Below is a short passage from Orientation, my novel about “reincarnation and love.” I chose this because it’s the event that sets the whole book in motion (Robert watching his lover, Keith, die from AIDS on Christmas night in 1983). Be warned: you might need a tissue.
Orientation
Publisher: Amber Quill Press, LLC (May 7, 2008)
ISBN: 1602729379
Excerpt
Christmas night proved memorable for Robert, if only because it was the night the one great love of his young life was taken, stolen away by a disease he could never have imagined a few years before. The night was also memorable because there was a kind of Christmas miracle, even if it lasted only a few moments.
Keith came back to him. His Keith, the one who could make him laugh and make him feel “like a million bucks.” For the briefest of moments, the real Keith returned, smiling and making of his death mask face a hint of what had been there before: a handsome, distinguished man whose cheeks were no longer sunken and hollow, whose green irises were rimmed in yellow no more, and whose smile could light up a room.
Maybe seeing the old Keith—handsome, devilish, strong jawed from his Mediterranean heritage—was just a figment of Robert’s imagination, something he wished for hard enough that it came true. But the lucidity that came late that Christmas night was not his imagination. Something had clicked in Keith’s fevered brain and for an instant, he came back.
But it was only to say goodbye.
Robert had spent the long afternoon cooking. Pointless, he knew, since Keith, in his best moments, could only keep down things like Jell-o and protein drinks; Robert had no appetite, himself. But in spite of a decided lack of hunger around the Harris/Jafari household, Robert had created quite a testament to culinary expertise in the marble-and-glass kitchen. Cutting boards crammed the counters where Robert had used his Wusthof cutlery to prep a garden of fresh herbs—mincing parsley, sage, basil, and thyme into stacks of fine green confetti. He cut garlic into translucent slices. Halved lemons lined up in an orderly row beneath the windowsill, ready to release their juices.
And there, near the sink, a twelve-pound goose waited for Robert’s touch—to have its skin loosened, lifted, and infused with chopped herbs, to have its cavity stuffed with lemons and whole garlic cloves, and, finally, to be buttered and rubbed lovingly with extra-virgin olive oil and trussed. It would spend the rest of the day basking in the heat of an oven, religiously basted every forty minutes.
Robert had made oyster stuffing, rich with fresh-from-the-sea briny juices, sage, and fennel sausage. He had shorn the bottoms off artichokes, trimmed their leaves, and stuffed them with a mixture of bread crumbs, garlic and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. In the sink, a mound of Yukon gold potatoes awaited peeling. Brussels sprouts needed to be cleaned, steamed, and tossed in butter, lemon juice, and garlic.
And when the kitchen windows fogged with steam from bubbling pots and the whole first floor of the penthouse was redolent with roasting bird, Robert stumbled into the little powder room off the kitchen and threw up. Afterward, he sat by the toilet, gasping and swiping at his mouth and nose with Kleenex that left shreds on his stubbled face. He started to sob, the tears coming easily, hating himself for being such a coward, for spending all this time, all this money, to prepare this glorious yuletide feast no one would ever eat.
He slapped his own face, punishing himself for being stupid, stupid, stupid. Who was he trying to kid? Did making a Christmas goose with all the trimmings wipe out a year of love, passion, and happiness? Did all the cooking, decorating, and wrapping of presents put a different face on Death, who paced the penthouse, features furrowed, waiting to take his own Christmas present, which lay, inches away from “delivery” on sweat-soaked Egyptian cotton sheets?
Why couldn’t he accept what was happening? It was over. The flame had flared and had been snuffed out. He forced himself up, gripping the little pedestal sink, and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink, hating the vibrant, rosy glow in his cheeks, his fine, small-pored skin, twinkling blue eyes that betrayed not a hint of his exhaustion and despair, and his shining blond hair, in ringlets because of the kitchen humidity.
Why did Keith have to die?
Why did Robert have to live?
He closed his eyes for a moment, then walked into the kitchen, ready to feed the fabulous food to the garbage disposal. The work, like the preparation of the meal, would take his mind off things.
And then he heard Keith’s voice, watery, weak, a shadow of its former self, call out. If the garbage disposal had been on, he wouldn’t have heard it. But the sound of his own name coming from his lover’s lips filled him with a kind of insane joy and optimism. The irrational part of him wanted to take it as a sign, a U-turn in the road toward death.
His Keith was getting better! Getting better in spite of the fact that all these other men with AIDS were dying quick, painful deaths. Keith would be the exception to the rule. He always had been. A sob caught in Robert’s throat and he hurried toward the stairs.
“Robert?” Keith’s querulous voice sounded again.
Robert rushed up the spiral staircase, tripping once, a startled laugh escaping from his lips. Who knew? This AIDS thing was still new. Who was to say there weren’t people out there who could beat it? People with imagination and fortitude.
