by Rick R. Reed
“So you can eat even more?”
Sullivan was quiet. “Is there any left?”
Dan shook his head. “No. Im glad you liked it so much.”
“What made it so good?”
“Cooking the pork in the sauce; thats the big secret. My mother gets pork neck bones from the butcher and grates her own Romano. Hers is even better.”
The two men sat, post-dinner, in Sullivans living room, on the very same couch where theyd once had their little make-out session. Now the idea of making out, at least to Dan, was anathema to him, for many reasons, but foremost at the moment was simply being too full to move. On the coffee table before them were two glasses of red wine, the last of the bottle of Chianti Sullivan had opened earlier.
Dan felt a little drowsy and more than a little drunk, comfortable. What was nice about this moment was that both of them were silent, and he guessed that neither of them felt a need to fill the quiet space up with chatter. Dan had always believed that one measure of a good relationship was not in what a couple of people could find to talk about, but how comfortable they could be in their silence together.
This was nice. There was only a little background music, the stereo turned low. Dan was a shameless pop music, top-forty kind of guy, but he was glad Sullivan had taken the time to introduce him to a singer (jazz? Was that the correct genre?) named Nina Simone. Her smoky voice was warm, playful, and powerful, all at once. Dan couldnt remember ever hearing a voice quite like it.
Both of them had their shoes off, feet up on the coffee table. Outside, the day wound down into dusk. Sullivan had pulled the curtains open after dinner and the east-facing picture window now revealed an end of day that was luminous in shades of lavender and orange as the sun, behind the house, sank below the flat horizon.
It seemed natural at this relaxed moment to slide over on the couch and for Dan to rest his head on Sullivans shoulder. Just as easily, Sullivan slid his arm around Dan, his grip warm and secure. Dan could hear the steady rhythm of Sullivans heart beating. His chest felt smooth and hard beneath the soft fabric of his warm T-shirt.
Sullivan said, “He would have loved this.”
Dan didnt move. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. He could be loud, sarcastic, campy, but he adored quiet times, good food, candlelight. He never would have admitted it, but he was quite the romantic at heart. I remember when we first met, how he wooed me. He wrote me love poems, left candy and flowers outside the door to my apartment…. Once he called my answering machine and left a love poem by Christopher Marlowe on it. I loved it so much I never erased it. It stayed on that machine until it died. And after it died, I committed it to memory. Want to hear it?”
Dan was surprised to hear that Adam would ever quote Marlowe. He was more the type to quote Oscar Wilde, or Paul Lynde, for that matter. “Id love to hear it.”
Sullivan paused and then began, in his deep voice:
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hill and valley, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.
There we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat, As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.
Sullivans voice trailed off on the last words and Dan closed his eyes, savoring the words. He would admit this only to himself but for just one moment, and one moment only, he imagined that Sullivan was reciting the poem to him. He knew it was wrong, especially when the man was sharing such a special memory he had of his now-lost love, so he forced the fantasy from his mind as quickly as it had arisen.
“Thats lovely,” Dan said quietly.
“Surprised that Adam would do such a thing?”
Dan laughed. “Honestly, Im surprised Adam would even know
who Christopher Marlowe was.” He cocked his head to look up at Sullivan. “Is that mean to say?” “Terrible. But I know what you mean, so not really. Adam gave the appearance of being all about disco and dick, but he was really smart and creative. Did he ever show you any of his drawings?”
“Actually, in his letters, he would send me these amazing—and comically unflattering—caricatures he had done of some of the other inmates. They were really good, and spot on. I saw some of these guys when I visited him at the county jail, which I guess was when he was still feeling well enough to draw.”
“Yeah, before he got messed up with drugs and drink, he had a really good job in Chicago, as a graphic designer with some fancy Michigan Avenue ad agency. When we met, he was pulling down something like fifty grand.”
“When did it all go wrong?” Sullivan tensed slightly. “I dont know that it did. I mean, sure, money, material things, security, reputation—all that good shit—did end up where shit belongs, I suppose, in the toilet.” Sullivan paused. “But you know what? What we had, our love, although it was sorely tested at times, was always rock solid, so I dont know that I can or will say that things went „wrong. Even at the worst of times, I loved that guy and he loved me. So how can I say things went wrong?”
“I guess as long as you had that, you wouldnt.”
Sullivans voice was barely above a whisper. “No, I wouldnt.” Dan felt a sudden surge of guilt at lying here on the couch with
his head on Adams lovers shoulder, Sullivans arm around him. He pulled away and sat up, putting both feet on the floor. Dan was stunned when Sullivan pulled him right back into place. “Its okay. It feels good, us together like this. We both cared about Adam and I dont know if theres anyone else who would understand how we feel right now.” Sullivan planted a gentle kiss at the top of Dans head and Dan swore the light touch of Sullivans lips against his hair sent an electric tingle through him, one that ran all the way down to his toes.
“Do you think Adam would approve of us here now, lying together like this?”
