Message of Love (12 page)

“No.”

Everett huffed out a breath, as if preparing, and scooted himself under the cover, reached down to adjust his legs. “The reason I got a little… cautious with you in the theatre… It was in the
DP
. I don’t know who it was, but… some gay student got attacked.”

“What?”

“In his dorm.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t here. It was in another house, one of the highrises. And after you got sort of mugged, it just… scared me.”

“What happened?”

“I saved the paper. It’s over there in my stack. Don’t, don’t read it now.” He stopped me from leaving the bed, held his arm along my back, pulled me closer.

“I was gonna tell you, but I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Of course I worry.”

“I’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to hurt me. I just… It might be a good idea if we kept it cool for a while.”

As if the threat were closing in around us, I could only sit and stare about his room. Was he safe at all?

Everett diverted my concern by saying, “It is kind of ironic. My presumably straight schoolmates can perform a sloppy kickline in tight skirts and wobbling fake boobs, using a theatrical guise to express some sort of sex-reversal ritual. But if we merely touch in public, we could cause more outrage by just being ourselves.”

“Your scholarly analysis doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Maybe you should come visit me more often.”

“Sure, if I can find a place to park the van.”

“You still have the parking decal from Temple.”

“Yeah, I guess I could fake it. The handicap card’s good anywhere.”

“Come ‘ere,” I said, drawing him close. We kissed, and touched, and explored and licked and caressed, but it became a cautious, quiet form of lovemaking.

Afterward, I held him close, not falling asleep until much later in the night. Every sound in the hallway yanked me from sleep, as if a potential threat lurked just outside the door.

Chapter 17

May 1981

As Penn’s lacrosse team prepared to compete against Princeton, the bleachers were about half full. Penn’s mascot, a guy dressed as a Quaker, had yet to rouse the crowd to respond to more than a few half-hearted pre-game cheers. We parked ourselves on the grounds in front of the bleachers.

“You sure you want to be here?”

“Why not? It’s a game.”

“It’s more than that,” I said.

“Yes, ‘facing my demons,’ just like my physical therapist said.” Everett made a comically fearful face that made me grin.

As if to lighten his mood, he offered another ‘Did You Know.’ “The traditional football huddle…”

“Yes?”

“Not used in this sport, but nevertheless, was invented at Gallaudet University for the Deaf.”

“Huh.”

“So the opposing team couldn’t see their play calls being signed.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really; in 1892.”

“Wow.”

“By a professor Hubbard.”

“So then, why isn’t a huddle called a hubble?”

Everett offered a confused look. “Let me get back to you on that.”

As the team’s warm-ups ended, I saw one of the players staring at us, then walking toward us. A husky guy with short blond hair and a questioning look approached us, his helmet and stick in his hands.

“Forrester?”

“Nickerson!”

“Hey, man!” He dropped his equipment, leaned down and surrounded Everett in a bear hug. “I thought that was you.”

“What gave it away?”

“Oh.” Nickerson frowned, then offered an embarrassed smile. “I get it.”

“So, a Princeton man.”

“Yup. And you’re here at Penn?”

“That I am.”

Nickerson looked at me.

“Oh, sorry. This is my best bud, Reid.”

“Drew.”

We shook hands.

“Nicks here’s one of my old classmates from Pinecrest,” Everett said.

“Oh,” I nodded. “Were you in the same grade?”

“Naw,” Drew glanced behind him to see if the game had started. “He was a year ahead. I was JV. So, wow. I remember when your…” He gestured vaguely toward Everett’s chair.

“You were there?” I said, a bit too urgently.

“Well, yeah. We had a game before his, then he fell and everything stopped and it wasn’t until that helicopter swooped in, man, that was pretty amazing, sorry, but…”

Drew continued his account, but my ears were ringing, and a tautness in my stomach overtook me. I almost got up from my seat and turned away, until I felt Everett’s hand grab my elbow.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“You get the cards we sent?” Drew asked.

“Yes, I did. Thank you.”

Drew appeared oblivious to what I read as Everett’s contained frustration.

“So, how are you?” Drew asked.

“Other than being a paraplegic, pretty good. You?”

“Huh. Sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do it.”

Stunned, Drew’s mouth hung open.

I glared at Everett.

“Sorry. I can be a little caustic. Right, Reid?”

