Message of Love Page 12

  But all the time, I remembered how the gravel path had slowed Everett down. He’d so often found some other reason to stop, or brush off an invitation, denying fatigue. I didn’t want to push him, but at the same time, I hoped my repeated invitations would encourage him.

  Had I learned the difference between suggesting and pestering? He could react so differently, depending on his mood. Was this year spent being a bit farther away from each other better? His interests were so heady, while mine were so simple and earthly. He wanted to change the world, and I just wanted to make trees grow.

  By the time I reached the sort of bottleneck of a white criss-crossed bridge that served a sudden influx of cars, and an open area that led to residential homes, I checked the map on a bulletin board. Yes, I could continue north, push myself, but what was the point? I’d already covered more of the park than Everett could manage at one time. Couldn’t I just enjoy this for myself?

  No, actually. Collapsing to a grassy area, I panted, sipped water, wolfed down the dry trail mix and chased it with more water, and rested for the run back.

  ‘He can do this,’ I told myself. ‘Just don’t push him. Let him want to do it.’

  “You have a nice day?”

  “Yep,” said. “Ran up along the river in the park.”

  “Cool.”

  Everett was understandably distracted. His radio, set to a news station, reported updates on the assassination attempt on President Reagan, which had happened more than a week before. Some crazy guy had shot him in Washington, D.C.

  “They said his press secretary’s still in the hospital, probably paralyzed for life.”

  “Damn.”

  I’d pretty much inhaled my food as Everett recounted his afternoon. We were seated on the floor of his dorm room with a few boxes of Chinese take-out food set before us. While he deftly managed a pair of chopsticks, I settled for a plastic spork.

  “We didn’t get much done in study group. Everybody started arguing about gun control, and then politics, and mental health, and Reagan, and then violence in movies, and some of the guys know guys at Yale, and how the crazy shooter was stalking Jody Foster there.”

  “It’s all so weird.”

  “Some strange days.”

  I nodded agreement, unsure what to say, except to eat, then try to change the topic.

  “You should come with me again.”

  “Where?”

  “To the park.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I promise not to drop you.”

  “Okay,” he smirked.

  “Okay, stop asking you, or okay, you’ll go with me?”

  “Okay, I will go with you if you stop bugging me about it. I see you like the Szechuan chicken.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You want some of mine?” His shrimp something looked tempting. I forked a mouthful.

  “So, when we move in together,” he said.

  “Again.”

  “Again, but off-campus.”

  “I thought that was the plan.”

  “Yes, well, remember, we have no idea yet where we can live.” We knew which neighborhoods were cheap, but they were also not the nicest, either.

  “Mmfm.” Mouth full, I shirked off my concern that Everett was about to address something else, something that might separate us further.

  “Can you cook?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “Of course I can cook.”

  “Have you?”

  “I’ve helped my mom a lot. It’s easy. It’s just chemistry, backwards.”

  “Ex-squeeze me?”

  “Whatever takes the longest goes in first. That’s usually the meat. Then the starch, then the vegetables. And don’t forget the bread, which always gets forgotten. Mom always made a big joke about that. What, you don’t like cooking?”

  “I love cooking; at least, I did in the old days, with Helen.” He gestured toward his legs. “But if we can’t find a place with a stove I can reach, that’s going to have to be your domain.”

  “As beta male.”

  “You would look cute in an apron.”

  I set down my spork and flipped my wrist about in a sort of impersonation of Gerard. “Don’t impose your antiquated gender constructs on me, young man.”

  “Don’t overdo it, Blanche.”

  We took our time finishing off the food, then shared fortune cookies.

  “This is perfect,” Everett said. “‘A fresh start will put you on your way.’”

  I read mine. “Not sure about this one; ‘Every flower blooms in its own … sweat time.’”

  “Sweat time?”

  We giggled. It would have been another wonderful romantic evening, if the exhausting run that day, and the overload of calories and delicious food hadn’t made me sluggish by the time we cleaned up and settled into his bed. Despite his affectionate kisses and hugs, I dozed off in his arms.

  About an hour later, a series of banging and knocking noises out in the hallway woke us.

