Message of Love Page 3

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. Now, how about that private tour?” He wriggled his eyebrows with a naughty inference.

  It had been so easy those other times, when he could walk; our meeting in Greensburg, and in the woods near his school. But this was different. The only paths he would trek on wheels were so public.

  “There’s a bridge up ahead.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The stone bridge’s side walls, just above his vision, were too high for him to see above, so I hoisted him up so he could lean over it and see the river below it. A passing couple with a baby stroller gave us what at first seemed a curious stare, but the woman’s smile seemed more appreciative. I smiled back.

  Satisfied with his view of the river’s muddy brown depths, Everett plopped himself back into his chair. The sprout of a tiny fern, one of many persistent plants that had grown from notches between the stone bricks, had fallen free and landed on his lap.

  “And this would be?” Everett asked, ever the unofficial tutor, holding the leaf.

  “Licorice fern, maybe.”

  “And the Latin?”

  “I don’t know; polypodium…gly-something.”

  “You’re getting rusty.”

  I sighed. “Come on.”

  It could have been a perfect day, if I hadn’t been so ambitious, if we hadn’t been so determined to recreate that which could not be created; spontaneity.

  A small tight hiking path led off near the bridge, a path I hadn’t checked out beforehand. Everett suggested we simply park his chair off to the side and use our familiar piggyback method to find a private spot. He took his backpack from the chair and fitted it over his shoulders.

  The path, on the opposite side of Wissahickon Creek, never became completely private, so I kept walking, despite the weight of him sagging on my back. He whisper-sang that old Beatles song, “Everybody’s got somethin’ to hide, ‘cept for me and my monkey,” then vocalized the twangy guitar into my ear, until all of a sudden the path became completely obstructed by a fallen tree.

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah. Here, let me…” I stupidly thought I could just straddle it quickly, since it was only a few feet high, until he muttered, “Wait a minute,” but it was too late.

  I tripped and he fell off my back, hitting the tree trunk before tumbling down to the path. His head hit the ground with an awful thunk, his legs flopping about.

  “Oh, my god! I’m so sorry! Oh, shit! Oh, fuck! Ev, are you okay?”

  I rushed down to him, cradled him in my arms, reached down to straighten his legs. “I’m sorry!”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But I shouldn’t have–”

  “It’s okay.” He grunted, leaned forward and handed over my glasses, which had fallen as well.

  “We need to. We need to– I have to–”

  “Reid. Sit. Be still. I’m okay.”

  “You don’t know that! This was so stupid. I’m so stupid!” Wrenched into a knot of guilt, I slapped my forehead. “We have to get you–”

  “Reid! Calm down!”

  I crouched down, touched him, hugged him, sniffed back what would have become a crying jag that was about more than just dropping him. He wrapped his arm over my shoulder.

  The creek trickled, and a duo of gnats flew by. Everett waved them away.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “But you can’t–”

  “Look.” He pulled up his track pants to reveal his thin lower legs. “Nothing’s bleeding. Nothing swollen. It’ll be okay. Just sit.”

  I sighed, calmed down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Let me take your backpack off.”

  We fumbled with it. I pulled out the water bottle, which fortunately hadn’t leaked. He reached his hand up to my face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop.”

  I settled down next to him. We leaned against the fallen tree trunk, breathed, held hands.

  “Not as romantic as you’d hoped, huh?”

  “What? I wasn’t–” I sputtered.

  “Come on. You wanted to find a private place to make out. It’s okay. So did I.”

  I leaned over, kissed his cheek, wiped away a smudge of dirt.

  “Look, I should be the one apologizing.”

  “For your cranky mood?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I got this letter the other day, from Pinecrest Academy, all formal and full of pomposity. They want me to come back for some alumni honor bullshit event at this year’s graduation ceremony.” He rearranged his legs into a crossed position, pushed himself up to lean more comfortably against the tree trunk.

