice,” I said. “I suppose we need to dress now.”
“Don’t think so,” Matt said. “I wear a suit day in, day out. Most of those fairies won’t be dressed up anyway. Hank, you’ll be asked to serve the cocktails.”
“Yassir,” he said. He always clowned with Matt with that plantation crap. “I’s make a nice julep if’n you’s wants it.”
Matt laughed and pushed him out the door. I guess they had bonded. I mean, who couldn’t bond with my cowboy. He may have been cynical at times, and shit, he had every right to be so, but even as he withered, his easy air and his gentle manner never faded. It lives forever.
The concert was at the Church of the Redeemer in Princeton, not far from our rehearsal venue at the White Church. It was a larger space. As we crossed the threshold and went to the ticket call area, the Ron of the tickets (ticket Ron) and Jasper greeted me. It was as if they had been waiting for me, which made me feel honored — sort of a Prodigal Son. Where was that fatted calf?
“Good. You’re here,” Jasper said.
There was a mob scene in the vestibule, lots of gay greetings — kissee kissee, huggee huggee, love your outfit, haven’t seen you since Pride, and all that.
“You didn’t need to form a reception committee for me,” I joked. “Just need three tickets.”
“No. We’re not here for that,” Jasper said. “We need you to . . . sing.”
“What?”
I certainly knew most of the numbers, but there was awkwardness in this request, especially when it came to the Cree piece.
“I’m not dressed for it,” I said. “I haven’t rehearsed. I haven’t . . .”
“Ron Neary is out.”
Out? Out where? Out of the closet. No, not that. Ron (Ron number two of the three Rons — the second tenor Ron) was born out. You could spot him across the park, OUT. Out for the count, perhaps? I shrugged.
“He’s . . .”
Jasper looked to Matt, and I knew. Another one stricken.
“That’s a shame, but . . .”
Jasper pulled me aside.
“He was singing the Cree piece with me.”
Oh, I thought. They need my glorious voice in a fantabulous encore.
“I was suppose to sing your solo,” Jasper said. “But I’ll drop back into second. It’s best that way.”
I smiled. Now was a chance for my Matt to hear me sing the piece in person.
“Okay,” I said. “Count me in.” I turned to Hank. “I guess I’m on the menu tonight.”
“Really,” Matt said. He kissed me. “I knew this would be worth it.”
2
I wasn’t warmed up, so I scurried away behind Jasper and ticket Ron to the dressing area, which was nothing more than the church’s basement. There was quite a stir when I entered. I didn’t know whether I should start doing my Hello, Dolly entrance or not. The director was happy to see me. I thought he’d jump out of his skin or at least over the head of Ron the Third (Ronald Xavier Gusmeyer III). Todd and Padgett were genuinely fussy. Tim gave me a broad grin and a thick wave. Brian, the Librarian, came to attention.
“Do you need music,” he barked, and then bowed.
“No,” I said, a bit numb. “Thank you.”
He handed me a black music folder anyway, which I flipped under my arm, and then retired to my vocal section. I was nervous; not because I was gun shy of an audience, but I knew that this might be the only time this season I would be singing with the Sparrows. I didn’t know their Christmas line up. In fact, the preview numbers I’d need to lip-sync or sight-read. Good thing I had the music. I wondered why Brian even gave me a choice. Funny duck, that.
The warm up was fun. I always hated the exercises and the histrionics of some of the Sparrows. It was as if Todd wanted everyone to know that he did the best radiator puff of the group, and Padgett excelled at the long count, as if they gave out prizes. Still, to be away from a thing you love and knowing that this is just a respite in the storm had me unusually quiet — tranquil even. Matt was safe — in the crowd, with Hank, that perfect stranger, who was better than any stranger I knew. I was allowed an hour to be with my flock — a fairy ring of warbling birds, who brought joy above the rooftops and music to the heart. I sighed, lined up, and then marched into the Church.
The place was packed. I wondered whether the acoustics were such that I could soar my voice to the rafters like I did in Boettcher. I didn’t have the benefit of diarrhea now, which might have been part of the formula. I had a funny thought. The voice and asshole might be connected in some divine way. Anal thought, that. I grinned, waited for the baton, opened the music to the first number and warbled.
Most of the numbers I knew enough to be off the paper. However, I watched the director closely. You never know when a new interpretation may have been interpolated in rehearsal. That’s all I needed. An unannounced solo — the kind that ruined art. So in places I held back and I watched and watched. I could see Matt and Hank. They had good seats in the third pew. As the Cree number approached, my heart raced. Jasper stood beside me. As the piece approached, he winked.
