Message of Love (24 page)

“Uh, I guess.”

“He said we could stay with him.”

“Are you okay with that?” I asked.

“I’m okay if you’re okay.”

“Um… I’m not okay.”

“Let’s reserve a hotel room, then,” he said as he dug in his drawer for his wallet. “Mother’s little helper’s due for some action.”

Chapter 30

June 1982

As Jessica, my supervisor, had warned me, the bulk of my initial work at Fairmount Park was spent cleaning up after partying crowds who took over picnic areas and left garbage cans overflowing. When I wasn’t working with my new coworkers cleaning up, we tooled around in pairs on the little electric carts or in pick-up trucks to check on fallen trees, clear brush and make lists of damaged benches for the construction crew.

As I grew more familiar with the immensity of the many divisions of the park, and its wooded and open areas, all the way up to the grounds near the cemetery, it all took on a daunting immensity. As soon as we alerted the construction crew of a precarious broken railing overlooking the river, another task took over, like disposing of a few discovered dead animals; a dog, a goose or two.

Still, I found moments during my lunch breaks to just sit alone and enjoy some cool shade under an oak, or to watch a casual softball game at one of the playing fields. At times, in between a few pesky flies, a butterfly would land near or on me, and the quiet pleasure of being outside all day returned.

After two weeks of what became a sort of exhausting boot camp, I stopped by the cramped offices of the Parks Department after a Thursday shift. Jessica was on the phone, and I waited by the door until she waved me in.

“So, what’s up? Are we working you too hard?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I was just wondering. I had these projects that I was hoping to sort of blend in with my studies at Temple.”

“What sort of projects?” Jessica asked.

“One of my, um, side focuses is ramps; accessibility.”

Jessica offered a confused glance. I had an inkling that her tough demeanor and short hair might be a clue that she was a lesbian, but I didn’t dare ask, or let on about myself.

“See, my, uh, roommate is, he uses a wheelchair, and it’s always been an idea–”

“Most of the park is flat. Where do you think ramps are needed?”

“Well, I know we can’t change all the smaller trails, but what about some of the historic buildings? Just like a ramp to fit over the stairs or
–”

“That would require approval from maintenance, and the board. They get very touchy about their properties.”

“Okay, but–”

“I’d have to make a budget proposal; could take months. I’m not sure if there’d be funds for something like that.”

“Okay, well, it was just an idea.”

“I can give you some more hours, if you’re up for it.”

“Sure,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “I just need the last weekend in June off.”

“Planning a vacation?”

“Something like that.”

“Turkey okay again?”

“Sounds good.”

“Bamaytah an’ mayoz?”

“Si!”

Everett and I shared another round of puns and jokes that didn’t even require a responding chuckle. We’d established a morning routine of him making lunches with our stock of groceries, and me making coffee, of which I had become dependent on, what with my early work hours. I foraged in the cabinet for a few extra snacks.

Having snagged an internship with one of Philadelphia’s council members, he was working as an assistant to a liaison with the Gay and Lesbian Task Force. Although the offices were still a hassle for him to get up to, he had been given a handicap parking space in lieu of a paycheck.

“Any news on the political front?”

“The bill’s getting re-introduced next week by Blackwell. He’s got eight others lined up to sign on.” Everett wrapped our sandwiches in bags.

“Alrighty then!” I replied with a bit of forced enthusiasm, brought on perhaps by the fresh jolt of coffee.

“So soon, you can declare your homo-ness without fear of discrimination.”

“I’m sure the flora and fauna will be thrilled.”

Everett tossed the paper bag, which I put into my backpack, along with a copy of Thoreau’s
Walden
he had given me to read during my lunch breaks.

“Are you making light of all my hard work for equality?”

“No, but you’re hobnobbing with city officials while I’m cutting brush and picking up beer cans.”

Everett offered a scolding bit of praise. “You’re doing God’s work!”

“Yeah? Which god?”

He shrugged. “Are you getting next Friday off?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still want to go?”

“Yes, as long as we can go to Central Park along with all the gay stuff. It’s only a tenth the size of Fairmount Park, but much better designed; Frederick Olmstead’s masterpiece!”

“You’re amazing.”

“Am I? ‘Amazing?’” I said, imitating Kenny, our fondly missed summer school kid.

He smiled, admiring me. “Your first time in the greatest city in the world, and all you can think about are more trees.”

As we headed out together, eventually in separate directions, I bid my boyfriend a brisk farewell, hoping to keep up my cheerful mood. While attending our first Gay Pride event would be fun, the real reason we were going to New York City filled me with a quiet dread.

Manhattan was only a two-hour train ride away, but from the moment we arrived, I sensed a vast difference from Philadelphia. New York rumbled, it hummed, it loomed. People didn’t politely dodge us; they jostled us.

We’d packed light, since we were only staying two nights. I’d managed to stuff clothes and toiletries in a large duffel bag, and Everett’s backpack sagged a bit on the back of his chair, but we managed.

After checking into the hotel, and being snubbed by dozens of taxi cabs, we somehow made it to the address Wesley Sweigard had given us, a brick street in SoHo, which, Everett corrected me, was near How-stun Street, not Hew-stin.

After being buzzed in at a suspiciously funky front door, we entered a cramped elevator, rode up two floors and wandered down a wide bare hallway. We passed an open doorway where a quick glance inside showed a construction crew assembling drywall. Further down the hallway, the man who greeted us at the open door was not the same man from those yearbook photos.

While still tall, he seemed older, thinner, cautious, with an almost grey pallor.