  “And you don’t want to go?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Are you embarrassed about…”

  “About what? Being Mister Crip?”

  “No, about being here, with me.”

  “No, sweetie. I want to tell the world. It’s just that explaining Temple means explaining why I came here and…they have expectations for alumni.”

  I understood, and wondered if he had made the right decision. While I was so happy to be with him, wake up with him, spend each day together, I sensed his disappointment. He had already placed higher in French and seemed bored by our shared American Lit course, having already read half the reading list when he was at Pinecrest. It was like my high school experience. I’d usually read several chapters ahead of most other schoolmates. My enthusiasm for learning was rare, even joked about, until I’d learned to hide my enthusiasm, except toward my teachers. What if his sacrifice had been a mistake?

  “They just want to show me off,” Everett shook his head. “It’s just a big guilt trip for them, to make an example of me, what an ‘inspiration’ I am.”

  “You inspire me.”

  “But you don’t need to present me with a plaque or a useless trophy.”

  “I could present something,” I leered.

  “Yeah, well, don’t unzip unless you brought some bug spray.” He swatted more gnats.

  Chapter 4

  April 1980

  A chilly spring breeze seemed to blow up from the ground, whooshing iridescent leaf buds around my feet. I felt underdressed while rushing back from a late class.

  Everett had a physical therapy appointment that afternoon at Magee Rehabilitation downtown. He insisted on getting there and back on his own, so I wanted to at least be back at our dorm before him. Sometimes he would be a bit exhausted from the stretches and rigors of the exercises they put him through. I think he liked the drive, and he said that he enjoyed hanging out with those he called “my fellow crips.” He told me sometimes he headed out early, just to prove to himself that he could navigate the city streets.

  Still, I wanted to make sure things would be ready for him back at our dorm, little things I wasn’t even sure he noticed anymore; making sure he had something to drink and snack on, that the sheets were clean in case he was tired or amorous.

  The cool wind should have served as a sort of warning, one of unexpected change. At the time, it just reminded me that it might be too soon to put away my winter coat.

  So when he arrived, a bit disheveled, a slight scowl on his face, I thought it was mere exhaustion from a long day. I was wrong.

  “Sansevieria trifasciata.”

  I sighed, not really feeling up for our little Latin game at that moment.

  “Um, snake plant; it’s in the order Asparagacae, those spiky ones with the yellow strips.”

  “Sansevieria trifasciata,” he repeated, then translated, “Mother-in-Law’s Tongue.”

  I nodded, distracted by getting my backpack unloaded. I didn’t understand his reference.

  “My mother called,” Everett said.

  “When?”

  “Earlier today.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fine, and plotting, and visiting.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. This weekend.”<
br />
  It was a Thursday. I scanned our room, wondering what dirty laundry or which of the somewhat gay posters we’d acquired might sour her opinion of our living quarters.

  Sensing my unspoken ‘Why?’, Everett said, “Her excuse is a belated birthday lunch for me, a shopping binge and a visit with some old college lady pals, or so she said.”

  “But?”

  “Of course she’s checking up on us.”

  Although my own meager gift would pale in comparison, I knew Everett appreciated it, a cute Curious George children’s book. It referred to our corny pet names for each other, he the monkey to my giraffe. Such intimacies –that we’d decided upon the names on our first night together– were kept hidden from others, friends and family alike.

  Diana Forrester had pretty much let us be for a few months, so I shouldn’t have been worried. She had enjoyed some time with her son, without my presence, over Spring Break, when Everett was in Pittsburgh staying with his father.

  My train trips to spend the weekend with him had been carefully choreographed around her own requests to see him. His sister Holly had been more than accommodating, letting me stay with her when Everett visited his mother’s fancy new apartment in Fox Chapel.

  But her impending visit set me on edge. Although our initial clashes were nearly forgotten, I had a sense that she had merely been biding her time, and that time was up.

