Читать книгу As If Death Summoned - Alan E. Rose - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Into the West Hills

[Portland, Oregon, April 1994]

I admired the large house as I walked up the extended driveway. Overlooking Portland, its two wings arched from the three-story center peak, suggesting a glass pterodactyl. A Saturday afternoon in April. One of our major donors, a Jerald somebody-or-other, was hosting a fundraiser at his home in the West Hills. By then Cal was in the hospital, so the board president had asked the management team— Steve, Sandy, and Franklin— to accompany him in Cal’s place. They, in turn, asked Father Paul and me to come along. “You make good impressions,” Sandy said. “You’re both educated and cultured, you speak well, and you don’t drool down your front.” Father Paul looked like a priest from central casting: mid-fifties, he was the oldest person on staff, somewhat portly, with gentle gray eyes, a thatch of iron-gray hair, and a perennial smile. No one had ever seen him riled. They gave me an address, telling me to show up between three and four.

A number of BMWs, Lexuses, and Aston Martins, as well as one aloof Lamborghini were parked in the circular driveway and down along the road. My sensible little Subaru looked as if it was crashing the party. On this pleasantly warm day, I dressed in a sport coat and slacks. The front door stood open, and I entered a large room where many people mingled, each carrying the requisite glass of alcohol. I was relieved to spot Sandy. She came up to me, looking very stylish in a summer dress with a woven wrap about her shoulders. “Oh, good,” she said. “We’re all here now. You, me, Steve, Father Paul, and FY.”

“You look great,” I exclaimed. I hadn’t seen her dressed in anything other than jeans and vests, basic butch wear, since I joined the organization. “Very elegant.”

“Thanks. I can clean up when I need to.”

I was also relieved to find the party a relaxed affair compared to the black-tie functions Gray had dragged me to in Toorak. A string quartet from the Oregon Symphony played something Dvorak-ish in the corner. People stood around chatting meaningfully on meaningful topics, laughing lightly, sipping their martinis and glasses of champagne. There were gay couples, straight couples, plus a number of singles aspiring to couple. At that moment Franklin entered the room, appearing absolutely effervescent. “Franklin looks happy,” I said. Indeed, I had never seen him so happy.

“Yes, he’s in his element,” said Sandy. “Franklin aspires to be one of the A-Gays. He has the right attitude and he speaks their language— Snob-ese— but unfortunately lacks the money to be a member of this club. Oh, look, he’s coming this way. Watch him pretend he doesn’t know us.”

Franklin greeted me jovially like we were old friends, pretending not to notice Sandy. “So glad you could make it,” he said, a hand on my shoulder. He burbled on about what a beautiful spring day it was— “Portland at its finest”— and that there were some “absolutely wonderful people here.” Then he moved on, our finance director the social butterfly, fluttering over to another small group.

Sandy tossed back her drink. “Well, I was 50 percent right.”

“He probably just didn’t see you standing there.”

I also met Steve’s partner, Mark. They made an attractive couple, both HIV-positive, though neither yet showing symptoms. As we went to the open bar and got our drinks— a very fine Chardonnay for Sandy, a truly exquisite soda water with lemon for me— we could overhear a nearby group remonstrating against Clinton’s economic policies, clear signs of the coming apocalypse.

Sandy turned to me. “You’ve got the background in psychology. Explain this to me: How can a gay man be a Republican? I mean, isn’t that a little like Jews campaigning for the Nazis?”

“That might be a bit too strong,” I said. “But, yes, it does demonstrate the human mind’s capacity to compartmentalize. The party that condemns you as a pervert is also the party you believe is best for your business interests. They call themselves Log Cabin Republicans.”

“Is that because the sixteenth and arguably our greatest president was rumored to be homosexual?”

“Except Lincoln wasn’t. All the heterosexual historians agree he wasn’t.”

“But I read that as a young man he shared a bed with his best friend for four years.”

