by Rick R. Reed
One: “We need to go into the bedroom and finish this properly.”
Or two: “I need to get out of here before something happens that both of us will regret.”
The image of Adam sitting alone in a prison cell in some godforsaken state penitentiary made him voice the latter, no matter how much his body ached for him to say the former.
“We cant do this. Not to Adam. Not ever. It isnt right.”
“It isnt.” Sullivan gulped in air, eyeing Dan with equal parts want and embarrassment. He looked away.
They stood like that while several moments ticked by, both knowing they were perched on a line separating right from wrong, want from respect, and lust from love—for Adam.
Sullivan leaned forward at last, blowing out the candles on the coffee table. For just a moment, the room was plunged into darkness. Then Dan heard Sullivan rise up, and the click of a lamp being turned on. Soft, warm light filled the room, still so bright it hurt Dans eyes for a minute.
The light signaled the war of emotions was over. The side of decency and loyalty to Adam had won out.
Dan watched as Sullivan wandered over to the kitchen. He could see him open the fridge and squat in front of it. He pulled out a bottle of beer.
Only one.
He popped it open, took a long swallow, then turned to Dan. “You should probably go home now.”
Dan nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, and then realized he had no idea what. He closed his mouth and hurried out into the warm night, the air thick with humidity and regret.
The body wants what the body wants… and the heart knows nothing about propriety, he thought as he started his car, pulling reluctantly away from the little stucco house.
Chapter Thirteen
MONDAY brought Dan his first full workday at Reports, Inc. and, for that, he was very grateful. Meeting new people, finding out exactly what would be required of him, and at last getting on the phone and doing his first underwriting investigation and then writing it up helped keep his mind off Adam and his horrible, unbelievable troubles.
It also kept his thoughts free of Sullivan.
For the most part.
When he got home, exhausted, all that was on his mind was
heating up a frozen Tombstone pizza in the oven and vegging the night away in front of the TV. Murphy Brown and Designing Women were both on tonight and the sitcoms offered blessed, mindless—and funny—oblivion.
Just what Dan needed.
The letter waited for him in his mailbox, ready to jerk him back to reality. Other than bills and direct-mail solicitations, Dan didnt get much mail. Who did anymore? Occasionally there was an envelope for Mark, and this would make Dan stiffen for a moment, as if it heralded that his boyfriend had somehow returned, unbeknownst to him. But then reality set in, and Dan would realize he didnt even know where to forward Marks letters. It was almost as if the man had never existed, or that he was a figment of his imagination. It was weird how there was nothing of him left in the tiny one-bedroom apartment, no trace, sentimental or otherwise.
Dan might as well have always been a single guy, a Florida bachelor.
So why are you chasing after another guys man? Why dont you take advantage of your singlehood, play the field, bring home a different guy every night?
Dan shook his head, sorting through the mail until he did come to a handwritten envelope, for him, and bearing the return address of the Florida State Penitentiary—7819 NW 228th Street Raiford, Florida 32026.
Adam had written. Maybe now Dan would get some kind of explanation. Maybe at last he would understand.
He turned the simple, white envelope over and over in his hands, staring out at some kids playing in the complex pool, listening to their screams and their laughter. Their splashes and taunts.
Getting a letter from someone in prison made Dan feel set apart from the rest of the world. As tempted as he was to tear the envelope open right here and right now, in the bright afternoon sunlight with a tennis court nearby and the sounds of a game in progress mingling with the roughhousing in the pool, he somehow sensed it wouldnt be right.
He hurried home, where he had left the blinds drawn and the air conditioning set at seventy-two. It felt blessedly cool and dry in the apartment, and very dark after the bright sun outside.
He set the envelope and the bill from Tampa Electric down on the breakfast bar and went into the bedroom to change. He slid out of his khakis and white Oxford shirt and rep stripe tie, kicked off the loafers, and threw the black socks in the hamper. He dressed in a pair of board shorts and a tank top and padded back into the living area barefoot. He eyed the envelope and decided he would get dinner going before opening it.
