Look Away Silence (34 page)

I hugged him, weeping along with him. But I heard
another voice.

It’s not so bad here. Not so bad.

“You’ll live today,” I said. “You’ll get to
Thanksgiving. You’ll see another snowfall. I promise you. I’ll
carry you myself over the threshold of your Mom’s place. We’ll be
like newly-weds, before the eyes of God. I promise you.”

“I knew you would,” he said. “I knew you would.” He
sighed. “I’m so tired.”

“So am I.”

I lowered the bed, and then stroked his thinning
hair. He smiled at my touch, and then kissed my hand. He fell
asleep muttering.

“I knew you would.”

I moved away from that hulk of a bed. I fell to my
knees in prayer, in the piles of clothing. I felt the eyes of God
and also Louise’s peering in at her lost children, I being among
her flock.

I kept my promise. On Thanksgiving Day, I carried
Matt over the Kieler threshold and placed him on the couch before
the picture window. Although Matt couldn’t see the landscape, he
could sense the light. He had had a series of very bad days. In
fact, I considered taking him to the hospital at one point.
However, as my fingers hovered over the 9-1-1 buttons, I couldn’t
bring myself to break the promise. More than one promise. Funny
things, promises. They can be easily broken, but in the breaking,
they become glass shards that stick in your soul, never to be
removed. I wanted no such glass shards. Matt pleaded to go to his
parent’s for Thanksgiving. If he continued the bad streak, I might
be able to convince him to go to Robert Wood Johnson, but I didn’t
think any supplication could change his mind. After all, this man
begged me to end it all. Why would he submit to science’s tortures
when nature was doing just fine without help?

Holiday aromas permeated the Kieler home. Louise was
busy in the kitchen aided by Mary. Ginger and Leslie were invited
this year. I was happy that they came and that they didn’t
participate in the cooking. They were in the den watching the
football game with Sammy. Viv was supposed to spend Thanksgiving
here also, but called at the last minute that Frank had a crisis at
work and she needed to head North with him.
Head North?
Could there be a crisis in the auto insurance business? I supposed
that Frank remembered the assault on his profession from last
Thanksgiving and decided to be a reduced target by being no target
at all. Probably for the best.

The table was set with the best china and gold ware.
The chandelier twinkled with hospitality, twinkling in Matt’s
memory, because he could only sense it. He wasn’t at the table. He
sniffed the aroma of turkey and stuffing beckoning him, along with
creamed white onions and mince pie — the remembrance of
Thanksgivings past, no doubt. These aromas were leaden to me. They
raised no joy or festive glee in my heart. Nor did they stir any
thanks. I just hovered between the rooms, staring blankly out the
picture window, noting Matt’s shadowy reflection from the couch.
Then I sighed and came up on him from behind.

“Is that you, Pumpkin?” he said, his voice
labored.

“Who else would sneak up on a blind man and kiss
him?”

I leaned over the back of the couch and kissed Matt
on the cheek, but he clenched me so tightly, I thought maybe some
strength still stirred in him. It was the tiger strength of our
earlier days when we would wrestle under sheets for the best parts.
I hopped over the sofa top and planted myself beside him. We
cuddled.

“Well,” he said. “Thank you. You got me this far.
It’s a joy to be home for Thanksgiving. All that food. I once could
eat a horse, if it was unsaddled and served with barbecue. Where’s
my appetite now? I think our sense of smell is hungrier than our
sense of reason. I don’t have an appetite now, but that turkey and
stuffing is driving me crazy. Oh, the aroma. You’ve brought me to
heaven, Pumpkin. This is the place.”

“I tasted a bit of the stuffing,” I said. “Your
Mom’s in a generous mood.”

“That’s her only mood. I’ll guess I’ll need to dream
of that taste — sausage and cornmeal and onions and seasonings,
brown and soft to the palate. Oh, how many Thanksgivings have I
said,
pass the stuffing
, and then chomped on it, bolting it
down like dog on a bone? Now I’d kill for the appetite to have just
one savory taste.”

My heart broke for his longings. Simple longings.
After all is said and done, it’s the simple things we miss. I
propped a pillow behind his head.

“Is that better?” I asked.

He grinned.

“As long as you’re near, it’s always better. I love
your Ivory soap aroma.”

“And I still love that coconut shit you use.”

“Pumpkin,” he said. “I’m so glad my parents love
you. You’ll be a comfort to them when . . .”

