Message of Love Page 15

  “What is it about that telethon that upsets you, son?”

  “Dad,” I said, feeling defensive.

  “No, it’s okay,” Everett said, waving me to silence. “It’s just… it creates an industry of pity, not empowerment.”

  “I see.”

  The burgers sizzled as Dad slapped them onto the grill. I stood, unsure where to place the tray of buns. The nearby table was full of speared vegetables mom had arranged, each of them proudly plucked from her nearby back yard garden.

  “Are you going to offer a lecture again, brother dear?” Holly said. She wasn’t exactly soused, but working on it. While I was glad that she had made the time to visit with my parents for the holiday, I didn’t appreciate the sibling friction she and Everett seemed to share.

  Having finished her job as the costume designer for a summer theatre company in upstate New York, over appetizers and a first round of drinks –we ‘men’ had stuck with beers– Holly had regaled us with the gossip of the various philandering theatre professionals’ not-so professional behavior.

  “I’m not lecturing,” Everett said, although he did seem prepared to wait for our attention. “Sister, dear,” he added with a light tone of sarcasm. He turned to my dad, who listened, standing sideways at the grill so his back wasn’t turned. “I just think it’s a kind of pageant of condescension that doesn’t really help disabled people.”

  “But they raise millions of dollars,” Mom said.

  “Sure, but for what? Administrative costs for nonprofits that spend most of their budget on advertising and more fundraising. How much of it goes to research? A cure? Or even job placement, skills training? They just parade these kids out for a has-been comic to make you cry. It’s a self-perpetuating industry.”

  “They are kind of pathetic,” Holly muttered. “No offense,” she hoisted her glass toward Everett.

  Everett offered a bemused scowl at his sister, who pretended to ignore him as she sat under the shade of the lawn furniture umbrella. These were the kind of almost cruel comments Holly seemed allowed to make, knowing Everett understood and even appreciated her caustic wit. I never joked about such things with him, except when we fumbled in bed, where things often became a bit comic.

  “You’re an accountant, right, Mister Conniff?”

  Even though Dad had repeatedly asked Everett to call him Hal (not Harold, his dorky full name), he never did. It was one of his many respectful gestures toward adults that I admired and tried to emulate. Even dressed in a casual shirt and khaki shorts, he carried himself with that private school formality. It was one of those rare days where, in the company of family, he didn’t appear self-conscious about his legs. They’d thinned considerably, but his dark fuzzy hair maintained the nearly simian masculine physique underneath his clothes.

  Dad flipped a few burgers. “Well, yes, but to compare, every can of peas we distribute doesn’t actually cost more than a few pennies. We sell it, and the grocer sells it, and people make money. That’s how it works.”

  “But donations shouldn’t work that way,” Holly added.

  “Ev’s right. Shouldn’t it be the state or the government’s responsibility?”

  Everett sighed. “But that’s the argument that we’re a burden, millions of people paid off to get out of the way, not contribute to society. The kids at the camp where Reid and I work; if they don’t get a chance, that just leaves them at the mercy of charities. How can they make lives for themselves?”

  “Do you get,” my mother asked, “I’m sorry if it’s not, if it’s a private matter, but don’t you get Social Security? Disability?”

  Everett shook his head. “My parents make too much money. When I’m independent, then maybe, but I’m too rich. But for others, that’s just an incentive to not work. If I wasn’t ‘a Forrester,’ I’d want to get a job, but if I do, then I don’t qualify. The entire system’s set up for a victim status.”

  Dad had added the buns to the grill. The smoke churned up, wafting too close to me. I stepped away, feeling the impulse to add something to the conversation, but I wasn’t sure how I felt. I knew Everett was excited about returning to school, getting back in the world of being busy, part of something. He sounded as hungry for yet another debate as he was for the food.

  Although we’d spent most of August apart, except for one weekend visit, I knew he was anxious, about more than school.

  While it was great to hear him inadvertently stating a kind of purpose, a focus he might want to take with a career after school, it seemed he had yet to figure out where or how to accomplish that. Would my being with him become a mere afterthought?

  His van, parked in the driveway, and nearly packed with both of our belongings for fall semester, fortunately didn’t include any furniture. My parents were enthused about our return, although assured that we didn’t need them to travel with us.

  They were understandably curious about our new apartment, and Mrs. Kukka, our eccentric-sounding landlady. I was just looking forward to spending a cozy night with him in my old bed, then heading off the next morning to Philadelphia to restart our life together.

  “Well, I can’t imagine you taking charity,” Mom said. Her gesture back toward the woods behind us, beyond the open field, implied a reference to Everett’s former home and his wealthy Forrestville history.

  “Well, no, of course,” Everett answered. “I’m not like the veterans, you know.”

  “Like the guys on your basketball team?” I said.

  “Yeah. I mean, they have great support at rehab, but economically, they’re struggling, and their families sometimes have other problems. But I have an advantage as well, kind of a former outsider’s perspective. I never…”

  He paused for a moment. Dad continued tending the barbeque, as my mother, Holly and I waited as Everett struggled to explain himself. Holly sat forward, as if ready to offer him something, a hug, perhaps.