He winked. What was I doing? This was my solo — my musical pride and joy. Had been since day one. I was the dominator here. Yet, when I departed, it became an inheritance. Here I was — a guest artist now. A plug-in for Ron the Second as he lay in a hospital bed sucking on oxygen. I gazed to Matt, my blue-eyed flower, his face thinning, but his hat plum stuck on his head. Don’t he know he’s in church? I thought.
The audience applauded our last number. The director bowed. Tim stood for a bit of praise. And then . . .
The downbeat of the Cree piece cued the basses up for their chanting. I nudged Jasper.
“Ready,” he
whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m singing second tonight.”
His head twisted. His eyes had a sudden terror, but then eased into glorious thanks. He stepped toward the podium. I took a few steps behind him. I knew the second’s part, but somehow in the pit of my evil queen soul, despite my never quenched need to be the axis of this world, I could not deny this man his moment, just as he could not deny my bowels relief in the mile high city. I watched Matt as I began my subsidiary part — one eye on the baton, the other on my cowboy. I eased into the duet, a perfect blend and then heard Jasper’s voice soar to the rafters, while I . . . well, it was the most glorious solo that I had ever sung.
Chapter Four
Blessings and Curses
1
At Thanksgiving we have been taught to thank God for our blessings and ask for support for the challenges. Challenges, I had. Blessing I had also. After all, Matt’s good days seemed to exceed his bad days, and the bad days were becoming routine. Matt still had his job — a real blessing, although he was feeling some pressure from the growing opinion among his colleagues that he wasn’t suffering from a long lingering cold. He found himself increasingly isolated at the office. I still had my job, and although that had been a joy in my life, the blue-pencils were monitoring me with an aim for disposal. When my folding was perfect, my attention to customers impeccable and my sales figures were up, I was the darling of retail. Now I was some rat from the cellar. My folding was scrutinized, my sales figures dropped and customers were encouraged to complain about that nasty twit in menswear, why ever did we hire him? Not a blessing.
We had Hank and Hyacinth — always at hand for me and mine. The Kielers were now my family and Viv . . . well, Viv never changed, but she always left the door open for a reality check. Most of all, Matt was still with me, and with us all, which was not altogether the same thing. Being alive and above ground is a hearty blessing, but staying with me when I was on the warpath — why, that was a downright miracle. Miracle. Had I wished for a miracle at Thanksgiving it would have been for the world to grow a heart and understand me. Those close did, but the world outside did not. There was this lot in Kansas who took to the streets with signs that AIDS was God’s punishment on the Homosexual. Well, I could understand them believing the mistranslations of the Bible that would lead them to that conclusion since they spoke neither Hebrew nor Aramaic in Bumfuck, Kansas. However, it was a free country and you could certainly be as ignorant and asinine as you wanted as long as you didn’t harm others. Harm others. That they did. They swayed public opinion. They told the world to lock up their children because the gays and queers would infect them with God’s retribution. All Fags go to Hell — that’s what their placards read as they marched around funeral processions, screaming at mourners that their loved ones deserved to die and they would burn forever. Why, it was the Christian thing to scream — at least it was in Bumfuck, Kansas. Yet, the world was enraged when a group of Gay Activists interrupted a church service in New York City. Well, tit for tat. Still, we didn’t have the neighbors surrounding the Holmdel estate on that Thanksgiving. They may have wanted to unleash God’s wrath, but it was just not the suburban thing to do. Legislation was the best way to enforce hate in the more civilized segments of our democratic state. Yes, I was grateful for that — small blessing that it was.
As we sat around the table that year — Sammy at the head with his hands clasped in prayer (Viv didn’t do the grace this year — another blessing), we had two additional guests. Hank, his black face and ivory grin much at ease in this safe haven of love, and Viv’s new boyfriend, Frank Perkins, a widower from Edison — a well heeled widower at that, who worked in insurance. Now there was one ironic rub around the table of blessings and challenges. Frank Perkins of Edison and insurance brokerage was a blessing, while his industry was my biggest curse.
“God bless this humble fare as we remember those who are needy and in want,” Sammy said. “Thank you for old friends and new friends and, most of all, for my son, who is . . . who is . . .”
He bowed low, and then blubbered.
“Who’s just fine, Daddy,” Matt said, reaching across, touching his father’s arm.
“Fine and dandy,” Louise said. “Thank God.”
“Yes,” Sammy continued, recovering a bit. “And for Martin here, who has been his tower of strength.”
“And Hank,” I said. “Who has been fighting the good fight?”
“Yassir, I’s do it,” Hank chimed in, starting Matt a-gigglin’.
“No more of that,” Louise chided. “You are welcome to our table, Mr. LaCrosse. You are a happy addition to our family.”
