Sensing Light (29 page)

II

H
ERB WAS UP EARLY
on Saturday morning. He made coffee and began revising a manuscript at the kitchen table. He had chosen this site to intercept Martin.

His son now had a circle of friends who got together on weekends, though not at anyone's house where parents might intrude. Since going to movies and grunge rock concerts required money, Herb had been paying him to help paint the garage and build a tool shed in the back yard. A recent spell of warm weather meant Herb could stop inventing home improvement projects for a while.

“Hedges need to be pruned and the lawn moved,” said Herb when Martin came downstairs.

For Martin, firing up the two-cycle gasoline engine, pushing the fierce, whirling blade through a thick tangle of grass, and molding it into a flat lawn offset the drudgery of bagging the cuttings.

“I'll mow,” he volunteered.

After a half an hour of pruning Herb called, “Lemonade break!”

In the kitchen he asked, “Making the decision this week?”

Martin had been accepted by several California universities and wasn't interested in leaving the state. However, a high school counselor had talked him into applying to a few private East Coast colleges, just in case he changed his mind. The day before, an Ivy League school had offered him admission.

“It's a done deal, Dad. I'm going to Berkeley.”

Herb didn't have a strong opinion about where his son should go to college, but this conversation might be an entree into understanding what motivated him.

“Because…?”

Martin, usually wary of open-ended inquiry, wasn't threatened. He knew that in five months he'd be living in a dormitory, not accountable to anyone for where he went or what he did. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Martin toyed with the idea of saying he had picked Berkeley because of all the hunky boys he could fuck. But that would be a lie. There were probably as many gays at Columbia. It would be cruel, too, and Martin's conviction in his father's deep-seated homophobia was weakening.

“I've told you, Dad. There are more Asians at Berkeley than anywhere else. It'll be easier to make friends.”

“That makes sense,” said Herb. He doubted that friendship opportunities had been a factor in his daughter's choice of college. It hadn't been a consideration for him either. He was glad for his son.

When they finished, Martin borrowed Herb's car keys and said he'd be back late. Herb and Cecilia had nothing planned that day. They often lingered at home hoping Martin would share a meal with them. Both feared that once he went to college, they might only see him twice a year, like Allison, or even less, like Herb and his mother.

Herb went inside to tell Cecilia that Martin had left. She was talking on the phone.

“Marcia and Robbie are going for a hike in Marin,” she said, “and dinner afterwards in Mill Valley. They want us to come along.”

“Great!”

Herb's eagerness was genuine. They had both been grim for too long. Every time one of them brought up Martin's name, the other expected to hear the worst. How could they bear spending the rest of their life together if torment over their son's safety was at the core of their marriage?

At dinner, their friends, whose youngest child was Martin's age and also off to college in the fall, said they were thinking about a vacation in New Zealand the following February.

“We could go with them, Herb,” Cecilia exclaimed. “It's after the kids' winter break. They'll be back at school.”

With only one glass of wine under his belt, Herb was intoxicated by their imminent freedom.

“Absolutely we could,” he agreed.

III

G
WEN AWOKE ON
S
UNDAY
luxuriating in anticipation of the day ahead. She and Eva were going to get their nails done, have lunch with Nan, and shop for clothes.

The sound of Rick's belly laugh, which Gwen rarely heard any more, came from kitchen. She went into the hallway and listened to Eva regaling him with a story about an inebriated roommate.

“A preppy who can't hold her liquor,” said Eva with disdain.

Gwen wished her daughter wasn't departing for Boston soon. She wished Eva would come home for the summer instead of working as a camp counselor in the Sierras. Maybe her presence could lift them out of distrust.

“Mom,” Eva shouted on seeing Gwen. “Let's go.”

At the nail salon, Eva had a precise shade in mind. Gwen had always been ambivalent about fashion choices. She inevitably let a stylist or saleswoman make the decision. It delighted her to watch Eva confidently choose how to present herself to the world, even if it was only a matter of nail color. All Gwen could remember at nineteen was being desperate for validation.

At lunch, Nan asked Eva if she had a boyfriend, a subject Gwen hadn't broached, afraid it would be prying. Gwen was astounded, both by Nan's audacity and Eva's frankness in telling them about the boy she had been dating. He wasn't the love of her life, she said, but it had been fun, until he became jealous she might rekindle an old romance with a fellow counselor over the summer.