  “Did you see Coming Home? The movie?”

  “Yes, of course,” Mom said. “Remember, Hal, we all could barely speak after it, it was so upsetting.”

  “Ann?” Dad interrupted. “Could you help me here?”

  Although she rose to assist him, stacking the burgers in between toasted buns as if it were nothing, I knew his reason. He wanted to change the topic.

  Those few years ago, me a hapless high school junior, before any of this had happened to Everett, or we’d met, as the credits had rolled for the film, I remembered glancing over to see tears glistening from my father’s eyes. It was probably one of the only times I’d ever seen him crying. Later that night, my mother had quietly visited me in my bedroom and explained that two of Dad’s high school friends had gone off to Vietnam and hadn’t returned alive.

  I looked at my father’s tall frame, his back to me as he fussed over the grill, and wondered how many dark mysteries he would always keep to himself.

  “Well, the guys at Magee, the older ones, said that was exactly what it was like, only worse,” Everett continued. “Things only got better a few years ago.”

  “It was very tragic,” my mom added. “But here!” she perked up, bringing a plate of food to the table. “Who’s hungry? Don’t worry, we can still talk seriously,” she assured Everett.

  “That’s okay,” he sighed. “I’ll stop. I can be a total downer sometimes.”

  “You?” Holly joked. “Never!”

  The four of us sat at the table, sharing bowls and plates full of potato salad, seared peppers shucked from spears, corn on the cob, and burgers done to fatherly perfection. We passed condiments, ate silently for a while as the music from the living room echoed softly. Everett squirted a bit too much ketchup, the flatulent sound inducing a few giggles.

  “You know what was really tragic about that movie,” Holly said. She sipped her drink, pausing as we waited. “Jane Fonda’s hair!”

  After dinner, as dusk swept over the expansive field beyond our yard, and Mom took away the dishes, Dad closed up the barbeque and retreated inside, as if
sensing that Everett and I wanted to be alone for a bit.

  Holly stood close, grinning and almost whispered, “Your parents are so sweet.” She offered to drive Everett and me to take a nostalgic glance at her family’s former house, but we declined. So instead, she bid us adieu. “I think I’ll walk off my cocktail buzz before heading back home. See ya in a bit.”

  We watched her walk across the field, where she almost became lost amid the darkening light and a few errant fireflies. A breeze passed by us, still thick with summer’s weight, the kind that, when I was a child, had filled me with a longing and a nervous anticipation for the coming school year.

  Somewhere in the middle of her trek, Holly breezily waved back toward us, taking almost the same path Everett and I had made years before, when we hardly knew each other, but were connected by a sudden passion.

  “Funny,” Everett said as he waved back to her, then took my hand.

  He didn’t need to explain.

  That night, a moth fluttered outside the screen in my window. I had kept my small desk lamp on since Everett was still adjusting himself into my bed. A warm breeze wafted over us from the window as I stripped down to my underwear and stood over the bed. Although he had slept over several times, I still marveled at his presence, so relaxed.

  “You’re very lucky,” he said as I lay down beside him.

  “To have you? I know.”

  “No, I mean your family.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “They’re just so comfortable with us.”

  “They are.” I leaned in and kissed him, realizing that despite their understanding, I still felt a bit awkward being affectionate with Everett in their presence. Kissing and touching him held so much meaning for me, but still felt more comfortable in private.

  And yet, he had a point. How many other couples like us got to do this? I didn’t know. The few gay people we had met in Philadelphia were all single.

  Everett had described the few gay and lesbian students he’d met at a Penn meeting after the attack on a student. He said they were frustrated and concerned, but none of them were in relationships.

  Everett’s roving hand pulled me back from my distracted thoughts. Everything might change once we began living together again.

  But I had to put such thoughts aside. As we quietly giggled and rustled about, while knowing any sounds wouldn’t bother my parents in the next room, our attempts to soften our caresses made them more intense. Pressing close to him, I felt a new desire, slower but more secure, a new anticipation for our life ahead, while that moth kept fluttering against the screen.

  Chapter 22

  October 1981

  Our new ‘home sweet home’ proved to be as comfortable as we’d hoped. With the Penn campus only a few blocks away, Everett managed to get to classes with relative ease.

  The tedium of my trolley and train commute to and from the Temple campus was countered by Everett’s affectionate daily farewells; a kiss in the privacy of our new home, with a more platonic light hug on the street when our morning departures matched.

  We shared enthusiastic greetings when I returned to find him toying with Mrs. Kukka’s expansive array of kitchen equipment as he prepared a simple yet deftly served dinner. Other late afternoons I’d find him in the cozy living room, studying or napping on the sofa, his chair nearby. With an almost tranquil smile, he’d remind me that it was my turn to cook with, “What are you making for dinner, darling?”

  We became domestic.

  As Everett and I figured out a routine in those first joyful weeks, we got to know Mrs. Kukka as a kind if not eccentric woman. She had been more than reasonable to hold the room for us over the summer and not charge rent, despite inviting us to leave some of our stuff there.

  I had only been upstairs once, when she asked me to move some boxes. The middle room had a small kitchen, and I could see her bedroom in the front. But the door to the room above our bedroom was closed. She mostly kept to herself, with occasional visits to the kitchen.