Hank swallowed hard and came to attention. His grin disappeared and his lips quivered.
“Only family I have now,” he said.
Mary, who sat beside him, gave him a hug.
“I’m your sister, just as much as I’m Newt’s.”
“And if you need another mother,” Viv said. “Well, look to Louise, because shithead’ll tell ya, I’m not much of that. But I’ll tell you when your head’s screwed on backwards.’
Mr. Perkins raised an eyebrow, pouted, and then bowed his head.
“Amen,” he said.
Grace had concluded.
2
“Pass the stuffing,” Matt said.
“I’ll fix you a plate,” I said.
“No, Martin,” Louise said. “You enjoy. You’re his servant around the clock. You need a day off.”
I smiled. Thank you, Mama. The bowls went around and it was intoxicating, especially the cranberries, which Louise made from scratch. I only knew how to open a can from some bog in Ocean Spray. And Louise’s gravy was a shimmering yellow, almost clear and yet as rich as butter.
“I hear you have a bit of an issue with your prescription coverage, son,” Sammy said.
The comment was like a knife. Of all the curses current in the household, it was this one. Now Sammy brought it up just before the first bite. I expected Louise to chide him and put it on the back burner. However, she didn’t. In fact, she contributed to the pain. Though perhaps they wanted to discuss this in Frank’s presence, insurance and all that, but he was in auto casualty coverage, not medical. So what was the point?
“We’re hoping it’ll get resolved,” I said.
“You haven’t said anything to me,” Hank noted.
“Well, it’s Axum’s problem.”
“They won’t cover the meds?” Hank asked. “It’s not uncommon. AIDS is not one of your top coverage risks. In fact, once they whiff that it’s AIDS, they usually run for the hills.”
Hank summed it up succinctly and correctly. The insurance company denied paying for the meds, so that cost would stay out of pocket. However, there was worse news.
“Well, since you brought it up,” I said.
Matt held his hand up, a roll perched in his fist.
“It’s really not Martin’s problems, Dad. It’s mine. I mean, Axum has been good, but the insurance company is just being stubborn about everything.”
“Everything?” Sammy asked. He had been forking his mashed potatoes, but let them slip back to the plate. “Do you need money, son?”
“Martin,” Louise said. “You should have let us know before this.”
“Well, we just found out.”
“What are you talking about?” Viv asked. “What do you mean everything?”
“They denied payment on the hospital bill,” I answer
“That has to be thousands,” Mary stammered.
“Twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred dollars,” Matt said.
“And eighty-seven cents,” I added.
“God forgive us the eighty-seven cents.”
Thanksgiving was over before it begun. There was a flurry of conversation about how will you manage that and what if. It was the what ifs that disturbed me most. Viv did some moderate cursing, while Sammy fumed at the insurance industry.
“Those bastards. They should all be sued.”
Frank Perkins had been silent until then. I don’t really think Sammy meant to insult the man or even to pick a fight with him. Still, Viv had been massaging his arm during this whole conversation.
“I hate to burst your bubble,” Frank said. “Insurance is a risky business at best and when there is higher than normal risk, the business part of the equation usually trumps the issue.”
Silence.
I could see Sammy’s face redden. This is not what I expected for Thanksgiving — God bless the food, the friends and curse the insurance guy.
“Forgive us, Mr. Perkins . . . Frank,” Louise said, darting a sharp glance to Sammy. “We don’t mean to insult you or your business.”
“I’m in auto insurance, so you’re not really insulting me. You just don’t understand . . .”
“Well, I do,” I said.
This drew the conversation to me, exactly where I didn’t want it. It was harder for me. This was Matt’s affair with his parents, poor relation that I was, and this was Viv’s boyfriend, not mine.
“I mean,” I stammered. “Matt and I understand that he poses as financial risk to a multimillion dollar industry.” I thought briefly about this. “I mean, you must understand that we’re not rich, yet we’re not poor. But we will be poor, because we have not been designed to combat health costs that most people fight in retirement, while we are just . . . kids. In fact, the insurance guy I spoke with was very professional. He told me that he had done everything he could do for Matt’s claim. Still there was nothing in the policy about the Human Immune-deficient Virus and its complications. And why would it, Frank? Why would it? Did anyone hear about this thing a few years ago? I didn’t. If you told me to get insurance for PCP or Toxoplasmosis or Thrush or Kaposi’s sarcoma or Dengue fever, would I buy it at age 21? Would I? But now you hand me a twenty seven thousand eight hundred dollar hospital bill.”
“And eighty-seven cents,” Matt interjected.
“And eighty seven cents.”
“I haven’t handed you a bill, son,” Frank said. “I realize this is an emotional time.”
Look Away Silence Page 20