“You made it!”

An awkward hug as Wesley bent down to Everett, then a semblance of a handshake with me, and we were led in to an expansive loft apartment with high windows. Sparsely furnished, the open living room and wood floors echoed our every word. One side of the room opposite the windows shined with metal cabinets and a fridge. On one otherwise blank white wall, a huge poster hung, a Japanese version of a Paul Newman movie. It was all very stylish and cool, more like an idea of a home than a real one.

As we sat and Wesley brought us glasses of water, he told us of the building’s history as a sweatshop, like many others on the block, and the growing number of renovations by artists and “the newly successful, like myself.” He almost laughed it off as a joke.

We sat, distanced from each other by the furniture, Everett parked beside the long black sofa where I perched. We talked lightly of our studies, our slight travel difficulties, and the weather, and Wesley offered a summary of his few years in New York, his quick rise as a financial investor, anything but why we were really there, until a silence took hold.

“Can I… Reid, do you mind if Everett and I have some time alone?”

One glance toward me, and Everett sighed, asserted himself. “Actually, Wes, anything you tell me gets back to Reid, so you might as well just talk now.”

His shoulders slumped a bit, a slow resignation spread across his face.

“You two really are a couple. I wish I had that. Okay, then.” He scratched his forehead, looked around the room, at Everett, then at me. “So, I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” Everett asked.

“It. Whatever they’re calling it; gay cancer.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Everett asked.

“Because I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Wes, I would’ve. We would have.”

“Well, you’re here.”

Another silence, until Everett asked, “So, when did you…?”

Wesley breathed in, then out. “It started with the flu. I couldn’t shake it; missed a week at work. Then I got this weird infection in my mouth. Then I had the shits, for like, a month. Then these started showing up.” He tugged his shirt up, revealed a few discolored speckles of some sort.

“Are those scars?” I asked.

“Lesions; it’s called Kaposi’s Sarcoma.”

“How did…?”

“The doctors didn’t know. But it was pretty easy for me to figure out. I heard about others, and then one of the guys I used to party with just dropped out, quit his job. It had to be from all the sex.”

“How much?” Everett asked.

“Enough, I guess. For a while I thought it was the cocaine.”

“The what?”

“I had a little habit for a while.”

“What’s a little?”

Wesley sort of shrugged at Everett, offered a dry huff that stopped short of a chuckle. “Anyway, I made a boatload of money. Funny, it’s not helping now. No amount of fancy doctors are working out. My family’s already hinting that I should make out my will. Can you believe it? Not like they’re getting any.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Everett almost whispered.

“Tell me you forgive me.”

Everett looked away, at his knees, over to me. I wanted to take him in my arms, out of that room, away from that city. But we were there, facing his demon, broken and frail as he was.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Wesley offered a meager smile.

“So, what are you going to do?” Everett asked.

“I already left my job.”

“Did they fire you?”

“Not in so many words. My boss… hinted, loudly, that I should take a leave of absence, then he paid me off. And my family’s… It’s all over. I’m… I just wanted to make amends with you, Mutt, before…”

“Wes, don’t…”

“No. I do. I want you to be okay.”

“We are.”

“Reid, you taking care of him?”

“Trying,” I stammered.

“Just so you know. I really don’t think I got it until after we... I mean, I never even got fucked until I moved here.”

“But you had sex with other guys before Ev–” I blurted.

“I don’t think that’s relevant,” Everett said, attempting to relieve me. It came out as more of a scold.

“Oh, yeah. It’s okay. A few. Listen, Reid. I don’t want you to freak out or anything.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Just to have you here, to share some good memories too, I hope.”

“Sure.” I blushed.

“Speaking of good memories,” Everett said. “Do you have those pictures?”

“Oh my god. You want them back so no one finds them when I croak?”

Neither of us replied.

“Gimme a minute.” Wesley walked into another room, his bedroom, I assumed.

Everett gave me a confused look, whispered, “I think it’ll be okay if you step out for a bit.”

“What? But you said–”

He held up his hand to quiet me.

“Here we are,” Wesley returned, tossed a small envelope onto Everett’s lap.

“Thanks.”

Everett didn’t open it, but simply placed it into his backpack.

“I don’t know how it all happened,” Wesley muttered.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Everything. This city. I mean, I had this image of myself, you know; Connecticut commuter, maybe just a little gay on the side. But after a year of just busting my balls, twelve-hour workdays, a few of the guys at work took me out to a disco, and we ripped off our ties and I got other invites as soon as I took my shirt off. I mean, I got popular really fast.”

He shook his head, not in shame, but a cryptic smile of astonishment. “My one roommate got snatched up as a model, spent more time in Europe, and I was, like, snorting at 54 with Grace fucking Jones. And the bathhouses, dude. Unbelievable; just packed with hot men.”

Everett and I exchanged a glance. “Really?” he let out a nervous giggle.

Some of this had been filtered down to me; Mom’s
People
magazines, Gerard’s bragging rants about his weekends in New York. Packed bathhouses hadn’t been exactly clarified.

“But guys started getting sick, and I stopped a while ago. I mean, really. A month of bronchitis’ll cure the appetite for another orgy.”

We all laughed at that, albeit forced.

“So, you guys aren’t…?”

“Aren’t what?” Everett asked.

“Um, whoring it up?” Wesley offered dryly.

We laughed, and I had to mutely aim my hands to Everett, who replied in a stately tone, “We had a few adventures.”

“Dalliances,” I offered.

Everett swung a deliberately missed punch.