Message of Love Page 2

  Casual. Yes, that’s how we may have seemed to the other students, many of whom still gave us curious stares. Who were those two, I almost sensed them wondering, that lanky jug-eared guy and his cute friend in a wheelchair? Were they friends? Roommates? Something else?

  We were something else, all right.

  Settling in at the usual third-row aisle in my day’s first class, a sort of calm overtook me in the warmth of the lecture hall as I straddled my parka over the back of a chair. Everett was with me, in my mind, at all times. Alone, without him by my side, I could choose to chat with others, make new friends, just be myself.

  But I knew I wasn’t.

  As I absent-mindedly took notes on the professor’s lecture about gradient erosion, I was still thinking about my boyfriend, my Everett, the spoiled little rich kid who almost died, who almost pushed me out of his life, until I simply refused to let him go.

  It was a Tuesday, one of my two favorite days of the week, the other being Thursday, when we both shared American Literature. Despite our completely different majors, a few general courses aligned us at first, and we made sure to get the same class.

  After another brisk walk across the campus, I ambled down to the front of the lecture hall, where the gap in seating on the front right aisle was Everett’s wheelchair parking spot. Expecting to casually plop down next to him as usual –his previous class was closer than mine– I was surprised to see someone already next to him, engaged in a friendly discussion. I slowed my pace as other students walked around me.

  The larger lecture classes usually led to students taking the same seats. Everett parked himself in front, because the ramped access led to the front of the room, below the tiered rows.

  Already midway through the semester, it seemed odd that some boy our age, with gelled spiky hair and a formal shirt and tie, had parked himself beside Everett.

  I approached them cautiously, deciding not to play the turf game. Hadn’t I just enjoyed my boyfriend for a pre-breakfast treat, or, more accurately, he me?

  “Oh, hey, Reid. This is Gerard.”

  I offered a cautious nod, hoping that by standing near them, this Gerard would get the message and move elsewhere. I seemed to recall him at the beginning of the semester in the back of the lecture hall, slouching in the back row, a cigarette pretentiously parked above his earlobe. A few weeks later, I noticed him in a middle row. And now, there he was, in my seat.

  “Gerard was telling me about this eighteen-and-over New Wave night at, where was that? We should go.”

  “Are there stairs?” I asked.

  “It’s in the basement,” Gerard said.

  “Well, too bad,” I said, refusing to move, standing before them, hoping I could mentally push this poser out of my seat and out of our lives before it got complicated and this curious dandy had to be told off.

  But Everett, knowing my protective intentions all too well, and that I had many times carried him up and down stairs with a quiet pride, dismissed my stern behavior and turned back to Gerard. They cheerfully chatted about the B-52s, until our professor entered the room, and the other students settled down.

  I took a seat in the row behind Everett, yanked the folding retractable desktop from its slot. It flapped down a bit loudly. Everett turned back to me and shot a glare.

  For the rest of the lecture, I stared at Gerard’s shiny spiked hair every time he whispered some remark. I alternated by gazing at the back of Everett’s head, making doodles on a page of my spiral-bound notebook in imitation of his dark curls. Then I focused on the back of his neck, the nape, where tiny wisps of hair trailed down to the pale skin that I’d so often licked and playfully bitten on nights when we’d made love, or tried to. A pink glow almost illuminating his earlobes made them seem like a pair of tiny trumpets. Had I nibbled on them enough times to claim them, to allow him this one slight? I noticed a small twitch in his right ear, as if he were biting down out of habit, or flinching at some quiet pain. Why had I never seen that tic?

  The first time I had met Everett, more than a year before, he also had his back turned to me. Naked in the snow in a strip of woods that separated his former Greensburg home from the more middle-class neighborhood where I grew up, we had sparked a most unusual friendship on that cold winter day. I felt a warm flush recalling it, and our intrepid encounters in the ensuing days before we separated for months at a time. That short time before his accident, a spinal cord injury on a lacrosse playing field, kept me locked to him, beholden somehow.

  And now, months after he had tried to spurn me, send me away, then reel me back with an emotional yoyo that aligned with his own physical recovery, we were together, despite his mother’s protests and my parents’ doubts. With our families on the other side of Pennsylvania, so far from Philadelphia, we had begun a life together.

  The sudden rumbling of students and the flapping of folding desktops jolted me to the realization that I’d ignored the entire lecture. My notebook page was a dark swirl of ink, and all the while I’d been staring at his earlobes.

  “You could have been a little nicer.” Everett flicked a clump of snow that had rolled up from his wheels onto his gloved hand. We had planned to have lunch at the dining hall, but I feared he might find some excuse to dismiss me.

  “He was in my seat,” I replied. “You could have asked him to move.”

  “Are we connected at the hip or something?”

  “No, I just–”

  “We already discussed this, Reid. You’re getting a little over-protective, and it’s really not appreciated.”

  “I’m not being over-protective, I’m just–”

  And then, out of nowhere, as was his habit, Everett broke into song, loud enough for a few passing students to smile. “In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble. They’re only made of clay.”

  “What, is that another of your Cole Porter songs?”