I assumed a professorial air. “Yes, but, you see, it was customary in the nineteenth century for males to share beds in frontier towns— even though Springfield was no longer a frontier town, and even though Lincoln and his friend Joshua Speed later had other sleeping options.”

“Plus, I read that he wrote very passionate letters to this Joshua Speed.”

“Yes, but it was not uncommon in the nineteenth century for males to write other males with flowery and effusive terms of endearment, though neither Lincoln nor Speed appear to have written such flowery and effusive letters to their wives, or any women we’re aware of.”

She leaned closer. “What else?”

“Well, there’s also the niggling rumors that a handsome young captain slept in Lincoln’s bedroom whenever Mary and the children were away. Of course, this is all just gossip— ”

“Which I admittedly love.”

“And which was backed up by a number of witnesses. When Carl Sandburg was researching his biography on Lincoln, he found, as he delicately put it, a ‘streak of lavender’ running through the president’s story.”

Father Paul was speaking to a couple and waved for us to join them. He wore his clerical collar, though he was no longer affiliated with any church or denomination. He’d left the church, I’d been told, or the church left him. To a number of staff and clients who’d been burned by the church’s intolerance, judgment and rejection, he was an antidote, a reminder that Christianity had another face and another heart. We began walking toward him and the two men he was with. They were not just a couple; they could have qualified as twins: both blond, both tanned and gym fit, both dressed in identical royal blue blazers and white slacks, handling their champagne flutes in their right hands while balancing cigarettes in their left.

“Oh, look,” said Sandy. “How adorable. I wonder who dressed them?”

“Now, now, behave yourself,” I whispered.

Father Paul introduced us to Brandon Chittock, the older “twin,” and— I forget his blond, blue-blazered partner’s name since Brandon did most of the talking.

“We were just discussing the prevention work you’re doing with Steve’s team,” said Father Paul.

“Yes,” said Brandon. “I was telling Father Paul here that I believe the solution to preventing the spread of HIV is in establishing loving and committed relationships.” He turned to his clone and they pecked each other on the lips. “Gay men need to grow up and stop all this juvenile screwing around and one-night stands. That would do it. Then it would only be the IV drug users getting infected, and, in truth, we’re all much better off without that lot anyway.” He looked as smug as his words, confident in his place in the universe and clearly in control of it. I felt myself bristle, but remained quiet, swallowing a gulp of the soda water along with what I wanted to say.

“I’m sure the Prevention Team values committed, monogamous relationships as one way to stop the spread of the virus,” said Father Paul. I didn’t look at him or respond to his peace-making comment. I was too busy staring daggers at Brandon, who continued giving us the benefit of his wisdom.

“Oh, I realize our opinions,” speaking for both of them, “may be terribly un-PC.”

“PC?” asked Sandy. “Personally Courteous?”

He stared at her. “Politically Correct. Not the opinions straitjacketed into the approved views of the day. No, I’m afraid we’re far too independent-minded to allow ourselves to be so straitjacketed. Liberals fight for the freedom of expression of views, so long as they are their own politically correct views.”

“I respect your views, as your views,” said Father Paul sincerely. “People become infected for a complex variety of reasons. Which is why an effective prevention program must be equally complex and varied in its approaches.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but after thirteen years, there’s no excuse any more to get infected. It’s been over ten years since it was determined to be a virus and understood how it was transmitted. Gay men have known how to protect themselves for the past decade, and they haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve got no one to blame but themselves.” He drew on his cigarette, making a big effort of blowing out the smoke as if it required immense thought and concentration.

“It’s not like they haven’t been warned,” agreed Brandon II.

So much for brotherhood. They stopped just short of saying “those people” deserved it, whereby I would have ripped out their cancerous lungs.

“Eventually, one has to grow up and take responsibility for one’s actions,” Brandon opined from his view on top of Olympus, “and that means accepting the consequences of those actions. In a way, it could be said they deserved what they got.”

Perhaps sensing my lung-ripping-out intentions, Father Paul quickly responded. “As I said, the reasons people become infected are many, varied, and complex. Our role is to support those who are infected and to prevent others from becoming infected, without judgment.” I stood fuming next to him and sensed that Sandy, by her uncharacteristic silence, was also busy fuming.

