Full Circle

  There was another reason that I found the wall disquieting. Seeing the names stretching out on either side of me, I thought of those who were currently dying from the mysterious illness ravaging the cities of San Francisco and New York. Would we, I wondered, one day have to build a monument to those it took? Would their names fill a wall five-hundred-feet long? So far the source of the plague had not been discovered, and every week we heard about someone else who had been touched by it. I'd found myself waiting to hear who the latest casualty was, much as I'd waited to learn the fates of the men I knew in Vietnam each time they went out on another mission.

  I decided I'd had enough of death. My return train to New York didn't depart until early evening, and so I decided to spend my remaining hours in Washington at the museums of the Smithsonian. Jack and I had visited the Natural History museum several times on school trips, and had been some of the first visitors to the American History addition when it was opened in 1964. I had not, however, yet seen the relatively new Air and Space museum, and I was anxious to do so.

  I left the wall and began walking toward the Washington Monument, following the northern edge of the Reflecting Pool and keeping my head bowed against the wind. I was halfway along it when I heard someone call my name and turned to see Andy and Jack. We had just passed within a foot of one another, but I had not seen them. I stood, my hands deep in the pockets of my coat, and looked at them. In the three years since I'd seen them, they had changed little. Jack's hair was shorter, and his moustache was gone, but I would have known him anywhere. Andy, dressed in his fatigues from Vietnam, could have just walked off a plane in Quan Loi.

  The three of us stood, not moving, for a long moment, until Andy broke the uncomfortable silence and came over to hug me. Jack hung back as the two of us embraced, and I made no move to include him when Andy released me.

  "You came to see the wall?" Andy asked.

  "Yeah," I said, glancing at Jack, who was watching us with an unreadable expression. "Me, too," he said. "What do you think?"

  Confronted with the question, I found I had no way to answer it adequately. I shrugged. "It's strange," I found myself saying. "I sort of can't believe it's for us."

  Andy nodded. "We're just heading over there now," he said. "I met up with some of the Cocks at the parade, and we're going to find the guys we lost." "Great," I said.

  "Can we meet up later?" Andy asked me.

  "I can't," I told him. "I'm catching a train at six. I'm just going to head over to the museums for a while."

  "I'm sorry I didn't call or anything," Andy apologized. "We just sort of decided at the last minute, and…" "It's okay," I told him. "Really. It's good to see you."

  "Hey," Andy said, as if something had just occurred to him. "Why don't you and Jack go to the museum while I see the guys?" He turned to Jack. "You don't want to hear a bunch of old war stories anyway, right?"

  Jack looked at me. "That's fine with me," he said. "If it's okay with Ned." Before I could answer, Andy said, "Of course it is. You guys go on. I'll catch up with you at the hotel later." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Take care, Ned. I'll come see you in New York one of these days."

  Then he was gone, leaving Jack and me to deal with one another. Jack was the first to speak. "He's kind of like a tornado, isn't he?" he said. "He just tears through and leaves everyone else to clean up the mess."

  I smiled. "How are you, Jack?" I replied, still not ready to hug him, but willing to try talking. "Pretty well," he said as we started to walk. "I'm finally done with school, and I have my own practice. Mostly gay men." "Dr. Grace," I said, shaking my head. "Who would have thought you'd be the one to do it?" Jack laughed. "Not me," he said. "I still don't quite believe the diploma isn't fake." "And you like it?" I asked.

  "Yeah," he said. "I do. A lot of guys in the community are running scared right now. I do what I can to help them sort out how they feel about everything." "You're okay?" I said.

  "So far, so good," he answered. "You?"

  "I feel okay," I told him. "But who knows? Without a test, how do we know we won't just wake up one day with something? Fuck, they don't even know what's causing it yet." "There's talk that it might have something to do with poppers," said Jack.

  "If that's true, then we're all pretty much screwed," I said. "What gay man hasn't used poppers?"

  "Brian thought he might have gotten it from inhaling all that fake smoke at City Disco," Jack said, laughing a little. I couldn't laugh. Hearing Brian's name only reminded me of how I'd been unable to forgive him before he died. I didn't even know the details of his death. "How long did he live?" I asked Jack. "After we talked."

