I heard all the gossip and even got to peruse the music for the Spring Concert. Jasper tried to get me to come to rehearsal, but I doubted I would even get to the concert. The Cavern was an escape, and I was paid to do it, which plied me guiltily. However, I never forgot that Matt was home, working or reading or settled in with a visitor — Mary, Hank or even Viv. Viv was regular in this. She popped in to lighten her Harpooner’s heart, although Frank never came. I was surprised that he stuck with her. In fact, Viv might have considered settling down. Now that would upset the heavens. I think that Matt’s condition made Frank nervous. Still, he was generous, paying on my lease; and he never leveled any harpoon at Viv’s Harpooner. I suppose that all people have a level of comfort. I mean, I do and did. I also know that comfort levels change and sometimes not for the better. For instance, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to visit Russell in his final days. I had known him since the ninth grade. He was a constant companion and a pain in the ass. We were sisters. Still, the falling out over Matt and his cynicism in Denver changed my feelings for him. I was afraid that he’d break my heart, and I only had one, and its breaking was reserved for someone else. I guess I had developed a callus there when it came to Russ. I listened to the reports and when he finally passed in late April, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral. Matt wanted to go, but I was adamant. You take yourself then. I don’t think he understood. I suppose he thought I was sheltering him. However, I was sheltering me. It seemed Matt was getting along with the old Grim Reaper. He spoke about death with the ease of a preacher. The sickle that sometimes stood between us was as ghostly as Luis’ trace. Although Hank offered to escort my cowboy to Russ’ services, Matt declined. No reason given. But I was glad that he stayed at home, clobbering his computer with busy work. I just sat Sphinx-like on the couch, staring at the wall and drinking a six-pack of beer.
3
Activism was in the air. I suppose it was always in the air, but I hadn’t noticed it. I mean, I sang at gay cause rallies and marched in Gay Pride Parades, but none of it struck home. Hank was always handing me brochures on this organization and that. I generally browsed the first line or two and then halted. Too much anger, I thought. Some organizations were supportive, helping and raising money, but some were downright violent. I guess I was angry too, but it never seemed to serve any purpose to go out in the street and shout how angry I was, because what would that do? Would people open their windows and throw out buckets of cash? Would they join our cause and boycott the pharmaceutical houses until they lowered the price on the meds? I don’t think so. The general mood was one of antipathy, which was probably worse than antagonism. At least when someone is coming at you with a placard reading All Fags Die of AIDS, you can stick out your foot and trip them. How do you fight antipathy?
There was one group that Hank praised called Act Up, and that’s what that group did. They were near to theatrical performance, disrupting the course of civilization with antics that made me blush. They would stage Die Ins and invade public spaces with shouting and threats. They disrupted a mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Police in droves carted them out. Now I know that the Catholic Church was not supportive in the least on homosexuality, and also objected to AIDS education where it was needed most, but isn’t there a separation of political activism and people’s right to celebrate their religion?
“No,” Hank declared. “They don’t listen when you say it nice and quiet. You need to invade their big-ass church, lie down on their sacred floor and blow shit up the Cardinal’s dress. There’s no other way, man.”
“Amen,” Matt said.
We were relaxing in the living room until Hank raised these questions. Well, they were more answers than questions. I didn’t agree with him. Matt, however, was listening more and more. He seemed to think that the world needed a slap on the head to wake it up. He was right, of course, but wasn’t that why we vote?
“Vote for what, Martin?” Hank continued. “Do you see a measure on the ballot for gay folk? For AIDS?”
“But more than queers have AIDS,” I said.
“Yes, but America has made us the owners of this disease. If they stick it to us, can’t we push it back and say no thank you?”
“Well, how can we do that? I mean, I agree with a protest on the pharmaceutical industry, but to swoop down on a Sunday morning and disrupt people’s prayers.”
“What are they praying for, Martin? They’re praying that we keep this disease away from them.” He stood, and then began to pace. “They ask God to keep the faggots away from their door. That’s what they pray for.”
“I think some might pray for our souls and comfort.”
I received a sardonic, toothy grin. I thought Hank was going to eat me. He waved his hands about.
“I give up on you.”
“How can you say that?”
“Hank, he’s got a right to his opinion,” Matt said, but it didn’t make a difference. Hank just grabbed one of the many brochures he toted — the one for Act Up. He pointed to the Pink Triangle on the cover.
“Read this, Martin. Read it to me. I dare you.”
I was angry now, but Hank was passionate. I had to allow for that. His passions were more helpful and endearing that not. So I sucked in my growing temper tantrum and read:
“Silence equals Death.”
“Right,” Hank said.
“I don’t get it.”
“I think I do,” Matt said.
He scratched his chin. He had been sitting wrapped in a blanket — he sometimes got chills. He also wore one of his cowboy hats, which didn’t fit him now, but his hair was falling out and it covered his vanity.
“You do?” I asked, too sharply.
His blue eyes pierced me, and I softened.
“Of course, he does,” Hank said.
I pointed to the chair. I wanted Hank to sit. I then hunkered down in front of Matt and held his hand. It was icy.
“I don’t want to upset you,” I said. “Neither does Hank. Right, Hank?”