“Well, you’re a better man than I, Father,” Chittock offered. (Fuck yeah!) “And out of respect to you, and our dear friend Jerald, I shall make a personal donation to your organization. We only came to support Jerald during his time of penance.”

The Brandons exchanged droll smiles, as if saying, Oh the tales we could tell. Then he took his partner his champagne flute, placed his cigarette in an ashtray, and took out a leather checkbook and gold-plated pen from his blazer. He wrote the check, blowing on the ink, tore it out, and handed it to Father Paul. I so wanted to say something to these two offensive, un-PC pricks when I became aware of Sandy holding my arm as Father Paul graciously and gratefully accepted the donation “on behalf of those who shall benefit from your generosity.”

Brandon II nodded in the direction of the open door.

“Ah, yes,” said Chittock. “If you’ll excuse us. We’re leaving Tuesday for Cancun with another couple, and they just arrived. We still need to coordinate our departures.”

“Thank you again for your donation,” said Father Paul.

Once they left, I spewed out the breath I’d been holding in. “Insolent, insufferable, insensitive pricks!” I hissed. I hadn’t hissed in a long time. Sandy was still holding on to my arm like we were a couple, though her grip was in danger of stopping my blood flow. Perhaps she feared I was going to hurl the bowl of caviar after them. “Now, now,” she said, “I can forgive an awful lot of insensitivity if one is willing to contribute to our cause. How much is it?”

Father Paul held up the check. One hundred dollars.

“Why that insufferable prick!” hissed Sandy. “I hope he gets sunburn in Cancun.”

I was even more incensed. “That’s pocket change to him. It’s an insult. I think we should tear it up in front of his face. Show him we don’t need his measly charity.”

“But we do,” said Father Paul, folding the check and slipping it into his pocket. “We do need his measly charity. The people we care about need it. And it is one hundred dollars more than we had before.”

“How can you excuse such behavior?”

“It’s not my place to excuse or accuse. I try to accept people for where they are, without judging them.”

Sandy released my arm. “Honestly, Paul, you should try judging people sometime. It can make you feel really, really good.”

He smiled at her. “I’m too great a sinner myself to sit in judgment of others. And I know that people are continually changing. As for Brandon, it’s not yet his time.”

“His time?”

“To empathize. To understand and feel compassion for others. It’s not his time.”

“If they ever give Nobel Prizes for niceness, you’re a shoo-in,” said Sandy.

“I’d still like to tell him what he could do with his ‘donation,’” I said.

Perhaps concerned I might say something we would all regret— though giving me immense, if momentary, pleasure— Father Paul remarked, “The balcony has a wonderful view of the city. Why don’t you check it out?” Translation: Cool off before you do or say something harmful to our efforts here. I saw Sandy nod in agreement, so I set down my glass and walked onto the large balcony, gripping its railing and taking several deep breaths. It was a sweeping view of Portland, with Mount Hood shining white and conical in the distance. I tried to focus on the mountain to calm myself.

In a way, it could be said they deserved what they got.

I’d heard that same supercilious, self-righteous attitude before. We were leaving the memorial service in Toorak where we’d sat divided, with Gray’s many friends and his many family on separate sides of the aisle, like at a couple’s wedding. I was coming down the steps of the Anglican church when I saw his mother standing with two of his older brothers. The oldest was saying in his phlegmy, throaty barrister way, “Grayson knew better. He was raised better than this. He made his bed. Now he must lie in it.” I became enraged: Your brother is dead, you plump partridge! and felt Rod gripping my arm, holding me back. His mother placed a hand on the partridge’s sleeve. “Please, Geoffrey, don’t. Not now.” Then she turned and saw me. The Gorgon Mother, Gray had called her, dressed all in stylish black, her unnaturally blond hair, her plastic face-lift now covered by large black sunglasses. She had pretended not to know of my existence for all these years (when Gray died, she saw to it that he was still listed in the society pages as one of Melbourne’s most eligible bachelors), but now she appeared crushed and my heart went out to her. She left her sons and walked toward me. I offered her a smile, of compassion, of shared sorrow, and was ready to embrace her. Perhaps we could become friends, finally united by the death of the man we both loved.