“ . . . your Mom’s an angel and a helluva cook.”

“Did she make the whole-berry cranberry sauce?”

“Yes. It’s amazing.”

“Did she let you lick the spoon?”

“Yes.”

“I love to lick the spoon. I can taste it now.
Mmmm.”

“Well, we’ll see just how much you can have,” I said
as I gazed into those once beautiful blue eyes — still
beautiful.

“It’s a curse to still smell things and not have the
stomach for them. But then again, there’s no divide when it comes
to us.”

I kissed him, and then stroked his hair. He pulled
on my tie.

“You’re wearing a tie?” he asked, and then laughed
softly. “It doesn’t take a blind man to guess which one. I bet it’s
that hideous, purple tie. How can anyone look at that thing and eat
dinner?”

“It was from a special friend,” I said. The words
choked in my throat. “My little over-the-counter encounter.”

“I should have had it gift-wrapped. You know, they
offer free gift-wrap.”

“I know. But the cheap bastard who bought it didn’t
even remove the price tag.”

“You could have any tie you wanted that night.
Givenchy, Yves St Laurant. Any one.”

“I know. But I was jealous of the bastard you bought
it for, so I suggested the ugliest tie in the place.”

“Jealous. And of yourself.”

“I’m not jealous of myself anymore. No one should
envy me when . . .”

“We’ve had a good run of it, Pumpkin. We’ve had the
best of all things; and that we didn’t wind up on a porch, on old
rocking chairs, balancing our gay checkbooks is just the price. So
we didn’t have the good old Pink American dream. But we had much
better than most.”

“We did,” I said. “And still do.”

Matt yawned.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I feel so drowsy and .
. .”

“Here, let me prop you up.”

Mary came by with a bowl of chips and dip.

“Martin, some dip?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

“How’s my Newt? Sleeping?”

“Sis,” Matt said. “Is that you?”

“I’d offer you some dip, but . . .”

“Come here, baby sister.”

He reached out for some dip. I guided his hand into
the bowl, putting some on his finger.

“Onion, I hope,” he asked. “Not veggie or crab
shit.” He licked his fingers and smiled with great satisfaction.
“Maybe I’ll be able to have some of that stuffing yet?”

Mary wept quietly. Suddenly, she put the bowl
down.

“Shit,” she said, looking out the window. “It’s
snowing.”

I gazed out. It
was
snowing. It was too early
for snow. However, it was really snowing, like a shaker ball.

“Snowing?” Matt asked, his lips trembling.

Mary went about the house announcing this unusual
weather for this time of year. An early snow was a treat indeed.
Soon, the whole company gathered by the window.

“It’s snowing, Matt,” I said holding him tightly.
“Really, really snowing.”

“How can it be?” he said. “You’re just making that
up to cheer me.”

“No, lamb,” Louise said. “It’s true. It didn’t say
in the forecast.”

“Oh, how I wish I could see it,” Matt said.

“It’s snowing Matt,” I said. I rocked him. “It’s
snowing, Matt, and just for you, because I prayed to God and he’s
granted me this one small blessing. I prayed to God. I prayed for
it.”

“I wish I could go out and make some snowballs.”

I trembled now. I hugged him so close and sobbed so
hard, the others gave us privacy. They retreated, but only to a
room away.

“Oh, Pumpkin, I love you. Snowing. It’s snowing. I
can’t see it. I can’t see it. I want to see it.”

“Oh, how I wish you could. I’ll tell you. It’s the
big flakes, just the kind you like. And they’re sticking on Mrs.
Bolkonsky’s roof, and on Ginger and Leslie’s car.”

“Did they bring the BMW or the Mercedes?”

“The Mercedes,” I said. “I think this snow will pack
nicely. Maybe I’ll make some snow angels. It’s really the most
beautiful snowfall I’ve ever seen.”

“No, Pumpkin. No. I can see the most beautiful
snowfall ever. Here in my mind. I see it now. You know I can. I
looked back at your place. The big flakes stuck to the whole world.
It was like in a movie; and then . . . I saw you. You were naked in
the doorway, and I said then and there.
I will live the rest of
my life with that man. That man is my snow angel
.”

“I remember,” I said.

“You wouldn’t come out in it. You just stood by the
door; and I was so happy. So very, very happy. And I decided to
give you a little serenade.

“
I wish I were in the lan’ o’ cotton,

Ol’ times there are not forgotten,

Look away, look away . . .