  My efforts to scrupulously clean our dorm room were for naught. By Saturday, we were set to have dinner at her hotel, the Bellevue-Stratford. “Mother travels first class or not at all,” Everett informed me.

  I’d carefully ironed button-down shirts for Everett and myself, and had hung our jackets and pants at the ready that afternoon when she called.

  “No, Mother, you don’t need to send a car. We can drive,” Everett argued over the phone, keeping his tone even while rolling his eyes at me.

  “Yes, Seven o’clock. Yes, we’ll be dressed appropriately.” Across the room, I made a grand silent gesture of displaying our suits like a game show model.

  “So, no grand tour of our r-r-rooms, Sir?” I joked, rolling my R’s after he hung up.

  “Apparently not. But a word of warning at dinner; don’t order anything from the menu that you can’t pronounce.”

  Out on the streets, having found a parking spot surprisingly near the hotel’s entrance, I kept my sometimes worried nature on an even keel. Everett wheeled beside me, in a chipper mood. We approached a high unramped curb, but before I could even offer to help, he simply popped a wheelie and jumped over it. His jacket and tie, combined with his black fingerless gloves, gave him the look of some sort of classy action hero.

  As we rounded a corner, a gust of wind, thick and humid, whirled around the nearby tall buildings and blasted us. I saw Everett recognize someone ahead of us on the sidewalk. He paused, reached into his inside breast pocket for his wallet, then extracted a ten-dollar bill, which he slipped inside his glove.

  I saw what, or who, had inspired him. A lone Black man in a wheelchair, a bit disheveled, with a worn cardboard sign in his lap, was parked next to a newspaper rack on the sidewalk. Other people passing by gave him barely a glance, but Everett wheeled right toward him.

  “College Boy!” the man called out, his face brightening at our approach. Everett leaned forward, shook hands with the man, palming the extracted cash like a discreet card trick.

  “How’s it goin’, Ricky?” Everett smiled.

  “Fancy duds,” Ricky admired us. “Y’all goin’ to the opera or somethin’?”

  “Dinner with my mom. This is my best bud, Reid.”

  I shook Ricky’s extended warm hand, felt deep calluses. He smiled.

  “Any friend of College Boy’s a friend a mine,” Ricky said. “Where ya headed?”

  “The Bellevue-Stratford, believe it or not.”

  “Ooh, fancy! But careful ya don’t catch nothin’.”

  “Come on. That was years ago.”

  “Don’t let me keep ya. Y’all have a good night.”

  “Thanks, my man. We’ll bring you some leftovers.”

  Ricky mock-scowled. “Oh, that rich food’s bad for my arteries! Y’all have a good time. Don’ worry ‘bout me.”

  “Alright, You keep dry, okay?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  As we headed away toward the hotel, I felt a surge of conflicting emotions; the thrill of the brisk evening, so wonderfully lit, with City Hall and its ornate elegance just up the street. My pride for Everett’s innate good nature toward Ricky contrasted with the comparative luxury of our destination.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I grinned. “I just… You’re something else.”

  “He’s an okay guy. I met him at Magee a few times. He actually has a place to live. He just likes to pester the tourists.” He smiled up at me, nearly wheeling ahead of me towards the hotel. “Come on. I’m hungry!”

  “What did he mean?”

  “What?”

  “When he said, ‘Don’t catch nothing.’”

  “You remember Legionnaire’s Disease?”

  “Wait, when all those old veterans died?”

  Everett gestured toward the imposing hotel’s entrance.

  “But–”

  “We better find the side entrance.” He looked up at me with an amused scowl. “Don’t worry. They cleaned it up. It’s not contagious…anymore.”

  Everett pushed himself in ahead of me with ease as a handsome bellman opened the door for us through the fortunately flat side door entryway. The grand lobby’s floral displays jutted out from circular tables. Beguiled by the intricate patterns in the ceiling, I found myself gawking open-mouthed, nearly tripping on Everett’s chair.

  “This way, gentlemen,” the bellman said, guiding us to a carpeted ramp around a corner by the reception desk.