  "Not long," Jack said. "A few days."

  I nodded, not knowing how to apologize to Jack for what I'd said that day, not knowing how to forgive myself for letting those last days slip away without calling back. "I told him you said good-bye," Jack said. "He was happy to hear that."

  I stopped and looked at him. "I'm such a shit," I said.

  He shook his head. "No, you're not," he told me. "We're all shits. The whole situation was shit." I sighed. "We keep doing this," I said. "You're the therapist. Tell me why."

  Jack slipped his arm around mine and began walking again. "Let's start with your childhood," he said.

  "What was your relationship like with your best friend?"

  "I'm serious," I said as we walked up the steps of the Air and Space museum. "Why can't we just stop fucking up each other's lives?" The conversation paused as we entered the building and stopped, looking around in awe. "Is that the Wright brothers' plane?" Jack asked, staring up at one of the many aircraft suspended from the ceiling.

  "It's like someone built a museum of our bedrooms," I said. "Only these are real." I totally forgot our earlier discussion as Jack and I roamed the galleries, our difficulties put aside as we became the 13-year-old boys we'd once been, marveling at the treasures contained in the museum's cases. Every turn of a corner revealed a new surprise, from a ticket for a German Zeppelin to a V-2 missile, real Spitfires and Messerschmitts to an actual slice of moon rock, which we touched with the reverence of pilgrims handling the relics of St. Bernadette at Lourdes. The hours passed swiftly, and when I finally looked at my watch, I saw that I had less than an hour before my train departed.

  "I've got to go," I told Jack as we stood before the capsule from Freedom 7 , which we'd so long ago recreated from cardboard boxes and flown on our own space missions. "We were going to fly to Mars together," Jack said, reading my thoughts. "Remember?" "It's not too late," I said.

  "I don't know," said Jack. "I get kind of woozy on the cable cars these days. I don't think I could handle outer space."

  "You're probably right," I said. "Anyway, I think we've gone some pretty strange places right here on Earth."

  Jack faced me. "Yeah," he agreed. "It's been quite a ride so far. Do you really have to go?" I nodded. "I've got a paper due on Monday," I said. "For school," I added, noting Jack's puzzled expression. "I'm back in school. I'm a thirty-two-year-old sophomore." "That's fantastic," Jack exclaimed. "What are you studying?"

  "History," I told him. "I guess I'm trying to figure out the world."

  "Remember how Chaz used to say all history was lies?" said Jack.

  "I'm not sure he wasn't right," I said. "We tend to only remember what we want to."

  Jack looked around at the exhibits. "I wish we had more time," he said, and I knew he didn't mean for sightseeing.

  "We'll talk," I told him. "I promise." He reached out and drew me to him. We held each other for a long moment. Then I let him go and walked away, leaving him standing in front of Alan B. Shepard's spaceship. As I slipped out the door, I felt the weight of history on my shoulders, and I hurried toward Union Station and freedom.

  CHAPTER 45

  "And who are you today?" I asked John as I entered his apartment with lunch. He was dressed in what appeared to be a toga, tied around the middle with a gold cord.

  "Norma," he informed me. "Hig
h priestess of Irminsul, god of the Druids, and lover of Pollione, the Roman proconsul and enemy of my people." "Let me guess," I said as I took his food to the kitchen. "Something tragic happens and you die." "Not just I," John said, sweeping along behind me. "Pollione also joins me in the fire."

  "Fire?" I said, taking out the containers of beef stew, salad, and cherry pie and setting them on the table.

  "That's a new one."

  "Pollione has betrayed me," said John. "Fallen in love with a young priestess. To avenge my honor, I plan to slay our two children."

  "Nice," I said. "Why do they always take it out on the kids?"

  "But I don't," John said, holding up his hand. "Instead, I reveal my sins to my father and go to my death, as demanded by our laws."

  "Your father burns you to death?" I asked.

