I Loved You More (41 page)

“Have you heard from him lately?” Ruth asks.

“I call,” I say, “but he don't answer. Fucking Barry Hannah, man.”

“Fucking Barry fucking asshole Hannah,” Ruth says.

And we're laughing again, Ruth and I.

Ruth's breath comes out her mouth a little spirit. Her body is warm. She puts her hand around my arm, her cheek against my shoulder. And we lie there on the tarp looking up at the stars and the tiny moon. I'm just talking away. Spouting off shit. Really, I'm trying to get to what I really want to say but my body,
the Paxil, I'm like some meth freak who can't think straight and I'm trying to get to the point but when I get to the point, the point isn't a point it's a spiral.

I raise up my head and Ruth puts her arm under my head. When my head rests down against her arm, the Paxil buzz stops, for a moment, two moments, the buzzing stops. A part of me wants to close my eyes and just let go forever.

Instead, I sit up, turn around, sit cross-legged. On the tarp, Ruth is a piece of night with silver edges, lying on the black.

“Ruth,” I say.

My lips are doing that strange rubbery thing. I'm glad it's dark. But then I realize my face has got moon on it and Ruth can see my face. Where is Big Ben when you really need him?

“I don't know if I love you the way you want me to love you,” I say, “but you gotta know what pleasure and solace you give me. Really I owe you my life. Plus the way you fucking make me laugh, man.”

Ruth's hand reaches up, touches my forehead.

“I'm a gay man,” I say, “with some long-ago exceptions. And the only way it's possible that you and I could work is if we're completely honest. I can't promise you anything except that I'll be honest.”

Ruth's fingers along my cheek, down to my chin. Somewhere in there I realize she's tracing the shadows on my face, the moonlight.

“I don't want you any other way,” Ruth says. “I love you, Ben, and I'll always love you no matter what.”

“I promise,” Ruth says.

The way Ruth is earnest, fervent. Such abandon in her voice. So much hope. Moments of intimacy and passion how easy it is to promise. I remember smiling to myself. So many times I've gone back to that moment when Ruth said
I love you, Ben, I promise
and I remember smiling. At her innocence. At how much I needed to hear I wasn't alone, that someone was there.
Ruth
was there, was promising love.

I'd told Evie that I loved her. Promised to marry her and married her. I told Bette, too. I love you Bette. And Tony. I love you so fucking much, Tony Escobar. Never did tell Hank.

And there in that moment, it's as true as ever I've ever said it.

“I love you too, Ruth,” I say.

And we kiss.

THAT FUCKING KISS.
So many times over all the years I didn't speak to Hank or Ruth, and now the years after Hank has died, I think about that kiss. How that kiss ended in so much heartache.

That night in the Pioneer Cemetery, I kissed Ruth the way a man kisses his lover. Destiny, fate, fucking fortune, whatever, I've run it through a million times. But what I come up with is always the same. All I can do is blame it on Big Ben.

Ruth loved me in all the ways a person can love. She was just there and full of love and ready to jump into the mess. But I didn't love her that way. I mean
all
the way, head-over-heels-in-love love. I mean, after all, I
was
a gay man. I could have kept a boundary. Kept it platonic.

After all these years, I've had all kinds of insights as to the nature, the motivation behind that kiss. But to tell the truth, that night I didn't have a fucking clue as to why I folded her up in my arms and kissed her with all my heart. I didn't kiss her with my dick, but I was half dead and didn't have a dick yet and I guess I figured the dick would come along because I loved this woman Ruth and it was the love that was important. Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, omnisexual, what the fuck. Where the heart goes, the dick goes too, don't it? The truth was Ruth was the centerpiece of my world. I couldn't imagine living without her. She meant life to me. Without her I'd die. I was sure of it. And so I kiss her.

And something else. When I kissed Ruth, for her it was the fairytale prince and the princess. Everything she'd ever wanted with that kiss came true. The way that promise fulfilled made
Ruth glow, made me want to glow, too. She was intoxicating. So full of life and passion. I wanted that passion. And so I kiss her.