  Diana Forrester greeted us at the entrance of the hotel’s restaurant like a diplomat welcoming foreign dignitaries, as if the entire hotel were her own palace.

  She seemed taller than I’d remembered her. Her hair done up in a higher style, her red jacket and skirt angled with subtly wide shoulder pads, a thin strand of white pearls dangling from her neck just so. I couldn’t keep a forced smile from my face as she bowed to hug her son, then approached me. She embraced me yet somehow managed to hug me while barely touching.

  “Shall we go to our table?” she breezily said, leading us through the doorway.

  As we followed, Everett offered a cheerful wink of reassurance. Yes, this would be fun. Yes, I should let go and enjoy this.

  We settled at a table, prepared in advance, it seemed, with one chair removed to accommodate Everett. The white tablecloth and multiple glasses and utensils glowed under the warm lighting. Waiters busied themselves with a silent efficiency. Small bound menus were presented to us.

  “Order whatever you like,” Diana Forrester offered with a wry smile. “Champagne, perhaps?”

  I looked to Everett for instruction. “Sure!” he beamed.

  “Nothing but the best for my son and his good friend,” Mrs. Forrester offered as she sipped what appeared to be a most perfect goblet of iced water.

  I couldn’t help but consider how she had qualified her description, ‘good’ friend as opposed to ‘boy.’ She prepared to woo us with luxury, mixed with a qualitative sliver of dismissal, that diminution of our bond.

  Surveying the menu served as a distraction. Surprisingly, the prices weren’t too exorbitant, until I realized I was reading the list of appetizers. We ordered, an effete waiter made a few suggestions, and left us as a silent busboy proffered warm bread blanketed by a napkin. A bottle of champagne appeared almost immediately after Everett’s mother had ordered it.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to wash my hands. My wheels are a tad gritty.” Everett removed his fingerless gloves before excusing himself.

  With my ‘good’ friend absent, Diana Forrester’s cheerful demeanor shifted to an almost businesslike pose as she toasted me with a flu
ted glass of bubbling wine.

  “So, young Mister Conniff.”

  “Ma’am,” I raised my glass and resisted the urge to reply, ‘Old Missus Forrester.’

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to be quick before Everett returns. Now, don’t be nervous. It’s very simple. I acknowledge your… success and inspiration in aiding my son’s recovery. All that…”

  She made a gesture, as if to toss away that first tumultuous year of my relationship with her son, and her determination to destroy it, as mere bread crumbs. “… is behind us.”

  “Is there something…?” I’d gulped down a bit too much champagne.

  “I imagine that Temple University is doing well by you?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I do, however, think Everett could do a bit better, in the long term.”

  “He’s not going back to Pittsburgh, Ma’am.”

  “No, no, no. Settle. I’ll be quick, before he gets back. Here’s the thing. Despite his… undeniable… relations with you, our boy has a future, don’t you think?”

  “Of course.”

  “No, I mean, as a community leader, and a leader needs more… challenges.”

  “Challenges,” I repeated.

  “Academic advancement. I did a little tour; my driver did, actually. I didn’t actually walk around, but I did give it a little survey. Temple is really more of a commuter college, isn’t it? It’s very … urban.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Actually, I did know what she meant, but didn’t challenge her to admit it, or say, ‘You mean there are too many Black people, right, Ma’am?’

  “Here’s the thing. Just blocks away, the University of Pennsylvania is much more… appropriate for someone of Everett’s intellectual needs. What if I were to support his transfer? You could remain close to him, something I have no intention of preventing, and he gets an education more fitting his …”

  “Pedigree?”

  “Exactly!” she concurred, failing to notice, or ignoring, my sarcasm.

  In a flash, I did agree with her. Perhaps it was the champagne, the expensive kind, which almost evaporated in my throat. But we found an accord. Everett had been noticeably antsy in his first semester. He was excelling in all his courses, and had barely studied.