“Yeah. Not only do I think he would approve, I think he knows were here and that maybe, just a little bit, hes pushing us together.” Sullivan leaned forward to take a sip of wine. “Before, you know, everything happened, and he had signed up with Tampa AIDS Alliance for a buddy, I asked him why.”
Dan took a sip of his own wine, sat back, and looked at Sullivan. “What do you mean?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Think about it. From what you knew of Adam, his resiliency, his warped sense of humor, his independence, do you really see him as the type to sign up for a buddy? I mean, he had me.”
Dan wondered for a moment if Sullivan had been hurt that Adam had reached out beyond their own home in contacting the buddy program.
“I know youre thinking I was jealous or something—or felt inadequate. I dont know. But that wasnt it. I was truly puzzled. See, and dont get offended by this statement, there was a time when the Adam I knew would have made fun of somebody who reached out for a „buddy from a social services program. He would have thought it was kind of pathetic. He might have said something like, „How sad it must be to have to solicit volunteers as friends.
“So I asked him why he did it. Not because I was hurt, but because I was curious.”
“What did he say?”
“He shrugged and didnt really say much.” Sullivan gnawed at his lower lip and in the waning light, Dan could tell his eyes had brightened with tears. “Thats not quite
true. He said, „I wont always be around to take care of you.”
Dan sucked in a breath and shut his eyes, letting his head loll back on the couch. Softly: “So you think he got me for you?” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
“I dont think that was all of it, but yeah, I think he knew he wasnt long for this world and he didnt like to envision me all by myself. Isnt that sweet?” Sullivan choked back a sob; it sounded like a hiccup.
Dan thought of how supportive Adam had been of him dumping Mark. Maybe it was all part of his grand plan.
Again, as if Sullivan had read his mind, he said, “Now dont go thinking Adam sat down and plotted this all out. I do think he had some ideas, but I also believe he wanted a buddy because he wanted someone new in his life, someone he could surprise, someone who maybe, just maybe, would care about him in a different way from me.” Sullivans voice went softer when he said, “And maybe he wanted to spread the burden around of his care to more than just me.” Sullivan said nothing for several moments. “Weve all seen what happens to guys with AIDS who linger, who dont end up in prison hospitals. Endless trips to doctors and emergency rooms. Nausea from AZT. Diaper horrors. Loss of dignity. Its not pretty.”
Sullivan gulped down the rest of his wine and drew in a deep breath. Dan supposed he was trying to calm himself. “I think, maybe more subconsciously than not, he was looking out for me. I cant say that he wanted us to end up in a relationship or anything like that, but I do believe he wanted me to have a friend, someone that cared about me and who would understand about him when he was gone.” Sullivan chuckled. “He could be a jealous bitch, so getting back to your original question—no, he probably would not like me having my arm around you and you with your head on my shoulder. And he probably wouldnt like this.”
Sullivan turned to Dan and cupped his chin, positioning Dans face toward his own. He leaned in and kissed him. It wasnt a simple friendly, comforting kiss, but a deep one. Sullivans tongue pried Dans lips apart and darted inside, warm and exploring, sweet from the wine. Sullivan moved closer and drew Dan into his arms, his stubble grinding deliciously into the soft skin on Dans cheeks. Dan found himself completely surrendering to the kiss, his arms almost involuntarily going up and around Sullivan, pulling him so close it was as if he wanted their bodies to merge.
It felt good, mindless, in the several seconds it lasted. Dan felt himself growing aroused and did not think of where this might lead. All he could think of at the moment was how good this closeness felt, marveling at what two bodies pressed close and a kiss could create, a kind of balm for a hurting soul.
After a moment, Sullivan pulled away, breathing a little heavier and staring at Dan in the darkened room. He reached out and tenderly stroked Dans cheek, then drew his hand away.
“It has to end here.”
For a moment, Dan panicked, thinking Sullivan was saying he never wanted to see him again. Queasiness rose up inside quickly, replacing yet oddly akin to the desire there only moments before.
“I dont mean us. We can see each other again, of course. I like you, Dan. But I dont know about the physical part. It doesnt seem right. My Adams not even cold in his grave.”
The image of Adam in a casket, being lowered into a grave in some sylvan Illinois cemetery, completely erased any erotic feelings Dan may have been entertaining. “I understand,” Dan said, without much conviction or even breath behind his words. He was still reeling from the kiss and amazed how things could go from hot to cold in the space of a heartbeat.
Sullivan went on. “Theres part of me that would like to take your hand and lead you into that bedroom. Would that be so wrong? I dont know.”
Dan stood quickly. He felt dizzy and suddenly the little house and the darkness felt claustrophobic. “I should go.”
“Dan! I didnt mean anything. I just—” Sullivans voice trailed off, almost as if he didnt know what to say. “Please sit down.”
Dan did. He stared straight ahead, crossing his arms over his chest, not daring to look at Sullivan, uncertain himself why he felt so confused and wounded.
“As I said, a part of me would love to go into that bedroom with you, to see you naked, to feel your skin pressed against mine. To suck your dick, to kiss you all over—dont think that kind of stuff hasnt run through my head, even before Adam passed.