  “Close; Gershwin. And if you’d let me finish, I’d tell you,” another sung line; “Our love is here. To. Stay.”

  “Fine. A little off-key, but I’ll take that.”

  He scooted ahead of me, apparently finished with the discussion.

  The day had started out so well, what with my cock in my boyfriend’s mouth and all.

  Chapter 3

  March 1980

  “You coming?”

  Marlene, who lived down the hall, had invited us to another of her video nights with a few of her friends. She made a big fuss about commandeering the rec room on our floor, plugging in her videotape machine to the communal TV. She would even bring popcorn, a sealed bag straddling her lap as she navigated her electric wheelchair and portly body around the room.

  “What are you guys watching tonight?”

  “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane,” Everett said, grinning with anticipation.

  “Again?”

  Marlene, a quadriplegic art major, Devon, my friend from the previous semester, who lived in another dorm, but wheeled over for these nights, Everett, and Craig, a computer science major who was also an amputee (leg cancer, something I hadn’t known even existed) had howled with laughter and recited a few of the supposedly famous lines. I thought it was depressing, those two fading stars screeching at each other in black and white, and Bette Davis torturing her sister.

  Marlene’s movies, rented at a store, or ones she owned, mostly featured characters in wheelchairs, like The Men (which was actually pretty good), and Rear Window. One of the strangest films was The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a very gay science fiction musical. Marlene had bragged that she’d spent a few dollars to get a bootleg video, saying the movie was “more fun live. There’s a movie theatre downtown where people say lines and toss stuff.”

  I didn’t understand, and the promise of attending such an event made me a bit uncomfortable. I also couldn’t see the movies the way they did, as they critiqued or complimented what they saw as either stereotypical or accurate portrayals of disabled people.

  Also, the previous gathering ha
d been delayed by Gerard’s extensive one-sided introductory conversation telling everyone about his French background; his father, of the Delannoy family, working class Canadians, and his allegedly royalty-descended great-great-someone coming from France.

  Devon offered a bit of his family history, “descended from a proud Uruba tribe by way of the slave trade.” His father had dug into their lineage back in the 1970s after the TV show Roots became popular.

  “Well, I myself am descended from pure mid-Pennsylvanian white trash,” Marlene announced to much laughter, except from Gerard.

  When he and Everett broke into gossipy French, the party split up between the talkers and the watchers, until they settled down to watch the film. It just felt odd to find another group where I was left to feel a bit awkward without Everett’s attention.

  But then Devon rolled up to me, and we shared an update. He’d offered me a few pointers on relationship advice even before Everett had joined me in Philadelphia.

  “How’s things?”

  “What things?”

  “You know,” he lowered his voice, nodded discreetly toward Everett. “You settlin’ in with the boyfriend okay?”

  “I guess so,” I replied.

  “Well, again, I don’t know about the gay stuff, but like with the women I date, don’t baby him. He wants a partner, not a nurse. You don’t wanna emasculate him.”

  “What?”

  “Gender Studies,” Devon had offered a tap to his own forehead.

  Despite such unusual advice and company, I was behind in my studies, and didn’t want to watch another movie.

  “So, you comin’?” Everett asked.

  “I think I’ll pass. I might go to the library.”

  “Suit yourself,” Everett shrugged before heading out.

  “Don’t stay up too late. We have our park hike tomorrow.”

  “You bet, Ranger Reid,” he saluted.

  As the door closed behind him, I felt a familiar pang, a sort of drop in my heart that almost echoed through the room, which became suddenly quiet in his absence.

  We knew college would be a more freeing environment, and in many ways it was. Walking –and rolling– across campus, greeting people and friends like Devon or Everett’s new classmates, we could have passed for straight, even though we told otherwise to anyone we got to know.

  The few wheelchair folks knew about us. Gossip got around faster. But I saw other people who couldn’t see him as a complete being, and I might have appeared to be some sort of hapless human service dog.

  Most of the other gay students that we’d met had been hit or miss as potential friends. One time, I’d caught up with the elevator while Everett was in class. The guy who held the door half-smiled, nodded a silent greeting, then asked, “So, that wheelchair guy. Are you his nurse?”

  I’d wanted to reply, ‘No, I’m his boyfriend!’ but caution overtook me, so I let it pass, simply reducing my explanation of our relationship as mere roommates.

  The oddest encounters were with people who either completely ignored Everett and only spoke to me, or they would lean down to him as if they were addressing a mentally challenged child. A few times, Everett just started babbling away in Latin, usually phrases involving their maternal parent and allegations of prostitution.

  When we weren’t in class or studying, we continued to explore and find accessible places; the pool, museums, or the closer campus theatre productions. “Hey, guaranteed front row seats!” Everett would joke.

  The Temple University campus was busy that semester, with wide sidewalks and mostly flat terrain. Everett could be gone all day and I learned not to worry, even though he had taken a few spills on snowy days months earlier.

  March was still cold and damp. Clumps of snow, dirty miniatures of the large piles from winter, clung to muddy grass along the campus walkways.