“So how does that make you feel?” Nan asked.

“Weird. I don't want commitment.”

“Sounds like a downward spiral to me. Unless he can back off.”

“That's what I've been thinking! How do you…?”

“How do I know? Oh, we suburban housewives have lots of time to observe and dissect relationships. It's a spectator sport in the Peninsula.”

Driving home, Gwen had the courage to query Eva herself about this romance. She kept her eyes on the traffic, and Eva was as straightforward as she had been with Nan. They delved into sex, too, though the focus was more on protection than fulfillment. Then Eva asked how she and Rick were doing.

“We're fine,” said Gwen. “So, what do we still need to take care of before you leave? Bank account? Housing and registration for the fall?”

“It's all good, Mom. I've got it under control.”

“Good God, Eva! Are you done being a kid?”

“I guess so.”

Gwen glanced from the road to her daughter. Eva was grinning.

Gwen's pride was short-lived, overtaken by melancholy. Eva's life would be elsewhere for the next three years. Gwen wanted more than these interludes, which led her to wonder whether Eva might decide to stay on the East Coast after graduation. Gwen had never considered that possibility. What if she settled down there? The prospect was disturbing enough to make Gwen think about her clinic funding proposal instead.

Eva went out with old friends from high school in the evening. Rick, ebullient during dinner, became subdued once Eva left.

“Isn't that nice,” said Gwen. “Just when you want to be with her, she grows up and leaves home.”

Rick concurred and opened the newspaper. Gwen estimated he spent at least eight hours a weekend walled off this way—reading the news, watching sports on television, grading tests. It could be more, but eight hours a weekend was all she could observe. That was the maximum she allowed herself not to work and be available for gardening, hiking, going to a movie, or doing anything else together.

She was sure their relationship was in trouble, though it wasn't clear to her how he perceived the situation. She had tried a direct approach. He denied being aware of any problem. When she had pressed the point, he accused her of projecting her own neuroses. Gwen didn't counter the charge. Even if
it was true, she fumed afterwards, he was mean to say so. That stalemate led to simmering resentment on her part and ushered in a new period of mutual wariness. She was at a loss for how to repair the damage.

Rick turned on the television. Gwen went into Eva's bedroom to call Nan. Hearing her friend gush over Eva was only a brief balm.

“I'm worried about Rick,” she blurted. “I don't know if we're going to stay together much longer.”

“Whoa! I thought you guys might be drifting apart, but…”

Nan cautiously asked, “Do you still want to live with him?”

“Of course I do!”

Nan waited for specifics. Gwen refused to blame Rick, but neither was she willing to bear the responsibility.

“We're at a lull in affection.”

“I gather he's not declaring his love?”

“Not really. Actually, not at all.”

“Are you?”

“Umm… not like before.”

“That happens as marriages age, sweetie, and by now you two might as well be married.”

“This long is new for me.”

“Finding out what's going to happen next can be an adventure.”

“No offense, but that sounds a bit Pollyannaish.”

“None taken. There's not someone else is there?”

“I don't think so. Not yet. Maybe the real issue is how much time I'm gone, and he just won't acknowledge it.”

“Oh,” Nan said neutrally.

There was a long pause. Nan hadn't worked outside the home in twenty years. Gwen knew saying anything more could open a mine field they had never explored. She thanked Nan for listening.

Later, during the hours it took her to fall asleep, Gwen thought about the pleasures and loneliness of being single again.

IV

O
VER THE NEXT THREE
months, Kevin was strong enough to bring his new trials unit up to speed as well as work out at a gym, which was where he met Barry Rose. Kevin was on a treadmill and noticed a neighbor walking at the same pace on the same incline. His curious glance was met by a shy smile. Barry's olive complexion, thick black goatee, and craggy face aroused him. Kevin was surprised he was still capable of lust. The last time he had felt it was while Marco was still healthy.

After exercising, they ran into each other at the juice bar. Kevin found out Barry was a native New Yorker who had moved to the Bay Area in the 1960s. He worked as a civil rights lawyer and had been on AZT for a year now.

It was an easy relationship to fall into. Barry made few demands. Sex was relaxed and companionable. Kevin felt none of the intense yearning that had gratified and occasionally tortured him with Marco. They kept their own apartments, sleeping together two or three nights a week.