  Thinking it was some sort of fire alarm or emergency, I bolted up and opened the door just as, about to knock on Everett’s door, a tall, muscled and quite handsome guy, holding a stack of yellow papers, stood, surprised to see me standing dumbfounded in my undershorts, which was odd, since he was wearing a short skirt and had what appeared to be balloons under a tight pink sweater.

  “You’re not Everett,” he said.

  “You’re not a girl,” I replied.

  “Here,” he handed me a flyer, then dismissed my protective stance in the doorway. He poked his head inside, grinning at Everett, who sat up in his bed. “Forrester! Mask and Wig tomorrow night! Ya gotta come!”

  “Okay!” Everett replied, grinning.

  The girl-man waved his cluster of flyers, then pranced off down the hallway to join his friends, who were stuffing more flyers under doorways, showing off more than a bit of thigh as they bent over.

  Closing the door with relief, I joined Everett back in bed and handed him the invite, which promoted Between the Covers, a variety show at a Penn campus theatre.

  “Is this another wonderful part of Ivy League life I’m missing out on?”

  Everett shrugged. “Just another strange tradition.” He tossed the paper aside. “It’s actually supposed to be a hoot.”

  “So, you’re going?”

  “Well, yeah. We’re going. They are my house mates.”

  That was just another of the eccentric things that made Penn so different than Temple, calling dorms houses; that, and muscled jocks prancing about in the hallways with inflatable breasts.

  Another Saturday that I would have preferred to spend alone with him would become a public affair. Actually, I was curious to see the show.

  “Is it accessible?”

  “They don’t have a space for my chair. We’ll just fold it up like usual and I can sit in a regular seat.”

  “Front row, hopefully,” I half-joked as I wrapped us under the sheets. “If he’s any indication, those gals are gonna be kinda sexy.”

  And they were, in a strange way. The next morning, after we’d parted, I headed back to my relatively non-festive dorm, wary on the train as I held my new backpack close, despite the fact that my textbooks and spare clothes weren’t that valuable. I did some studying and laundry, and returned to Everett’s ‘house’ in plenty of time for us to find the theatre.

  As we’d predicted, there weren’t any spaces for him to arrange his chair, so after he hoisted himself into an aisle seat, I folded his wheelchair and set it aside against a wall.

  As we perused the program, Everett pointed out the names of housemates whom he knew, including Harris, who had abruptly greeted us at his door the night before.

  Everett had become friends with several of the guys. With only a few weeks of living apart left, I let it go. There would always be others who wanted to be close to him, brag that they were his friends.

  And as we saw some of those friends strut about onstage in various inane yet hilarious sketches, the g
iddy appreciation from the audience built in anticipation toward the finale, when the jocks would appear in makeshift drag.

  Throughout the show, Everett had kept his hand either on my thigh or in my hand. I’d casually hung my arm over his shoulder, resting it on the back of his seat for a while. At one point, I’d casually grazed the back of his neck, and felt him shiver from my touch. But then he shrugged it off, what I took as a silent rejection of that small gesture of affection.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  His response was to creep his hand closer to my inner thigh. It was a semi-public yet secretive form of affection, a silent understanding we had, with no Connors or other guys in between us. We couldn’t as easily engage in the reckless public sex of our furtive pre-college days. But just the slightest bit of public display, I knew, meant more to us. So I was concerned that he had brushed off my hand.

  After congratulating his friends on their performance, he thankfully declined an invitation to the cast party on my behalf.

  His joked suggestion in his room that I don a T-shirt as a skirt made me bold. Stripping down to nothing else, once again I danced for him, this time to some old soul cassette mix he’d made. He clapped his hands, pretended to toss me tips. I shimmied and swayed, until the feeling of being a young man pretending to be a woman felt a little strange.

  “You’re much sexier than any of those guys,” he beamed.

  “But I don’t have any knockers,” I joked, squeezing my lean pectorals together.

  “Well, you’re my knockout.”

  As I dropped the shirt/skirt and got into bed with him, I hesitated to ask, but did anyway.

  “So, what was it you were going to tell me?”

  “You didn’t hear about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Did Reagan die?”

  “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.