“Oh, yes. Very,” I added.

Everett patted my shoulder, then sort of kept his hand on me, lingering, as if undecided about whether to caress or choke my neck, which made Drew seem even more uncomfortable.

An awkward silence was broken by Everett’s segue, “So, now I play basketball.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s just for fun.”

“Don’t listen to him. He’s wicked on the court,” I added, feeling reconnected to the conversation, calmed. Drew smiled.

They shared some more disarming chat about their classmates and teachers at Pinecrest, until one of Drew’s teammates called out his name from the field.

“Gotta go. So, who ya gonna cheer for, me or your team?”

“I have to say, my allegiance is now torn.”

“Ha. You gonna hang after the game?”

“Actually,” Everett turned to me. “Reid’s got a …thing in a bit.”

“Um, okay then. Great to see ya.” Drew leaned forward again, offered a briefer half-hug, parting nods and trotted off to the field.

“Well, that went well.”

I shrugged, determined to not pass judgment. “Was he one of your ‘demons?’”

“No, he’s harmless.”

“Right.”

“And not on the ‘need to know’ list.”

“Not a problem,” I assured him. “But I think he got it.”

“I’m not so sure. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in school.”

“So, how’d he get into Princeton?”

“The same way he got into Pinecrest. His dad’s a defense contractor; richer than mine.”

“Oh.”

As the game started, Everett shared several disdainful critiques of the Princeton team’s skills. He held a stoic attitude, and offered critiques on moves, explaining various strategies. When we weren’t talking, I stole a few glances sideways and saw his jaw clench several times, and that familiar slight wobble of his ear.

Just before the game’s end, Penn was ahead 13-10.

“Come on.” He started wheeling off ahead of me. “Let’s beat the crowd. We have to go apartment-hunting.”

“Did you ask again with the guys at Magee?”

“Yes,” Everett said with a sharp tone as we trundled along Spruce Street a few blocks west of the Penn campus.

Our search for housing off-campus had not been going well. He said he’d seen a listing in the
Daily Pennsylvanian
that sounded right; modern apartments (meaning no Edwardian grand staircase entrances) and an elevator, for $450 a month.

Gerard heard about our plans, thanks to Everett, and offered to move in with us and apartment-hunt, but I squashed that as soon as he called me with suggestions for row house rentals in Center City. I had to remind Gerard that no amount of fabulous decorating ideas would improve a series of steps. Also, as much as I’d finally warmed up to him, the idea of Gerard living with us was unthinkable. We had to find a place of our own. So we looked, and had narrowed down our search because our options were limited.

Hidden away between older houses, a few with Greek letters on awnings and doorways, the Sprucewood Apartments seemed out of place. Set back with a first-floor parking lot, except for the street view, the grey-bricked box-shaped building’s windows faced the lot, and probably saw no direct sunlight. That was proven when the reluctant manager let us see one of the vacant rooms where the windows faced a wall.

The bathtub had an aluminum bar. The kitchen had a lowered work table with a cutting board on it. The living room and bedroom were grey boxes with some recently removed ghost-like carpet stains around where a sofa had been.

“There’s free cable.” The indifferent manager added, as if tossing a carnation on a block of cement. Even Everett couldn’t hide his hesitation, but added, “It’s functional.”

What was also functional was one tenant’s loud stereo thumping through the wall. We asked for a day to decide.

But by the time we rounded back onto Spruce Street, for some reason, Everett turned off to South 42nd
Street with a smaller row of houses, a few elegant ones. I pulled back behind a row of shoulder-high hedges, which had just blossomed with spring flowers. In front of them, black wrought iron gates repeated a crest of what seemed a plant, no, an oak tree. At the top of each crest, a tiny cluster of acorns hung.

Everett had been pushing ahead of me, but the sidewalk’s bricks rolled under the roots of a curbside tree, or the remnants of one. A stump had become a chopped out bench.

Finally, Everett stopped, since I wasn’t following him. Instead, I leaned over to stick my nose in a cluster of tiny white hedge flowers.

“Pretty,” Everett said, having jumble-rolled himself back over the bricks.

“Lilac.”

I had to stay calm. We had no choice but that boxy apartment around the corner. It might work with a little lighting, some carpets, a request for Gerard’s help, to please Everett, but also out of necessity. I didn’t want to just put up posters, but that’s about all we had.