And something else. I wanted to give it back. Give life back to her the way she'd given life to me. I'd loved other women. I could love a woman again.

And so I kiss her.

IN THE MOONLIGHT
on the tarp in Pioneer Cemetery on my spot that is my grave, we kiss. But the way Ruth kisses me is like our first kiss. She just pulls her lips flat against her face.

The Greatest Sin Ever, I feel like I'm forcing myself on her. So I pull away and look at her. I don't know really what to say or how. Just two shovel lengths away, over there, Tony Escobar is sitting on his grave. The way yogis sit. He's naked and he's smiling. I don't look over, though. I just go ahead on and try to look into Ruth's eyes, but her eyes are her big plastic glasses and all I can see is the shadow reflection of the big cedar tree and maybe myself with moonlight on my face trying to look in to see if I can see in her eyes.

“Ruth,” I say, “is this too fast? Am I being too aggressive?”

“Not at all,” Ruth says.

The only thing left I can figure is either she's scared of getting AIDS or this girl don't know how to kiss.

“Are you freaked about AIDS? “ I say. “Kissing is safe.”

“I'm not freaked,” Ruth says.

We kiss again and her lips are still flat.

Then: “No, silly,” I say. “Like this.”

I take Ruth's mouth in my hand and pucker up her lips.

“You know,” I say, “smoochy.”

And I hold her lips like that, pursed up, and put my lips on them. Our smoochy lips kiss.

“Better,” I say. “Much better.”

BACK IN THE
house, Ruth and I are cold and wet. I'm shivering. Chills like that when they start sometimes don't stop. I've got my
wet clothes off in no time and Ruth turns on the shower. I grab the towel that hangs on my bedpost and wrap it around me. My body is shaking pretty bad, and I wonder if the shower is a good idea. But when I get in the bathroom, the hot water pouring down in the shower and the steam feels good. Ruth wraps her arm around me, pulls me into her.

“The water's nice and hot,” she says. “I don't think it's too hot.”

I drop my towel. Ruth steps back and holds out her hand and helps me step in. She pulls the clear plastic curtain closed behind me. Under the hot water I'm all sharp bones and angles shaking and shaking. Ruth asks me how I'm doing but my shaking teeth can't talk. The hot water comes down and down and I stand bent in with my arms wrapped around myself. Ruth's just on the other side of the curtain. The shape of her body, hazy through the plastic, the way Ruth's leaning in and listening, she's Joan of Arc out there, my protector.

As soon as I can get my mouth working again I say:

“You're cold, too. Why don't you come and join me?”

The shower water on the cement shower floor, on the curtain. Through the plastic, I can't see Ruth anymore. There's such a long time that nothing happens I wonder if she's left.

Ruth pulls back the shower curtain and steps in. She doesn't look at me. She has her arm over her breasts and her eyes are looking down. Our bodies touch first at the thighs. Ruth's thighs are voluptuous thighs. And a nice curve up to her waist. I move back away from under the shower so she can have some room. When Ruth lifts her face into the hot water I'm amazed at what I see. Ruth without her plastic glasses, Ruth without the bangs hanging in her face. The water on her long heavy red hair even more red, pushing it back. The silhouette of her face. Her broad forehead, high cheekbones, a fine long straight nose, full lips. And the chin. The chin that makes Ruth's face Ruth.

“Is your bandage okay?” she asks.

She's blinking water out of her eyes. I wonder what she sees without her glasses.

“There's shampoo on the shelf,” I say. “Do you use soap?” “I don't have a shower,” she says. “Just my big old tub.”

“Kiehl's,” I say. “Moisturizing. Okay?”

I'm rubbing Kiehl's moisturizing soap across Ruth's back before she answers.

Ruth's shoulders are almost as broad as mine. The muscles of her back, strong. She's got a booty on her, too, the way her ass flares out. Beautiful skin. Rosy skin that's never seen a zit. Her legs are long and she's long in her torso. My feet next to hers at the bottom of the shower looks like a hobbit's feet.