In the kitchen, he set the oven to preheating, took out the cheese pizza, and rooted through the crisper drawer, finding some still-fresh romaine and a couple stalks of celery that would make a decent salad. He cracked open a beer.
What are you waiting for, doofus? His eyes went back to the envelope, sitting innocently on the bar, waiting for his touch. Dan thought it was like a snake, biding its time until Dans hand came near, and then it would bite him.
Youre being ridiculous. Which are you more afraid of, Dan? That the letter contains all the answers? Or that it contains none?
He shook his head at his own indecision, snatched the letter off the counter, and went with it into the living room. He plopped down on the couch, picked up the remote, paused, then flung it back on the coffee table.
Open it, dumb-ass.
He tore the envelope open, took out the single piece of lined notebook paper inside, unfolded it, and began to read.
Dear Dan,
You are probably wondering, no doubt, just what the hell is going on. I dont blame you. Sometimes I dont think I know myself. Sometimes, I lie here on my bunk in this cell and try to convince myself that this is all a nightmare and Ill wake up with Sullivan— beautiful Sullivan—snoring softly beside me. Outside, Ill hear the familiar cooing of the mourning doves that perch on our backyard fence.
You know, like it once was.
Until it all turned to shit.
I wish I had easy answers for you. I wish I could explain my behavior to you. I cant. All I do know is that this monster, this virus, has taken over more than just my body.
Its taken over my soul and my mind.
When I told you I dont remember strangling Sullivan, that was just the truth. I still dont remember it. Maybe its my minds way of protecting me from something that would hurt so bad it would kill me. I dont want to remember! I love that guy, you know? We had our problems, but if I saw myself hurting him like that, I think it would drive me over the edge, so I do think my own minds protecting me by keeping that time a big old empty blank.
I hope youll look in on Sullivan, speaking of him. Make sure hes doing okay. Hes a good guy, has a good heart, and doesnt deserve someone like me. Also, he worries too much.
I hope youll be the buddy you signed on for and help me make sure my Sullivan is doing okay.
Dan had to set the letter down for a moment, the guilt weighed so heavily on his heart. He didnt know if he could go on reading, not if the letter continued in this vein. He put it down on the coffee table and rose to put his pizza in the oven to bake, although he didnt feel nearly as hungry as he had when he came home.
He came back to the couch, sighed, and took up the letter once more. I do remember, however, what really brought me to this place— stealing that car in Chicago. Its a tawdry story of too much alcohol, bad decision-making, and wanting to impress some guy that, in all honesty, I didnt give two shits about. Can I spare you the details, sugar? Its embarrassing.
Snort! Me being embarrassed, sitting here with my gay ass in the state pen, grateful Im not getting raped because everybody knows the new dude is sick with “the AIDS.”
Lucky me! They have already noticed the KS lesions and have given me a nickname: Spot.
Isnt that the most precious thing youve ever heard?
&
nbsp; Dan had to stop reading once more, his heart ached so badly. Oh Adam, I wish I could hold you. I wish I could keep away the bad. Dan continued reading.
Yeah, they call me “Spot”, which is at least original. Otherwise, all I get is “cocksucker” and “faggot”, which arent, my dear, highly original. At least “Spot” is something different, reminding one of a cuddly puppy.
Only no one wants to cuddle the guy with AIDS. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I am untouchable. They brought a kid in last night, all of nineteen, and before long, I heard him getting raped.
It wasnt sexy. It wasnt pretty.
The kid cried all night in his cell.
The worst abuse I get right now is just name-calling or when
some genius asked me in the cafeteria if I knew what “gay” stood for. I was a big enough dumb-ass to grin and ask “What?” “Got AIDS yet?” And he wandered off to join his buddies, telling them his joke so they could all laugh.
I couldnt care less.
Youre probably wondering whats going to happen to me. I dont know. Im in deep shit. Not only did I steal a car, I ran off, broke parole.