  "He has no choice," said John sadly. "It is the law. But as I walk into the flames," he added, "Pollione admits his love for me and joins me." "Well, all right then," I said. "As long as everyone's happy."

  John sighed and glared at me. "It's beautiful ," he said. "Just listen to this."

  He jumped up and went to the stereo, turning the sound up until the whole apartment was filled with singing. He came back to the kitchen and stood in the doorway, eyes closed as he swayed gently.

  "‘Chaste goddess who doth bathe in silver light these ancient, hallowed trees,'" he said. "‘Turn thy fair face upon us, unclouded and unveiled.'" He spoke slowly, translating each line from Italian as it was sung. "‘Temper thou the burning hearts, the excessive zeal of thy people. Enfold the Earth in that sweet peace which, through thee, reigns in heaven.'"

  When it was over, he looked at me. "‘Casta diva,' Norma's prayer to the goddess to stop the impending war. Have you ever heard anything so lovely?"

  "No," I said. "Not since the last time I was here. What was that opera again?"

  "Pelléas et Mélisande," he answered. "Debussy. They're doing it this month at the Met. You should go. Jeannette Pilou is singing Mélisande." "We'll see," I said. "Now come eat this before it gets cold."

  John sat across from me and spooned some stew into his mouth. I noticed him wince as he ate. "Are you all right?" I asked.

  "It's the lesions," he said. "I have a few in my mouth now." He leaned over. "Frankly, it makes fellatio almost unbearable ," he said, as if sharing a secret. I pretended to be horrified. I was always amazed at how he could maintain his sense of humor in the face of such devastation. In the seven months that I'd been bringing him lunch, he had yet to complain about his condition, even as it steadily worsened. Always he greeted me warmly, his beloved opera playing in the background as he embodied one of the characters. I'd seen him as La Traviata 's Violetta, The Queen of Spades ' Lisa, as Carmen, Aida, Elektra, the Queen of the Night, and many others. For each one he had a costume, either pinched from the collection at the Met or sewn by his own hand. He was, I'd discovered, not just a dresser, but an accomplished costumer.

  "How's that boyfriend of yours?" he asked me. "I see his last show didn't get such fabulous reviews. But what did they expect, roller skating on stage."

  "That was a little strange," I agreed. "But he had fun. And now he's rehearsing for La Cage aux Folles ."

  "The Jerry Herman-Harvey Fierstein show!" John exclaimed. "How thrilling. When does it open?" "August," I told him.

  "I hope I can hold out until then," said John.

  I hoped so, too, although I had my doubts. John was looking worse and worse. His lesions covered a large potion of his body, and he'd lost so much weight that the costumes he loved to wear hung on him like rags on a scarecrow. Every time I came to see him, I feared there would be no answer at the door.

  "Would you be a love and help me into something warmer?" John said. "I'm afraid this shift isn't quite appropriate for the weather." He was right about that. January had arrived with bitter cold, and the snow was piled a foot deep on the sidewalks, as a string of snowstorms had left the plows nowhere else to put it. New York had been turned into the Snow Queen's castle, but as the holidays had all passed and we were tired of winter, it was more of an annoyance than anything else.

  John stood and I walked with him down the hall to his second bedroom, which I'd never entered. When I stepped inside, I looked around in awe. The room was filled with costumes. They were hung on racks, piled on the floor, and thrown over the pink velvet chaise longue that sat against one wall. A dressing table piled with makeup occupied one corner, and one entire wall was lined with heads, each one wearing a wig.

  "Now you know my secret," said John. "I'm really Princess Lang-widere."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "From the Oz books," he explained, clearing room on the chaise so that I could sit down. "She had thirty heads, which she kept in a cupboard and changed as her mood suited her. I always thought it was a most practical idea."

  "It's like a museum in here," I commented. "Don't tell me you stole all of these from the Met." "No," John said as he removed the wig he'd been wearing and slowly pulled the robe over his head.

  "Only some of them. The rest I made." I turned away as he undressed, not wanting to see the emaciated body beneath his clothes. His bones protruded like those of a bird, and his skin was sickly pale, the plum-colored lesions spotting him like bruises. I was relieved when he reached for a thick bathrobe and slipped his arms into the sleeves.