“I guess so. If you insist on it.”
“You should know better.”
Hank grunted.
“Don’t be hard on him, Pumpkin. He’s seen so much and when you see the flowers wilting and no one comes to water, you get a bit anxious.”
“I understand.” I glanced at Hank. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
I did, and I didn’t. However, these were not combatants here. We were victims, although if anyone at Hyacinth heard me say that, I’d be corrected. There are no AIDS victims. They are people with AIDS and friends. Then why did I feel like a victim? Why did Matt look like a victim?
“I understand anger, Hank. I do. I just don’t fully grasp a concept like silence equaling death.”
“Pumpkin, if no one says anything when the sick pass on, if everyone is in denial and all backs are turned in silence, death will take us all.”
I stared at him, and then rested my head in his lap. What made him so wise? The activists could shout until the Pope turned green. I didn’t believe that either the Holy Father or the Passionate Activists knew just how wise this disease made you. Matt’s fingers filtered my hair.
“I’m sorry,” Hank said. “I get carried away sometimes.”
“That’s okay,” Matt said. “Martin understands.”
I did, and I didn’t.
Chapter Eight
Bringing in the Sheaves
1
Matt was becoming house bound, and that worried me. In early spring either Hank or I got him into the car and took him for drives. We spent a few days at my place so he could sit on the beach, but the weather wasn’t optimum — the wind blowing and the sand carrying who knows what. I even got him to The Cavern twice. He loved that, although the Zippilin gave him a fright and Mother hovered about him like a gypsy moth. I got him a booth and went about my bussing. One after another of the regulars took turns with him and I let him have one beer. I was afraid to introduce
yet another chemical into the mix, but what the hay. I remember clearing off a table and glancing at Matt through the smoke. He appeared happy, but in an ancient way. At this distance he was quite different from the man who I first saw hiding in the jacket rack at A&S’, stalking me for a date. The cowboy hat was enormous compared to his head, his eyes peering out, but just. His cheeks sunken, he had a slight shake in his hands as he managed the beer mug as if it were the best piece of candy in the shop. He nodded to whoever was chatting with him. Perhaps he heard them over the music. Perhaps not. However, he wasn’t confined to the apartment. As shitty as the bar air was, it was different air. I was taking a chance. The PCP had left his lungs spongy. The second hand smoke could bring on episode three, and then I didn’t know what I’d do, because I had a promise to keep.
While I had Matt at my place, Hank made arrangements for a hospital bed to be installed in Matt’s place. It wasn’t a surprise and I certainly didn’t want him out of my bed. However, I wanted to be ready. Matt wouldn’t like it, but I decided it was a symbol of the promise — a covenant that would keep him out of the hospital. I picked up the rental charge for now. I figured once Matt knew about it, we’d transfer the monthly payment to his account. We had cut back on many things — things we took for granted . . . cable TV, for example. Who needed to see reruns of The Mary Tyler Moose Show anyway? However, Matt’s salary covered the rent and the basics. Mine covered less than the basics — a modest contribution from tips to the upkeep of the two places. The AZT was subsidized by Hyacinth, but the rest of the meds took whatever remained. Matt’s bank account, which was not shabby at first, was shabby now. With Frank Perkins paying my lease and the Kielers covering Doctor Farrell and two whopping hospital bills, I thought that Matt deserved at least one beer.
Ginger and Leslie addressed the housebound issue by inviting us to the B&B, but on the day we were to go (a long Memorial Day weekend), Matt had a bad day. It was the first weekend he used the new hospital bed.
“Just let it run its course, Pumpkin,” he said. “No 9-1-1. No 9-1-1.”
My fingers hovered over the buttons. I called Hank instead, and he assessed that Matt might just weather this bout. It was PCP, but I had oxygen installed now on an as-needed basis and all sorts of medical toys — a blood pressure monitor and a thing called a pulse-ox, which measured the amount of oxygen in the blood stream. That was a handy device and brought me much solace. When Matt was dizzy, he’d lay in the bed and stick his finger up waiting for me to clamp on the little plastic gizmo. Then we’d wait until we saw the magic number, which was 97.
“If it’s lower than 85, I’m dialing the phone,” I would tell him.
I swear that when I said that, he’d use his mind to trick the damn pulse-ox to reach the magic number.
The other number that was crucial, I couldn’t see. It was the one that measured the state of his immune system — the T Cell count. As Doctor Farrell explained it to me after I had failed to understand books on the subject, The retrovirus attacks the T Cells, crippling the white corpuscles. The more T Cells measured in the test sample, the stronger the immune system.
Matt’s T Cell count had been as low as 2.
Shit, Pumpkin, I think I’ll name them Fido and Dido.
I’m glad he could joke about it. However, with care and med cocktails it rose to 150. 200 was the magic number here. People free of HIV had normal T Cell count of 750 and higher. I never made it a point to ask Doctor Farrell anything beyond the T Cell count. My questions had fallen off, because I could see Matt’s condition with my own eyes. Besides, I didn’t want any moment of truth from the medical professional or a glossed over vein of hope. Simple explanations would do. I would keep my silence, while Matt joked with the receptionist and wisecracked with the doctor. I even ignored the body language. It was one step before the other and the rest was blissful ignorance.