In June, they went on a rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. Kevin drove his new car, a Japanese compact with an automatic transmission, to Arizona where they met up with old friends of Barry's at the river's edge. Their guide, a bearded, burly man in his twenties, turned wan on discovering his clients were six gay men. Though once they were rowing, his appreciation of how cooperative they were outweighed his discomfort.

“River running is about synchronicity, balance, and following instructions,” the guide said at the end of the day. “And you guys have all three in spades. This is going to be a great trip!”

For Kevin it was. While floating on calm water, linear time vanished. He was only conscious of what he could sense. While rowing, he meditated on what he remembered from a pre-med physics class, imagining he could see time as a fourth dimension in the ripples his oars made.

Mid-days were windless, too hot for rowing, so they took dips in the cold water and hiked up folds in the great canyon, shaded by steep rock walls—sandstone on the first days, then older limestone, then even older schist and granite as the river cut through geologic eras. They followed streamlets studded with tufts of grass and piñon pine which they grabbed to pull themselves up and belay their descents. No one spoke, out of respect for the naked innocence of these places spared the overgrazing, logging, and mining that had ravaged surrounding lands. Twice they found ancient Pueblo pictographs. Kevin and Barry returned to camp with every muscle spent, ravenous for food and later for sex.

The river was low, the rapids little more than riffles, until the final day. Three Class V runs blocked their passage. They made it through the first two unharmed, by luck as much as skill. On the third run, turbulent water knocked them back and forth. Their oars were useless. Just as their raft's bow rose over a rock, it was slammed by a swell and upended. Sitting in front, Kevin and Barry were thrown underwater and spewed out downstream. Both were shivering violently when they reached shore. While the others made a bonfire, they stripped and held each other inside a damp sleeping bag.

In the morning, with the help of ibuprofen, they were able to hike to the canyon rim where they left their rafting partners and drove on to Mesa Verde in western Colorado. The next day, they awoke eager to explore the cliff dwellings—a honeycomb of rooms, courts, and kivas built in the same century the Black Plague was killing half the population of Europe. However, the moment Barry got out of the car and faced a cold breeze at eight thousand feet, he began coughing. They joined a tour but immediately had to turn back. Barry was too short of breath to climb the wooden ladders.

Kevin drove to Salt Lake City, the nearest town he was sure would have a hospital with ventilators, just in case. Barry's panting decreased once they dropped altitude and was holding steady when Kevin saw the city's lights in the distance. It was nine in the evening. He calculated they could easily make San Francisco in eleven hours. Though Barry was drowsy, he claimed the ride would be tolerable as long as he could lie still. He didn't feel hot to touch and wasn't bringing up the yellow phlegm typical of a bacterial pneumonia that could be rapidly fatal if antibiotics weren't given soon. Kevin was certain
Barry had Pneumocystis pneumonia, which worsened slowly. He decided waiting overnight to start treatment was less risky than trusting the doctors in Salt Lake City. They would only know a fraction of what he did about the disease, and he feared they would ignore his advice. The place wasn't exactly a haven for gay men.

He drove on. By dawn, he was climbing the eastern slope of the Sierras. Barry lay across the back seat, eyes closed. Kevin had been rousing him hourly. ICU nurses don't check vital signs more frequently than that, he thought, intent on remaining optimistic. It was time to wake Barry again. Kevin called his name. There was no reply.

They passed a sign for Donner Pass. Kevin's ears popped. Seven thousand feet, he read. In the rear view mirror, he saw Barry's lips were blue. Horrified by his stupidity, Kevin sped up to ninety on the winding mountain road.

“Hold on, baby,” he kept repeating, hiding his angst. “We'll be at sea level soon.”

Barry's color improved as they descended into the Central Valley, but his desperate gasping continued. On reaching the outskirts of Sacramento, Kevin followed signs to the regional medical center. Once there, he drove past a waving security guard onto the apron reserved for ambulances.

Inside the ER, Kevin observed quietly. He didn't interrupt the nurse who meticulously flicked Barry's forearm as she hunted for a vein, the respiratory technician who pressed an oxygen mask on Barry's face, or the intern who examined Barry's wrist under a bright light as he chose where to stick the radial artery. When Kevin heard anesthesia paged overhead for an emergency intubation, he left the room. Yet the fact was inescapable. He had lost Barry the instant he started climbing the Sierras. He loathed himself.