  "My mother taught me to sew," he said, sitting at the chair in front of the dressing table. He looked at his face in the mirror. "I don't think she had any idea what it would lead to." "Has she seen any of these?" I asked him.

  He picked up a powder puff and gently dabbed at his cheeks. "She has not," he said. "She ceased speaking to me when she realized that no grandchildren would be forthcoming from my loins." "What about the rest of your family?" "My father died when I was young," said John. "I have a brother and sister somewhere in the world, but like my mother, they find my preference for the charms of other men distasteful. It's one of the peculiarities of the Mormon faith, I'm afraid."

  "I didn't know you were Mormon," I said.

  "I'm not," he corrected me. "They are. I long ago discarded the garment of the Holy Priesthood in favor of something more stylish."

  "It must be difficult," I said. "Not having any family."

  "But I have an enormous family," said John. "I have my friends, my lovers, my singers." He gestured around the room. "I have all of this." "I guess you do," I said, trying to sound as if I agreed with him. In reality, I felt deep sadness. Where were his friends? Where were his lovers? I'd seen no evidence of either in all the time that I'd been John's buddy. He rarely spoke about any real person, preferring the stories of his operas. Not once had his telephone rung in my presence, and the mail I collected for him from the box in the downstairs foyer was never anything but circulars and magazines.

  "I think it's time for me to nap," John announced, standing up. I took his cue that I should leave him alone, returning to the living room and putting on my coat. John removed the record from the turntable and put on a new one. I recognized it from another visit—Die Fledermaus.

  "I'll see you on Thursday," I said to John as he lay down on the sofa and covered himself with the blanket he kept folded at the foot of it.

  "I'll be waiting," he said, as he always did. When I got outside, I saw that it had begun to snow again. As I walked home, I thought about what would become of me if, like John, I got sick. Would Alan stay with me? Would I have to go live with my mother and Walter? I'd never really considered the matter before. Now that I did, I found I was a little afraid, not of getting sick (although that prospect was not a welcome one) but of being alone. I was 32 years old. Most people my age, at least the ones who weren't homosexual, were married, with a child or two. My own father had been 26 when I was born, and had seemed impossibly old to me when he was the age I was now. But what did I have? I was a sophomore in college. I had a boyfriend, true, but one who still spent several nights a week at his own apartment.

  I
wanted more than that. I wanted a home, a husband, a life that was more than studying and evenings in front of the television. I wanted what I'd had in San Francisco when I lived with Brian. I had it to some degree in New York, yet something was missing. I hadn't developed the same kind of friendships. Partly I knew that this was because I was afraid of getting hurt again, and now that the longevity of any relationship was in doubt because of AIDS, I knew that I was holding back on forming new ones. Even my volunteer work was designed to be short-term, a situation that allowed the illusion of friendship but with a guaranteed expiry at some point in the not-far-off future. I had, I saw, become adept at temporary relationships. But was it my fault, or was it a trait common to most gay men? The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that maybe it was. We were, after all, masters of the limited partnership. A few months. A year. How long did most gay relationships endure? How often had Alan and I said of a friend whose latest paramour we disapproved of, "Don't worry, it won't last long"? We were casual in our certainty that the situation would change before long because it always did. Our confidence was based on historical precedence. In San Francisco, I had known men who had been coupled for many years. I'd always imagined that someday I would be one of them myself. Now I was no longer so sure. I loved Alan, but sometimes I felt we were on different paths. I wanted to believe that forty years from now we would still be together, old and content, looking back on a life filled with happiness and ahead to the comfort of one another's love and caring as we wound down our days. But there was no guarantee that we would have that, no guarantee that we would even live long enough to consider ourselves old. I reached my street in a dour mood. Stomping up the stairs to my apartment, in my mind I had already broken up with Alan and consigned myself to a life alone, surrounded by books and too many small dogs. So when I opened the door to find him standing there, it took a moment of adjustment before I could respond appropriately to his enthusiastic greeting and kiss.