2
How I was convinced to take up the activist cause is beyond me. Perhaps it was the simplicity of a petition to Glaxos-Wellcome to lower the cost of the meds. It wasn’t like throwing eggs at the local church or burning my bra on the steps of city hall. Just a mere signature, and perhaps it would do some good. It would keep Hank off my back, at least. More pronounced and daring was to join the AIDS Walk New Jersey that Hyacinth sponsored. At first, it seemed radical for me — a ten-mile jaunt through downtown New Brunswick, but Matt was excited. It was a chance to get out in the fresh air. Those who I consulted, including Louise and Sammy, thought it was a good bet. Perhaps some good can come of it, Louise coaxed. Nothing like putting a face on it, Sammy said. So I rented a wheel chair, wrapped Matt up like a mummy and drove down to Eagleton Institute of Politics at Rutgers where the walk commenced and we were off and running . . . or pushing, so to speak.
“I’m a pusher,” I joked.
“Push me to heaven, Pumpkin,” Matt said.
He was so excited. We had raised fistfuls of cash. I had three pages of sponsors, mostly the tribe at The Cavern, to the tune of eight hundred dollars and change. Hank met us in the parking lot.
“You’ll need help,” he said.
I didn’t think so. I could push this thing, I was sure of it. However, Eagleton was an old colonial building set on parkland. There were stretches of lawn to negotiate. Have you ever pushed a wheel chair over grass? I hadn’t, nor could I. Matt managed to get out and walk beside me.
“If you’re going to walk, I wouldn’t have bothered with the fucking chair.”
“I think we’ll be needing it,” he said.
He nodded toward the starting point, some hundred yards away over prime hill and dale.
“It’s sidewalks after that,” Hank said. “We’ll manage together.”
The grounds filled up quickly. I stood on a line with sponsor sheets and money. There was a special queue for last names between P and S. The volunteer tent was filled with staff, taking sheets, counting heads, issuing badges and, for those who raised over five-hundred dollars, a gift windbreaker with the event emblazoned on the front and a dozen sponsor logos on the back.
“Look what I have for you,” I announced to Matt.
He was holding court — at least five walkers bubbled over him as a reason for the event — a cause in the flesh. Sammy was correct. Matt put a face on activism and it was making a difference.
“For me?” he asked, hoisting himself out of the wheelchair. He had help. His courtiers steadied him and helped him put the windbreaker on. Even zipped it up for him. He was eating it up, and that pleased me. It had become more than just a day out.
“Snooks,” came a voice.
“Leslie. Ginger.”
The girls were fully running-suited and sunglass-shaded, both carrying a bottle of water in one hand and an event windbreaker in the other. Leslie let one of the jackets slip to the ground. I picked it up.
“You keep it,” she said. “We went over the thousand dollar mark and got two each.”
Hank got the other extra.
“And a mug,” Ginger said, presenting that to Matt, who received like an Academy Award.
“Over a thousand?” I said. “Impressive.”
“I have the attorney connection,” Leslie said.
“They’re good for something,” Ginger said, getting a smirk. “Well, there’s only one lawyer that I have ever loved and there are days.”
“There could be more days like that, if you keep it up.”
Leslie tickled Ginger, and my Matt roared. My heart was filled to the brim. There was something inspiring in this activism stuff if it could bring joy to my cowboy’s heart.
We moseyed over to the water tent. There were speeches being delivered by the local politicians, who had to compete with the local rock radio truck that blared out over the early morning mist. The sun was just making its presence known. Matt walked gingerly to the tent, and then sat in the wheelchair, just as the Kielers arrived. If anyone deserved to be gay activists, it was the Kielers.
“Did you check in, Mom?” Matt asked
.
Louise waved her windbreaker and smiled.
“We collected up a storm, Newt,” Mary said, bending down, kissing her brother’s forehead. It was nice to see Matt get all these maskless kisses.
“Looks like the sun will shine after all,” Sammy said, shading his eyes.
“Are you going to make the whole walk, Dad?” Matt asked. “Your back’s a bit . . .”
“Don’t you worry about my back,” he said. “Besides, if it kicks up, I’ll evict you from that wheel chair.”
“I really don’t need it,” Matt said. “Pumpkin’s fussy.”
I smacked him — a love tap that got me a love punch — a weak love punch. I straightened his cowboy hat. I had padded the inside so it looked fuller than it was. At least it stayed on his head now.
“Can I walk with you guys?” came a voice.
It was Jasper and a handsome stranger, who I took to be his latest squeeze. Well, his only squeeze. I was glad that someone had recognized the wonderful qualities in Jasper’s heart, ignoring the goofy cover of this most enchanting book.
“Sure, guy,” I said.
“This is Rudi,” he said. “He’s German.”
Rudi extended a hand. German Rudi. How eclectic.
“’Sgood ta meet ya,” he said. “Jazper haz good thingz about you said.”
I smiled. I bet, I thought. Then I realized that Jasper was beaming. This was his trophy date and they both wore windbreakers, so we represented quite a bit of ca-chink.
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