  Since we’d been together, we had each made sacrifices. Everett joined me at Temple after my first semester, even though he could have gone to Carnegie-Mellon, but his standard line about Pittsburgh was, “too many hills.” What we knew, and didn’t state to others, was his preference to be away from his family; well, most of them.

  Having enjoyed runs through Fairmount Park the previous fall, I was eager to share my new favorite place with Everett, perhaps too eager. The early spring weather was still a bit chilly, and not nearly as scenic with the colorful leaves not yet in bloom, but it would feel good to get out of our small dorm room.

  When we had some time off from studying, on a few Sundays, as soon as winter had mostly passed, Everett liked to go driving in his van, finding back roads outside the city. On impulse, we’d visited Valley Forge, then King of Prussia’s shopping mall. He said he liked the adventure, but I knew he enjoyed the sense of independence and freedom of simply driving.

  His laughter, his almost buoyant humor, accented with a sardonic edge, gave each day a new small joy. Everett and I, together, then apart, had become constants; buds.

  But even best buddies sometimes got on each other’s nerves.

  “Turn at Spring Garden Street.”

  “I know,” Everett hissed as he checked the side rear-view mirror. He drove the van with ease.

  “Sorry. Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Do you not want to go to the park?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, let’s go somewhere–”

  “No, I do not not want to go.”

  “So you do.”

  “A double negative would imply that,” he snipped.

  I didn’t reply. Something was bothering him that he wasn’t ready to explain.

  As we crossed the bridge over the Schuylkill River, the Museum of Art loomed ahead like a Greek temple. Everett drove around it, following the flow of traffic, until he spied a parking spot along Pennsylvania Avenue. But by the time he’d looped around a block, a car had already parked there. He found another one further up the street.

  “There’s handicap parking behind the museum.”

  “Fine.”

  And we looped back again. Finally parked, he fiddled with the various gears that made the van workable for him, and opened his door. “Could you just get my chair?”

  “You don’t want to use the lift?”

  “The damn hoist is broken again. Just bring me the chair and let’s not make a big production out of it.”

  Holding my comments, such as ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘We could have gone to an auto shop,’ or ‘We could just go home,’ instead I just got him his chair, wheeled it to the door, where he hung from the side of the door frame and plopped himself down before I handed him his backpack, which he’d filled with snacks and a water bottle. He slipped it behind his chair.

  “Can you get the door?” He handed me the keys, pushing himself away.

  By the time I’d caught up with him as he rolled along the pathway, he seemed in a better mood. The sun had burst out from behind a cluster of clouds. Only a few people gave him the usual curious glances, which he ignored.

  “So, show me your wonderful park.”

  The sudden burst of sunshine drew plenty of people, who dodged stepping in crusts of snow still on the ground and in gutters. We wore gloves and hats along with tracksuits that flopped at the laces of my hiking boots. I could have worn sneakers, but the treads were all smooth, and I figured there’d be mud and slippery trails where we might attempt a hike.

  But despite the scenery, it was as if Everett wanted to zoom by it all. He seemed bored, or unsatisfied with the expanse of lawn along the river, the clusters of tourists, cyclists and joggers.

  “Isn’t there some more private path?”

  “Further up,” I said. “This is just the southern tip. It goes on for about eight miles.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  He yanked his wheels, churning them hastily, as if daring me to keep up. I tagged along as I broke into a brisk jog.

  We passed the historic Boathouse Row and their racks of stored boats
and oars. Further along, across grassy fields adjacent to the river, flocks of geese waddled along aimlessly. The pedestrian traffic gradually thinned out, but I kept a pace behind Everett, watching his back and arms flex, until he turned back, nodding his head for me to jog beside him.

  “We’re not doing the whole length, are we?”

  “I dunno. Can you handle it?”

  “Not really,” I puffed between steps. I hadn’t been training much, although my body was adjusting. Pacing myself along with him altered my stride, which felt like a harder workout than my usual running speed.

  “You’re welcome to catch a ride when you’re pooped out,” he joked.

  After a while, I relaxed, found a steady pace, and just tried to enjoy the day.

  By the time we diverted off to the more shaded Forbidden Drive, we slowed to a stroll. The path, although wide, was gravel, which forced Everett to push harder.

  “Why’s it called that?”

  “I dunno,” I sighed, panting a bit. “I guess it was forbidden, maybe for amorous Victorians.”

  “Do you wanna take a break?” he said, already veering toward a bench. This was his polite way of saying he was tired, too. An ingrained competitive instinct from his prior years of lacrosse were probably what could have pushed him further, but I was glad for the rest.

  We shared swigs from the water bottle. Everett glanced around, pleased, it seemed. “You should get a job here.”

  “What, as a ranger?”

  “You’ve done it before.”

  I considered it. My job the previous summer at Allegheny National Forest had been so different, distant. “I don’t know if they’re hiring. It’s probably through the city.”

  “So? Find out.”

  “You want to stay in Philly for the summer?”

  “Maybe not this summer, but you know.”

  “Where would we live?” By that, I meant, where could he live? Every apartment I’d seen had steps. I hadn’t yet considered a life off-campus, and even the classrooms had proven a challenge for him.

  “We’ll find someplace.”