Look away, look . . .

away”

And he was gone. On that Thanksgiving Day with the
family an earshot away, my little blue-eyed cowboy left me. He was
gone gone.

The tears mingled with the blood and where they
blended, the Hyacinths bloomed. However, I had no more tears. I had
shed them while Matt was alive and although he suffered, he was
noble in that suffering — a brave soul, a
ride ‘em
cowboy.
After my initial shock, and then grief, I held together better than
I could have imagined. Perhaps I had already arrived at the end
long before it came — in my mind at least. How can you stop the
tide? I tried. He tried. Can’t be done. I shuddered and had a small
outburst when the body bag arrived to take him. Matt wanted to be
cremated and all I could think of during those first few hours were
all the details. So many details. How would I get through them?
What would I do?

I turned to Louise and Sammy, of course. Hank was a
great assistance, and even Viv was staunch when I needed her. If I
were a man of seventy-five letting go of an ailing spouse, perhaps
the road would have been clearer. But how does one prepare for this
at age twenty-three. How? So I was surprised when the funeral
director informed me that the funeral was already arranged — paid
for, even, to the tune of nine thousand dollars. I turned to Sammy
in thanks, but he was as stunned as I was. In fact, I soon learned
that Matt paid for it himself. It was the first thing he did upon
arriving in New Jersey, even before we met. It raised some specters
in my mind, but if I had no room for tears, I certainly did not
have room for anger. I chalked it up to thoughtful preplanning.

Leslie had insisted that Matt and I draw up a will
since I had no rights in these United States as next of kin. We,
however, did not do it. I saw no need for it, and as it turned out,
I had no fears. Although I had nothing more than emotional and
moral rights to all of Matt’s little kingdom of furniture,
computers, books, clothing and bank account, the Kielers, as the
legal inheritors, assigned it all over to me.

“But, Sammy,” I said. “The hospital bills and the
second mortgage and . . .”

“We’ll not hear of it, Marty.”

“No. You are our family,” Louise said. “Matt was our
son, but he was your husband. If times were different, and who can
tell that things will not change, there would not be a
question.”

“But, Louise. The memories.”

“He is in our hearts as he is in yours. We shall
select mementos. Don’t worry. However, you are the next of kin in
the eyes of God and in the heart of the Kielers.”

That made me weep. In fact, that was a catalyst for
much weeping, but it came from the love of a family and not the
grief for my cowboy.

I decided that the funeral would be a proper send
off. Leslie and Ginger helped me pick out a suit for him, while
Hank and Jasper went into the apartment and supervised the
clearance of such things as the hospital bed, the diapers and
wipes, and the meds. The remaining AZT went back to Hyacinth for
redistribution. Don’t think me cold. I had my moments, but they
came on me without warning. I didn’t sit in a corner and bawl. I
remember when I was putting his clothes away, I espied his hat. It
came at me on the periphery like a knife. I doubled over. I held
onto the wall and wept for a good ten minutes. Then I retrieved it,
sniffed it and put it on my head. It was too big for me, but I felt
him again. It still held his aroma, but I had stopped crying by
then. I strutted about the room. Even felt like singing
Dixie
, but then put it aside. I decided never to part with
that hat. I also had a blanket I took from the Kielers — the one
that he was wrapped in when he passed. It got into my head that his
spirit passed through that blanket on its way to God. When they
came for him, I latched onto it and was holding it for the next
day. I took to sleeping with it, as morbid as that sounds. It still
held his essence and it helped me sleep. And I did sleep. I slept
the sleep of the ages. I dreamt of him every night. Sometimes I
never wanted to wake up listening to the soft sounds of his
laughter and his call to me.
Pumpkin. Pumpkin.

If anyone tells you that losing the closest thing to
your heart is a turbulent, unending trauma, they are misleading
you. It’s a numbing experience, as if nature built a response to it
and kicks in — a combination of release and relief, holding on and
letting go, disbelief and denial, but with a taut sense of reality.
That taut sense got me through the funeral, although I couldn’t
deliver a eulogy. It wasn’t expected from me. I was just pleased
that Matt looked restored as he laid there, those precious fingers
laced into one another. I thought he would open those blue eyes
again and wink. When I kissed him, I could almost hear him say
Goodbye, Pumpkin
. However, I wouldn’t say goodbye. I said,
“Until we meet again. Look away silence.”