Im supposed to get a public defender. Lord knows its the best I can do.
But I will not let this temporary setback get me down. Maybe Mom and Dad will wise up and forgive me and will send money for a real lawyer. Maybe Ill get out of here in a couple of weeks.
Maybe Madonna will reclaim her virginity.
No, honey, I dont know whats going to happen. Or how long it will take to extricate myself from this mess. Or if, given my situation, I ever will….
Sorry! Sorry! Dont mean to be a downer.
You must write me soon and tell me all your news. You havent taken your druggie creep boyfriend back, have you? You be strong, now. You can do better, you big stud. And I want to hear all about your new job.
And please let me know how Sullivan is doing. I dont know when, if ever, hell be in touch. And it breaks my little heart, you know the one, the organ that the AIDS is trying to get to cease and desist.
Ta-ta for now, AIDS buddy omine. You take good care. Someone has to.
Love and kisses, Adam Dan set the letter down on the coffee table just as the timer went off for his pizza. He didnt know what to feel. A mix of emotions coursed through him, crashing into each other, warring and trying to come to some kind of détente. He was angry. Sad. Hopeful. This was all a misunderstanding. A judge couldnt keep a dying man in jail, could he? Theyd free him for medical reasons. Did they do that? His lawyer would get him off on a technicality. He would escape. The inmates would see him for the lovable, sarcastic bitch he was and would stop teasing him about having a virus that could kill him before he got released.
Dan was depressed.
He got up and pulled his pizza out of the oven, leaving it on a wooden cutting board on the kitchen counter to cool. The first thing I need to do is write back. I need to reassure him that someone out here cares about him. I should tell him that Sullivan is hurting for him and misses him. I should ask if he needs anything that I can send. I should see what the situation is for visitors.
And I should go see Sullivan, share the letter with him.
Dan cut the pizza into quarters and took half of it into the living room with him, with a beer.
It was time for Murphy Brown and Designing Women.
THE next morning, before work, before he even showered, Dan sat down at his computer and wrote back to Adam. He had to. He had spent a restless night, rolling from his back to his side to his stomach, yet no position was comfortable enough to allow him to sleep. And when he did doze off for the odd half hour or fifteen minutes, he was immersed in vivid nightmares—being trapped in a dark hole from which he couldnt escape, or trying to help Adam extricate himself after he had hopelessly caught his own head between bars.
He awoke bleary-eyed and exhausted. The only way, he thought, to put the day on some kind of reasonable course was to reach out to Adam.
Dear Adam,
Or should I call you honey-pie? Pumpkin? Babs Lover? Whatever. I miss you a lot. And my heart hurts to think of you up there in that prison cell. It all still seems so unreal to me.
Im not a praying kind of guy—long story—but if I was, know Id be praying for you. In any case, my thoughts are with you and will be with you, always, seeing you through this trial (and I dont mean whatever legal trial lies ahead for you).
I have faith that you will get out again. You have to. You stood me up for Jimmy Macs. And I want to spend a Sunday afternoon with you at Bedrocks on Treasure Island beach, watching the boys in their Speedos play volleyball. There, isnt that a nice image to hold close while were apart?
You asked about the job. Its okay. Its boring. I call people up, ask them a lot of questions about their finances, about their lifestyle, about their health—really nosy stuff. I argue with some of them, letting them know they have to share this information with me or they wont get approved for the life insurance policy they applied for.
Then I write up a report. Its all very standard and proscribed. Theres no room for creativity. And as I might have mentioned, I dream of one day being able to have the time to write the great American novel.
Until that day comes, Ill pour my creativity out to you. Okay?
The people in my office are nice, friendly. They have no idea Im gay. The receptionist makes eyes at me. Poor girl has no idea shes barking up the wrong tree.
The money is okay. Enough to pay the rent and buy beers at Tracks. Not enough to get rich.
Honey, I want you to know that I did go see Sullivan and that hes thinking about you and hurting for you. He wants you out of there. He understands.