“You’ll never get a dime of Gray’s money,” she said.

Stunned by her venom, I composed myself. “You look good in black, Samantha. It suits you.”

“Great view, isn’t it?”

I swung around. An old man was sitting by himself on the balcony in a patio chair, his thin legs crossed, a metal walker next to him.

“Oh hello,” I said. “Yes, it’s a wonderful view.” He wore a strange smile, his narrow face etched with a neatly trimmed beard that failed to hide his sunken cheeks. Although it was a warm day, he was bundled in a heavy sweater with a Christian Dior muffler around his neck and wrapped in a beautifully woven blanket of South American design. I went to him, extending my hand, and introduced myself.

He took my hand. “Oh, I know who you are. We went to high school together. I’m Jerald Sherwood, though you knew me as Jerry.”

Jerry Sherwood? It was one of those stutter-moments when you can’t think of anything to say. Clearly, I hadn’t covered my surprise very well.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “I haven’t changed a bit.”

Overcoming my shock, I sat in the chair next to him. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you. You didn’t have a beard back in high school.”

“No. Nor AIDS.”

“No,” I mumbled. “Nor AIDS.”

“Now you I would recognize anywhere. And I just did.”

“Well, I don’t have a beard.” Like me, he was in his late thirties, yet he looked to be in his late sixties. Very late.

“I grew the beard to cover the lesions. Typical queen, vain to the very end,” he said and gave a dry, hacking laugh. It was a stretch, but I could still see the handsome, popular boy from our high school days. He’d been one of the in-crowd. Went on to an East Coast university, fraternity, finance, MBA, marrying into money. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“It’s a beautiful abode,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Looks like you did all right for yourself.”

“Yes, it’s amazing how easy it is to make money when that’s all you care about. By the way, I’m a substantial donor to CAP.” He raised his eyebrows. “Substantial. So be nice to me.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

He asked me about my life, and I gave a quick rundown on the years since high school: university, graduate school, training in psychotherapy, teaching in Japan, living in Australia for the past ten years. And the reason for my return.

“You had a partner?”

“You act surprised.”

“Well, I guess. I remember you as the Eternal Loner. Goodness, now that is gossip for our twentieth high school reunion.” I must have looked alarmed. “Oh, I’m just joking. I won’t be alive for it next summer, so don’t worry. I’m carrying your secret with me to the grave.”

“Oh, here you are.” We both looked up to see Steve coming toward us.

Jerald smiled at him. “Hello, Steve. We were just reminiscing about our high school days.”

Steve looked at me with surprise. “You knew each other in high school?”

“Yes,” I said, “though we ran in different circles.”

Jerald turned to me. “I don’t remember you having a circle.”

I turned to Steve. “It was a very small circle.”

“Our graduating class voted him ‘Most Likely to Be Marooned on a Desert Island— by Choice.’”

“Though strangely, there’s no mention of that in our yearbook,” I said.

“You believe me, Steve, don’t you? And remember, I’m a substantial donor to your organization.”

Steve grinned. “Your sister sent me to find you. She says it’s time to call everybody together.”

Jerald sighed. “Right then. Let’s go welcome them, thank them for their money, and send them home so I can go back to bed.”

Steve and I each took an arm so Jerald didn’t need his walker and moved slowly toward the door. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a handsome gentleman on each arm,” he remarked. As we entered the house, he turned to me and said, “Let’s do lunch this week to catch up on the past twenty years, shall we? I really don’t plan anything further out than a week since I’m not sure I’ll be here.”

“Fine. Where and when?”

“I’ll call your office once I’ve checked my social calendar. I can still command the best tables at the best restaurants in Portland, although these days my lunch consists basically of a half-glass of Ensure.”