  But the small house was old, and creaked a little. Fortunately, Mrs. Kukka’s bedroom was in the front of the upstairs, yet her padded feet above us squeaked a few floorboards. On weekends, her early morning routine nearly prevented the need for Everett’s alarm clock.

  Early one brisk October Saturday morning, the sounds of her preparing something in the kitchen woke me.

  Everett was not holding me when I awoke, nor I him. The sheets, a tangled mess, contorted between us, left our legs exposed. I sat up, my stomach growling already, my bladder pressing for relief against my stomach.

  “Good morning!” our landlady called out from the kitchen as she spotted me cross the hallway to the bathroom.

  Holding in my need to pee, I shyly approached her as she fussed with a gurgling coffee machine.

  “Oh. Thank you. I was just on my way to–”

  “Yes, yes, don’t let me interrupt. I’m on my way out.”

  She seemed a bit distracted. I headed back down the hall.

  “Oh!”

  “Yes?” I turned.

  “There was some article in The Times, I can’t recall. Something about, well, of concern for your community. I’ll have to look it up.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She returned upstairs as I ducked into the bathroom. My hunger outweighed my need for a shower, and Everett joined me in the kitchen.

  “What was she going on about?” he rolled in, also still in his sweatpants and a T-shirt.

  “Who knows?”

  Everett dismissed it. “Probably some gay-friendly resort in Borneo.”

  “There was something in the newspaper. She has a lot of stuff up there.”

  As we settled at the table to eat, we heard Mrs. Kukka coming down the stairs again. Wearing a coat, but looking a bit distracted, she hovered near the table.

  “Couldn’t find it. Perhaps Rosita moved it.”

  She inquired about our studies, and after reminding us of her upcoming pre-Thanksgiving party, to which we were invited, she left us with a cheery farewell.

  As we cleaned up in the kitchen, Everett asked, as if merely curious, “Have you met the maid yet?”

  “No, have you?”

  “Once, for a minute. Remember when I got caught in the rain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you were at classes all day.”

  I nodded as I rinsed dishes.

  “I got out of the bathroom and she was mopping the hallway, muttering, ‘De wheels, de wheels,’ then pointed to my treadmarks.”

  “Oh.” I pondered a response. “Was that… did you feel offended?”

  “No, I thanked her,” he said. “She was just showing me what she does for a living.” He shut a cabinet door with a slap of finality.

  Everett’s affection for Helen, his family housekeeper back in Greensburg, didn’t match up with his dismissive attitude toward Rosita, our new mystery maid. And as quickly as he abandoned the subject, he changed it again.

  “So, I’m off to Magee. Wanna come with me?”

  “For your rehab?”

  “Actually, I only stop by for that every once in a while. I need to do some recruiting.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Since it was only a few blocks from City Hall, I had met up with Everett several times after his physical therapy sessions at Magee Rehabilitation Center, and a few times after his occasional gathering with his basketball teammates. But I’d never been inside for long.

  The stout brick building, set on a side street not far from the highway, had an adjoining parking garage, which Everett eased into.

  “Can you get the flyers?” he said as he transferred from the driver’s seat to his chair.

  Everett greeted the woman at the reception desk before heading for the elevator.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, smiling, almost eager.

  With a sort of pride, Everett toured me around each floor of the building. The first was quiet, more like a hos
pital. On the second floor, he led me into a large room with about a dozen people sitting or lying on a series of large square padded tables. Each patient had a therapist who helped them with exercises. Some tossed balls a few feet, others had their legs stretched, while a few more struggled across a few parallel bars with braces.

  Almost overwhelmed, I calmed as Everett greeted several people, waited for others to finish their tasks, then followed him as he chatted up several people. With each interaction, he handed them one of the flyers.

  After finishing with tacking a few flyers on bulletin boards on each floor, he handed me the last of them.

  “And one for you.”

  As part of the United Nation’s International Year of Disabled Persons, Alpha Chi Rho, one of the Penn fraternities, had joined up with the United Way to organize an event in two weeks at Fairmount Park called Runfest, which would include a wheelchair race.

  Scheduled for an early morning, I at first shied away from considering it, since I hadn’t run seriously in months. But as usual, Everett had already gotten application forms. Despite his usual cynical dismissal of such “touchy-feely” events, he had engaged me with a dare, claiming he could beat me in the race.

  “Fine. Let’s do it,” I said as I followed him down another hallway and into the elevator.

  “Maybe we can meet some cute jocks,” he smiled.

  “Like the ones you flirt with at the gym?”

  “I don’t flirt. I’m just friendly.”

  “You’re a regular belle of the balls.”

  I noticed the elevator was going up. “You pressed the wrong button.”

  “No, I didn’t. Come on. You gotta see the roof.”

  “The roof? It’s freezing outside.”

  “It is not.”

  The air was brisk, but he was right, it wasn’t too cold. The view of the downtown buildings, City Hall and nearby parks did offer a terrific view.

  “They used to play basketball up here, believe it or not. Now,” he scooted around a corner, and I followed. “They mostly work out here.”