“The soap smells great,” she says. “Ben, you're so thin.”

“Coriander,” I say. “Turn around, let me get your front.”

I can see her take a breath before she turns.

She turns and there it is, that flush of red across her chest, up her neck, her cheek. This woman is solid. And long. Long legs, long torso, lovely long arms. Nice muscle. Not Madonna muscle, but still firm. The soap goes on her clavicle first. One of the most beautiful places on a woman. Neck, shoulders, clavicle. And just below, the expanse of skin before the pendulous breasts. But really what I'm doing is not looking at her breasts. So I make myself look. Breasts. Wow. A nice slope to them. Full. Pink nipples that are hard. Surprisingly large. I soap down between her breasts, brush over each breasts lightly, avoid her nipples.

A true redhead, Ruth. The carpet matches the drapes. The tuft of red hair down there, wet, symmetrical like something woven.

Ruth wants her turn at soaping me, but the hot water goes. We're in a frenzy drying off, and in four or five great leaps I'm in bed first, then Ruth. The bed is cool but in no time at all we got it warm.
Queen Lowlighta
, all the low lights make my bedroom glow. Purple and yellow flowers in a mason jar on the nightstand.

It's been so long since another body has been in my bed.
And a female body. Ruth's lying on her back and I'm curled into her, my hand on her belly. I miss my body as I touch Ruth's body. She's so alive and full of smooth muscle and heft. My heart is pounding, Ruth's is pounding too. My dick feels full but it ain't hard. I've learned by now not to worry about it. The last time I was hard, I can't remember. I take a deep breath, try and be present. A Joni Mitchell line runs through my head.
Love is touching souls
. What I want to do is put my head between her thighs and chew on her clitoris.

Edith gives good.

But that ain't safe.

“Close your eyes,” I say.

I reach over, turn the reading lamp on that's clamped to the bed rail.

“What are you doing?” Ruth asks.

“I want to look at you,” I say.

I take Ruth's head in my hands, try and turn her head to the light. But she won't let me.

“Ruth,” I say, “you're beautiful. You know you're really something.”

“No,” she says, “I can't do this.”

“It's the same as writing,” I say. “Like Hank always says. You got to go to where it hurts.”

Her breath in through her nose is long and slow.

Slow, real slow, Ruth turns her face to the light.

      
17.

The way it is

THE NEXT YEAR IS THE YEAR OF DR. MARK HARDY, ANTIDEPRESSANTS,
and Ruth Dearden. Ruth might as well move in with all the time she spends at my house. She sleeps over or gets up in the middle of the night and drives home. We always stay at my house because I'm afraid to go to her house. The way she loves me I don't understand it. I'm a mess. Sleep is the problem. I've just forgotten how to sleep.

With my insurance and my hospital, I have no other choice but Dr. Mark Hardy. When the Paxil doesn't work, I have to let two weeks go by so that all the Paxil is out of my system. So then I can start on another drug, which I have to take for two weeks. Dr. Hardy says that often a patient will feel a
speedy rush
but almost always that rush stops when the body gets used to the drug.

My body never gets used to it. I go from Paxil to Serzone to Lexapro to Zoloft to Wellbutrin and a shitload of others, but the speedy rush never stops.

All those months I stonewalled AIDS, forcing my body to withstand something I was in total denial of has hurt my body. Maybe totally fucked up my endocrine system or whatever system it is that every once in a while lets you rest.

The year with Dr. Mark Hardy really is a year of taking a drug that feels like I'm taking acid laced with rat poison, then going off that drug for two weeks, then starting another drug that fucks me up a different, even more heinous way.

IT'S LATE SUMMER
and Dr. Hardy is taking two weeks off. I'm just at the point of switching from Serzone to Lexapro or whatever the fuck drug it is, and somehow I misunderstand his direction and I don't wait long enough between the two drugs.