And he loves you.
I do too.
Write soon.
XXOO, Dan Dan sealed the envelope and walked outside with it. The morning was quiet; a heron pecked at something along the shoreline of the lake in front of his apartment. The morning sun felt crisp, clean. The humidity was low. For once, the pool was empty, and its turquoise waters looked serene, still. The tennis court was silent. A balmy breeze blew across his skin and Dan wondered why life had to be so complicated.
He and Mark had moved down to Florida to avoid complications, to find a better life, a more peaceful one, but now it seemed like things were more confused and fucked up than they had been in Chicago, if that was possible.
As he walked the circumference of the little lake that was at the center of his apartment complex, Dan thought about Chicago… and about Mark, about Adam. They both loved to party. They both did stupid things when they were drunk or high.
They had all lived on the north side of the city, where most of the gays clustered.
Wouldnt it just be the perfect little twist of fate if Mark and Adam had known each other? If say, Mark had gone out to a bar on a coke bender, and run into Adam, who had been over served?
Wouldnt it just be funny as hell if the pair had met and gone home together, Mark cheating on him and Adam cheating on Sullivan?
And wouldnt it be a real thigh-slapper, a holy living scream if Adam had infected Mark and Mark, in turn, infected him?
Wouldnt that be rich? To come all the way down here to Florida from Illinois to become the AIDS buddy of the man from whom, indirectly, you got infected yourself?
Wouldnt that just be a twist of fate that would be one of those things where people would say, “If you wrote that in a book, no one would believe it”?
He and Adam could be brothers of a sort, with the very same virus coursing through their veins. Adam would be a kind of ghost of Christmas Future for Dan.
Dan shook his head as he reached the mailbox on the other side of the lake. He double-checked the address on the envelope, made sure it had a stamp, and dropped it into the box.
That would just be too weird. It couldnt happen.
Still, Dan felt chilled as he walked back to the apartment, in spite of the rising temperature and the brilliant sun coming to glory above him.
His HIV test results were still days away from coming in.
Chapter Fourteen
THE ten or so days left until Dan would get his HIV test results back passed. Those days were a mix of routine boredom at his work (grateful for the distraction), combined with sleepless nights worrying about the results of his test and what would happen to Adam.
Many nights, when Dan was able to manage getting to sleep, he would awaken from nightmares drenched in sweat and then immediately recall how night sweats were one of the signs of what they were calling seroconversion. Yes, Dan had been doing his reading on the subject, perhaps too much.
He would awake most mornings certain he was infected. He would fall asleep each night telling himself that just couldnt be. He was a top, mostly, after all, and wasnt it the guys who bottomed who were getting “it”? Sure, Dan, if thinking that way makes you feel better, you go right ahead….
He had called Sullivan when he got home the day after Adam had sent his first letter, wanting to share the missive with him, thinking it would cheer Sullivan to know how his lover was doing, that he at least had retained some of his humor.
But Sullivan had been cold. He seemed to be only tolerating Dan when he agreed to let him read the letter over the phone. And when Dan had finished, expecting to have some conversation about Adam, about how perhaps they should plan a visit north to Raiford to visit him, all Sullivan had said was, “Thanks for sharing that with me, Dan. Ive got to go.”
And before Dan could utter another word, Sullivan had hung up the phone. How Dan wished they had not shared that kiss! Yet a part of him did not regret it one bit; that selfish part wanted only more.
Repeated calls to Sullivans house in Brandon so far had gone unanswered, and Dan grew tired of hearing the answering machine. Sullivan never called back after Dan left a couple of messages, so Dan had begun simply hanging up when the phone began its fourth ring.
Adams letters, coming at a rate of three to four a week, were the only bright spot in his lonely, anxious days. Adam wrote about the other inmates, making fun of them, telling Dan how romance was one of the favorite genres of books in the prison library. The irony of these big, mean bruisers curling up after a hard day with a Harlequin bodice-ripper tickled him to no end.