Message of Love Page 13

  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.

  “Darling, we’ve found our dream house,” Everett whispered as our host chattered on about some university trustee. “Let’s not fuck it up.”

  “Did I say anything?” I shrugged.

  Mrs. Kukka led us through the living room, which managed to be cozily cluttered with what appeared to be African and other ethnic antiques, and more built-in bookcases in a dark wood that matched the trim and mantle. Below the front bay window was a large sofa.

  Everett rolled ahead, spun around back to the hallway, then instinctively sought out a door. He pushed it open.

  I froze, but Mrs. Kukka called out as she followed, “Yes, that would be the bedroom. The bathroom’s on the left across the hall, and a washer and dryer in the storage room by the back door, which has steps, so...”

  We trailed behind Everett, who had already wheeled around to the other side of the low, surprisingly simple bed and spartan furnishings. The current resident’s belongings included stacks of papers, a stereo, and what I first thought was a chair, but it was a waist-high suit holder.

  Through the window, a florid back yard beckoned. Beyond that, the back of
the drab apartment building we’d just visited was thankfully blocked by an ivy-covered fence.

  Mrs. Kukka stood in the doorway. “I’m upstairs. I’ll be out of your way, and I mostly stay in the front rooms. I have a little kitchenette, but I’ll use the big kitchen down here sometimes.”

  “That’s cool,” I said.

  “I have a gal who comes by to clean once a week, but she’ll stay out of this room, if you prefer. Oh, and my daughter might come for a visit every now and then. She likes to check up on me; thinks I shouldn’t be alone. But I’m not in agreement. I host little dinner parties and gathering in the front rooms. You’re not obligated to attend, but certainly welcome; mostly retired faculty and their widows like me who still like to prattle about primitive cultures.”

  She seemed to have finally run out of patter. I didn’t bother to add anything, but nodded mutely.

  Everett smiled, said something in Latin, “Domum dulce domum.”

  “Which translates to?”

  “Home, sweet home,” Mrs. Kukka said. “I think we’re going to get on just fine.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kukka, But, you see…” Everett glanced at me, his eyebrows raising, as if to say, Here it comes, “This isn’t just for me. Reid and I are together.”

  She stopped, blinked. “Oh. You mean together together.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She pondered for a brief moment, as if distracted by something else. “Well, I guess that, unlike a few previous gentlemen, there won’t be any problems with ladies coming by.”

  By the time Mrs. Kukka had trod upstairs and back down after having dug up a copy of a lease, which noted that payment was due upon signing, a demand she shrugged off, Everett and I had already imagined moving in.

  “I can park in the driveway,” he marveled as we departed. “It’s ramped. This kitchen kicks ass, and there’s no dead grandma feel in the bedroom.”

  “Well, no. She said she’d been renting it since–”

  “Yeah, plus, maybe she’ll cook for us.”

  “She’ll probably kick us out if we make too much noise,” I muttered. He knew I meant sex noise.

  “Maybe she’s a little hard of hearing.”

  “We can hope.”

  Chapter 18

  June 1981

  Since I’d started college, I hadn’t helped Dad work on any house projects. When I was younger, he had taught me some of the basics about plumbing, electrical wiring, and other small projects that didn’t require professional help.

  So when I casually mentioned over dinner that I would once again invite Everett to stay over for a few nights between our trips to and from Philadelphia and the summer camp, and that a small removable ramp might be a good idea, he immediately said, “Sure. How about we make one for the kitchen door in the garage? Then we can just store it there.”

  His enthusiasm heartened me, signaling in his quiet way that he understood Everett and I had remained more than close, that we were together, and that that wasn’t going to change.

  When I found him that Saturday morning kneeling by the kitchen door taking measurements, he offered a chipper, “Get dressed. We’re off to the hardware store.”

  Picking out two-by-fours and a sheet of board, we kept the conversation in the abstract; my plans to make more ramps for parks as a sidebar to some as-yet undefined career, his mention of a disabled employee at one of the stores where his company distributed food. We were talking around Everett.

  Mom welcomed us back as we unloaded the lumber, then took a bag of peat moss she’d asked for. She continued working on her vegetable garden in the back yard, where I was looking forward to assisting her.

  As the band saw rang loudly in the garage, Dad and I donned goggles and sanded the parts, and re-cut them to fit. Once he finished cutting the wood, I saw this as the time to ask him things I had never considered aloud.

  “So, you and Mom.”

  “Yes?”

  “You both really get along.”

  “We do. I’m lucky.”

  “How does that work?”

  Sensing that a ‘discussion’ had commenced, Dad put down the saw, shifted to picking out screws, then chose a compatible drill bit for the battery-powered screwdriver. “We talk about things. We have had arguments. Just, you usually aren’t around.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, getting a bigger house, having more kids.”