People like Keith.
Robert hesitated outside the bedroom door. Inside, it was quiet, and he dreaded going in there and finding Keith on the bed asleep, a sheen of sweat clinging to his sunken cheeks, his breath phlegmy and labored. What if Keith’s call was a momentary peek through the twin curtains of fever and consciousness? Or worse, the product of his own, overly-hopeful imagination?
What would be, would be. Hadn’t some virginal blonde even sung about it, once? Robert steeled himself, taking a deep, cleansing breath, letting it out slowly.
He entered the room.
Keith was awake. His face looked even more drawn and tired—the color of ash. Robert would have said it was impossible for him to look any sicker…even this morning…but now, he did. The smell of sickness and shit hung in the air, despite the cinnamon and vanilla-scented candles in the room.
But, oh, Lord! Keith was looking at him. Looking right at Robert. And, he was seeing him! For the first time in forever, their gazes met and connected. Robert approached the bed warily, as if sudden movement would send Keith plummeting back into unconsciousness.
“Honey? Can you hear me?” Robert stood, wringing his hands, heart fluttering, beating against his ribs.
“Yes, I can.” Keith’s voice was a croak. The bass notes that had made him sound sexy and assured had disappeared. Keith reached a bruised hand out over the covers and patted the bed. “Would you sit next to me?”
“Oh, of course!” Robert took two steps and weighed down the bed, leaning over to brush a strand of hair off Keith’s forehead, biting his own lip at the heat radiating off Keith’s flesh. “I’m happy you’re awake.”
Keith swallowed. The swallow lasted a long time, as if it took all of the sick man’s strength. He let out a weak sigh and turned his head. He looked up at Robert and managed a wan smile. Robert closed his eyes and gently laid his head atop Keith’s.
And then Keith began to talk, his old voice suddenly returning, strong and sure. “I have a few things to say, Robert. And I need you to shut up and listen. No interruptions. The first thing I want to say is, ‘Merry Christmas.’ I’m sorry I couldn’t be a bigger part of things for this, our first Christmas together, but that decision was taken from me and it doesn’t look like Mr. Claus is seeing fit to give me a chance to make it up to you.
“The second thing I want to say is that I love you with all my heart. I searched forty-some-odd years for you, for what I’ve always dreamed of, and what I thought I couldn’t have when you dropped, like a gift, like an angel, into my life last winter. You were what I hunted for all my life: a family. You are my family. Don’t ever forget how precious that is.
“The third thing I want to say is that you’re an idiot, running around, burying your head in the sand and trying to make a Christmas that neither of us has the capacity to enjoy. And last, I love you for that. I love you for trying…for hoping against all odds that this moment would come and I would let you know how much I appreciate you. For hoping that we might share one final kiss before I have to go. And my love, I do have to go. But I couldn’t leave without you hearing these four words. You. Are. My. Family.”
Robert wanted to cry, but there was cold stillness inside, almost as if the frigid air outside had invaded and possessed him. He lifted his head, stopping himself from recoiling at the feel of a crusty lesion on Keith’s cheek. He reached down and squeezed Keith’s hand, knowing with all his heart that Keith wanted to say all those things, but hadn’t really.
The reality was, Keith had only enough breath left to whisper, “I need”—he swallowed hard and tears welled up in his sallow eyes—“you.” Keith pushed out the word “you,” as if he used all the breath he had left.
And that was all, really, Robert needed to hear.
Now, the eyes Robert stared down on were not only yellowed and red-rimmed, but vacant.
Keith was gone.
Robert patted his cheek. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ll always know.”
Could it be that Robert already felt his lover growing cold? He bit his lip hard enough to taste his own blood and reached over to pull Keith’s lids down over his eyes. Robert didn’t know what Keith stared at now, but he hoped it was like the death lore he had read about, and that Keith hovered somewhere near the ceiling, taking one last look at the two of them on the bed before departing toward a warm and welcoming light and a place where there was no more pain, no more suffering.
Robert stretched out on the bed next to Keith’s body, fitting himself against the bony form, wrapping his arms tight around it. He buried his face in Keith’s neck, searching for a little of what Keith had once smelled like: not really a cologne, but bitter, like the incense Robert remembered from Catholic mass when he was a boy. But the smell of Keith, like his spirit, had moved on.
Robert closed his eyes. There would be phone calls to make. Arrangements. A new life ahead, one which would find him suddenly alone, freed from the burden of caretaker, and imprisoned in a grief he supposed would never leave him.
But now, there would be sleep. On this Christmas night, he needed to drown in the comfort of one last slumber with his lover, spoon style.
http://www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/Orientation.html
No comments:
Post a Comment