“Look, sweetie, Monkey, honey, etcetera,” I said, resisting the urge to pluck a cluster of the hedge flowers. “I don’t know where else we can go, other than that one on Eighth Street.”

We’d checked out a large modern apartment building, but it looked and felt more like a hospital, since it had been a veteran’s rehab building built in the 1970s.

“The other one’s got a doorman, and high ceilings, but it’s really for seniors, mostly,” he said. “And that’s so out of the way for me, especially winters; unless I drive.”

“That reminds me; the carburetor.”

“What?”

“Something’s wrong with the van.”

“Again?”

The ignition worked fine, but some other clanking noise irked me. We’d kept it parked too often, simply walking and rolling instead, and fast-paced sometimes, too. It became our default aerobics; hunting for a home, zooming across the Walnut Street Bridge as spring rains poured down around us, the blast of wind from the river basin side-slapping us.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s just …”

“Excuse me.” One of the hedge flowers spoke.

Then a head popped up from behind the hedge, an elderly woman with a ragged sailor cap, green gloves and a pair of clippers in one hand.

“I’m so sorry, but I was actually kneeling and clipping some stems when you young fellows passed by and I thought you’d just keep going, so I didn’t get up, but then one of you, oh, your friend; did he leave?”

She had been looking right at me, completely missing Everett below the hedge. He could have raised his hand. He instead convulsed in silent laughter at my side.

“Did you say you needed a place to stay?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“He’ll be out in September, or else June, if he gets that doctoral fellowship trip to Honduras for the summer; my current tenant, that is. Normally I only rent to graduate students; keeps the place a bit more quiet than the undergraduates. No offense, but at least they’re not like the fraternity boys down the street.”

“Are they noisy?”

“Oh no, only for the occasional pagan holiday disguised as an academic ritual. But anyway, are there two of you?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Everett raised his hand.

Her pop-eyed look of astonishment, followed by a thrust upward on her toes, was finally met by Everett’s dazzling smile.

“Oh!” She darted up, then down, with a wobbly flair, disappeared, then the black gate swung open and she rushed forward to shake Everett’s hand.

“Well, this is our lucky day,” she smiled. I remained befuddled.

“I do hope this rooming problem is about you,” she said. “I mean, there’s only one room, but I suppose it could fit another bed. You’re Penn boys?”

“Ma’am, actually–”

Everett shot a panicked silent ‘Shut up a minute!’ glare my way, then doled out a series of compliments and handshakes after the woman introduced herself as Suzanne Kukka.

“It’s an old Finnish name, my husband’s. I’m Irish-Albanian. But he was a Kukka. It’s Finnish for flower; appropriate, since that’s been my hobby for years and years.”

Everett beamed, glanced around, said softly, “Flowers.”

I returned his grin, nervous. The woman hadn’t quite figured out what to do with her clippers, and apologized for the bricks. She seemed a bit flustered, but a certain spark in her eyes made me smile in return.

“We’ll get that fixed right up. I know a fellow. It’s about time. Oh, but do come in. You’ll understand my excitement when you see.”

And see we did.

Past the gate, whose handle was only waist high, and wide enough for Everett’s chair, the sidewalk led down at a wonderfully discreet angle, all the way to the right of a side porch that led inside to the kitchen. The yard’s garden included a variety of shrubs, small clusters of flowers and, in the back, a maple and pine tree, with a smaller redbud in a far corner by a fence.

“No steps,” Everett said to me as we approached the side porch.

“You noticed,” Mrs. Kukka turned back, smiling. “My mother used a chair for her later years,” she said as she led us inside.

We both stopped first to admire the enormous kitchen and a sidebar counter, a lowered separate stove, and a large refrigerator. Beyond it, a warm yet somewhat darkened dining room was lined with shelves filled with books, but lacked a central table.

“Ninety-five she was, before she left us. Of course, she didn’t get around as much as I would have liked, but there’s plenty of room to move around. You look like the athletic types. What were your names again?”

We re-introduced ourselves as Mrs. Kukka showed off cabinet doors, which slid sideways, not out. “Otherwise gets in the way of the feet, I imagine you’ve found,” she glanced down at Everett, who nodded.