“But I think if we did that, it would be crossing a line neither of us is ready for. And, Hell, I may only be flattering myself to think youd even be willing to join me in the bedroom.”
Dan said, so soft he himself barely heard it, “Youre not.”
Sullivan grinned. “But I think—and this sounds wild and out-inleft-field—we may have something more here and I dont want to rush it. I think wed have a very good time in that bedroom and I also think that, come morning, we might not be able to bear seeing each other again.” He paused. “I dont want that to happen.”
Again, Dan felt warm inside. And when he repeated the words, “I should go,” they were not said with terror and hurt, but with an easy understanding that the evening had reached its logical conclusion.
“Are you sure? You okay to drive? We have a guest room.”
Dan chuckled, but not so happily.
“I said „we, didnt I? Theres a guest room. I promise I wont ravage you in the middle of the night.”
Dan snorted. “Then I am definitely out of here.” Dan walked toward the door. “Im okay to drive. Ill be fine. Maybe I can stop by in a few days and pick up the pots and bowls.”
“You better. And Ill cook for you next time.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Dan stood awkwardly at the door, smiling. “Are we doing the right thing?”
“Who knows?”
“Good night, Sullivan.” Dan opened the door without waiting for a reply, out into the balmy night, moist with humidity.
He got in his car, thinking it was still early; he could drop by one of Tampas gay bars, Howard Street maybe, or City Lights, and quench the fire Sullivan had lit with a stranger. The idea had its appeal.
Dan drove straight home.
Chapter Twenty
WEEKS passed. Summer almost imperceptibly faded into autumn, the only signifiers being the shortening of daylight hours and a few— though not many—of the trees shedding their leaves.
Although it was now October, Dan believed it still felt like summer. In fact, he predicted that one day, if he no longer lived in the sunshine state, his time here in memory would be an era of endless summer.
Dans job went from part-time to full-time and he became adept at writing underwriting reports and prying sensitive information from life insurance applicants. He joined a gay racquetball league and enjoyed the camaraderie and the matches, held every Thursday night. Even more, he enjoyed the couple hours of cocktails at whatever gay bar was nearby and, once or twice, even took one of his teammates home for the night, although nothing ever developed from it.
He thought of Adam often, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into a couple of months since his passing, he thought of him less and less. Dan supposed it was inevitable. Their brief time together would always be a treasured memory and Dan would forever long for just a few minutes more with Adam. Adams memory would stay a hot touch of pain and loss, but in a sad way, that absence grew easier to bear with the passage of time. Sometimes, Dan would dream of him and the dream was always the same—them on a blanket at Ft. De Soto beach, a perfect summer day laid out before them like a gorgeous landscape painted in hues of aqua, taupe, and green. They would lie together, their warm, sun-heated bodies pressed close, not talking, but with a great sense of contentment. The breeze would be salty and warm, and sometimes Dan could swear he could feel, in these nighttime interludes, the coarse brush of sand on his face as the wind lifted a few grains from the beach. Once in a while, he would awaken with not Adams voice in his head, but Barbra Streisands. The song was, more often than not, “He Touched Me.”
Dan would always wake from these
visits—and thats what he considered them, not dreams—from Adam feeling happy. The visits were gifts, a few bittersweet moments, and always too short. He would go about the rest of his day feeling especially close to Adam.
The dreams, too, grew less frequent with the passage of time. Dan found himself longing for them, wishing there was a way he could force them to come back. For a while, he even tried reading some of Adams letters from prison before he went to sleep at night, thinking that might conjure up a dream, but it seldom—if ever— worked. Dreams of Adam, much like Adam himself, kept to their own capricious and unpredictable schedule.
Yet he never dreamed of Mark. And, curiously, he never heard another word from the man. As with Adam, the pain of Marks absence grew less and less acute as the days on the calendar flew by, until now Dan hardly ever thought of his ex and what they had shared, good or bad. There was a certain restfulness to being done with the suspicion and mistrust that had haunted their final days together.
He saw Sullivan every couple of weeks. He would go to Brandon or Sullivan would come to his apartment in Tampa and they would make dinner for one other. Both men loved to cook and each was good in the kitchen. Sullivans specialties were comfort foods— macaroni and cheese, beef stew, chili, a roast chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. Dan shared his Italian heritage more and more with Sullivan, cooking up not only pots of pasta, but greens and beans, minestrone (which Dan called, as his family did, simply “minest”), pork chops seared in a cast-iron skillet with Swiss chard and garlic, stuff like that.
They flirted with each other and sometimes a hand would linger too long on a thigh or their eyes would meet and they would hold the moment, getting lost in one anothers eyes. And then the moment would pass, too quickly, and they might laugh with embarrassment as though they had done something foolish.
But things never went further than that.
Tonight, Dan was ready to change things. As he hurried around the kitchen this late-afternoon Sunday, he was determined to take Sullivan and his relationship to the next level.