  “Which you didn’t do.”

  “Well, I like this neighborhood, so I won that one, and your mother pretty much has to bear the burden for the other …discussion, so I left that up to her.”

  “So, you don’t…?”

  “We do. I got a vasectomy, which took about ten minutes, and it didn’t hurt, and we figured if we wanted more kids, we’d adopt. But we were so happy with you, we left it at that.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, really. You were just a wonderful kid. You still are.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is this about Everett?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you having problems?”

  “Not exactly. I just… We’re going to be living together. And it’s different than the dorms. How do you get around, you know, the daily stuff, the ‘Put the dishes away like this,’ or being around other people he doesn’t like, or that I don’t like but he does, or doing things–”

  The specifics of our unusual sex life, the feeling that we might just become mere friends if the passion drained away; these worries I couldn’t explain to him.

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Dad said, a bit too glibly.

  “Okay.” I had expected a few platitudes.

  “No, really. Half of getting along is just letting go of things that don’t matter. You got along in the dorms last year, didn’t you?”

  “Pretty much. It was a little cramped. I just basically let him have his way. We have this joke about who’s the alpha male. But we’re moving into an apartment, or part of a house. It’s really… I just want to… make it perfect for him.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Look, I know you have to make accommodations for him. That’s what we’re doing here.” He tapped the board in front of him. “But I don’t know if your… relationship is any different than anyone else’s. I see you…you’re really devoted to him, and that’s fine. But, you have to make yourself happy, too.”

  “But I’m happy if he’s happy.”

  “But if you’re not, he won’t be. Sometimes, you have to think of yourself, too.”

  “Well, see, he wants me to work at the summer camp again, but the nursery’s just more money. I love those kids, but I don’t know if they’ll take me back again in August, and he pays for stuff, but I just want to make my own way, you know?”

  “Exactly my point.”

  As he returned his attention to a plank, I assumed the conversation was over, but he said, “Also, I like to surprise her, remind her that I don’t take her for granted.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “You know, our twentieth wedding anniversary’s coming up next year.”

  “You going to get her something nice?”

  Dad nodded.

  “So?”

  Dad offered a sky grin. “Keep a secret?”

  I mimed zipping my lips shut.

  “Five days in Hawaii.”

  Mocking a gasp, he shushed my little hummed hula wave with a finger to his lips, which failed to stop me, so he revved up the saw, which worked.

  But after a few deft board cuts, he pulled up his goggles once again, and said, “Anyway, you should know about making things grow.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t just plop a plant into the ground. You care for it, nurture it, right?”

  I nodded. “You’re pretty smart for an old guy.”

  Chapter 19

  July 1981

  Returning to the camp at Pine Grove gave me a sense of anticipation and belonging, combined with
the mild apprehension about returning to the ‘rustic’ cabin with Everett.

  Some of the kids hadn’t returned, because their parents couldn’t afford it, or because of health problems. And we learned about the new campers’ needs.

  I was relieved that “Amazing!” Kenny had returned, his affection for me as sweet as ever.

  During our recreation and therapy in the small pool, Kenny was at first nervous about the water. I held him carefully as he paddled about in his unique way, his inflated life vest glistening under the sun.

  It was only after the second week’s work, with a few other staffers relaxing over some snacks and a discreetly shared bottle of red wine, that any sort of problem came up.

  Two of the kids’ birthdays were celebrated within a few days of each other, and Everett had pushed the boundaries of standard activities. He’d bought a few boxes of sparklers at a store in town, leftovers from July Fourth. Just after sundown, we taped the sparklers to the kids’ wheels, and they giggled and hooted as the swirling sparks lit up around them.

  Karen, a rather enthusiastic new staffer, had expressed concern about “bedtime irregularities,” preferring more traditional entertainments.

  She had brought a box of children’s books, and read to the kids on a few afternoons. They seemed rapt by Karen’s enthusiastic oration of a few fairy tales. But something about them bothered me; Everett, too.

  With the kids all in bed, we were free to discuss adult topics as we enjoyed the warm night air on a back porch for a well-deserved break. But our talk still came back to the kids.

  “They really liked your story time,” Alice, the senior staffer said.

  “Thanks,” Karen smiled.

  “Are there kids’ books with disabled characters?” Everett asked.

  “What do you mean?” Karen asked.

  “You know, stories about kids in wheelchairs, blind kids.”

  “I haven’t found any,” she said.

  “We should write some,” he suggested. “Let the kids write stories.”

  “Well, most of them don’t have motor skills for that.”

  “I meant, they could tell the stories and we could write them. And then they could illustrate them,” Everett added.