In Look Away Silence by Edward C Patterson, Martin Powers wanted an
ironing board for Christmas. Instead, he got . . . Matthew Kieler, a
non-returnable gift, but a gift that kept on giving. Chance encounters are
sometimes the ones that most change our lives. He sold Matt a tie, but got more
in the bargain - more than most people would want and more than anyone
deserved. Although these lovers may not have had the pink American dream, they
had it better than most, even as they faced a crisis that would change us all.
Look
Away Silence is a romance set in the time of AIDS, when ignorance could spell
trouble and often did. It encompasses the author’s experiences in volunteer
community service and personal friendships during a tragic period in American
history. The novel is dedicated to the Hyacinth AIDS Foundation, the NAMES
Project and to the author’s own fallen angels. "Mothers, do not shun your
children, because you never know how long you have to revel in them."
Look Away Silence
CreateSpace (July 15, 2009)
ISBN: 1448651921
ASIN: B002HRER5S
Excerpt:
Chapter Four
Christmas in The Cavern
1
Tux
and Ties proved to be a quiet cove, since few weddings and proms take place at
Christmas. However, I knew that next week would bustle as New Year’s proved to
be a better stimulus for formal wear. Still, Russ found something to keep him
busy; a customer with a size thirteen shoe, Holy Mother of God. I dragged Matt
in through the casements and called for assistance. The place appeared
abandoned, but I knew better. I spied four legs behind the curtain to the
dressing room. Russ was taking measurements as only he could. I cleared my
throat, but to no avail. Matt appeared embarrassed, but did chuckle. He
slouched on the glass case, constantly gazing back out to the mall.
Finally,
I announced in a loud voice, “Anyone see a fruitcake? I’ve seemed to have lost
my fruitcake.”
The
curtain swished open, the customer adjusting his pants and my friend Russ
pouting like Butterfly McQueen.
“Can’t
you see I’m busy?”
“Fancy
dress ball?” I asked.
“No,”
said the customer. He was a looker, every bit his shoe size. He had soft tawny
curls and was a head taller than Russ. “A little private party.”
“So I
see.”
“No,
you don’t,” Russ snapped, striding toward the counter. “But who have we here?
The man from the jacket racks.”
Matt
fidgeted, blinking his gorgeous eyes. I wanted to smack Russ, but we had come
to his haven for the evening’s itinerary, after all. So I accepted a little pay
back.
“Russ,
this is Matt.”
Russ
smiled, and then touched Matt’s hat brim.
“Ride
‘em, cowboy.” He turned to the customer. “And this is . . . what’s your name?”
“Chris,”
said the giant — a gentle enough looking giant. He’d be a great bookmark in the
club later.
I
reached for Chris’ hand — a massive hand, and as I did Russ winked.
“I’m
Martin.”
“Good
name,” Chris said. I blinked.
“So,”
I said, resolved that introductions were complete. “Are we off to The Cavern,
or is your private party drifting into the back room?”
“Don’t
be silly,” Russ snapped. “Business is business. I’ll just finish these
measurements and I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He glanced at Chris, who
grinned. “Maybe two.”
Matt
was halfway to the door. I didn’t think he cared too much for Russ. My flighty
sister was an acquired taste, after all. To know him was to love him . . .
simple soul that . . . well, there has only been one Russ amongst us, thank
God. Where would we find another?
I
didn’t want to lose Matt’s interest, so I bid Russ and Mr. Thirteen-inch shoe a
farewell, and then headed for the parking lot. Matt drove a Ford Cherokee (go
figure) and he followed my piece of shit Honda Civic to Long Branch. My little heart
went pittipat, but I was trying to keep myself in gear. Every time I peeked
through the rear view mirror, I expected to see something other than a blue
Cherokee and a cowboy hat. However, he stayed the course.
Dusk
closed in, and even more so. It felt like snow. I didn’t mind. It had been a
mild winter so far — cold, but nothing more than rain. I loved a white
Christmas, especially if I was getting a Christmas present — a vacuum broom.
What did you think I meant? Still, I kept myself in rein. We’d park the cars
near my apartment and go directly to The Cavern. If my cowboy — from Houston —
why no, ma’am; from Melrose — the queers and steers ghetto — if he wandered off
with another filly or proved to be a bad drunk, I’d save myself a holiday
headache, although I had plenty of Motrin. Who knows? Perhaps he could sing. I
would soon find out as the Jersey Gay Sparrows would be roosting at The Cavern
tonight to warble a pink version of an ersatz Christmas concert — a few carols
and a Chanukah melody. I had a solo.
I
parked in my usual spot facing toward the beach, and then immediately directed
Matt to the visitor’s lot across the street. It’s funny how we do things by
rote, so much so they become lost in a haze of more important memories.
However, I recall the precise logistics of that first date, for that was what
this was. First dates were always awkward. Did he adjust his hair and hat
before turning off the engine? Did he lock the doors? Did he hesitate before
crossing the street? And, most important, did he take my hand or did he shuffle
beside me down the street? In fact, Matthew Kieler didn’t hesitate, nor did he
straighten his hair and hat or lock the truck door. He just strode to my side,
and then rocked awaiting my directions. So I hooked myself on his arm and moved
him along the street to The Cavern’s entrance. He only said one thing as we
moseyed along. I’ll never forget it.
“This
place must be pretty in summer.”
And I
thought, do you mean to stay around and find out?
2
The Cavern usually didn’t awake until eleven or nearer to midnight, but it was Christmas, so the regulars were already
there and in a festive mood. Extra activities tonight — a leather Santa and a
subset of us Jersey Sparrows and the Monmouth contingency of the Errata Erastes
Choir, our local Lesbian warblers (or grunters — whatever your perspective). So
The Cavern percolated early that evening. I remember it well — Teddy Fitz
manning the bar, his rippling muscles shining under the flashing Budweiser
sign, and Gus the Bouncer, not collecting the cover charge yet, which didn’t
kick in until eight o’clock. He was a burly
bear, but as tender as a teddy, but not like Teddy Fitz, who was everyone’s
sweetheart — the bearer of the sweet liquid ambrosia a la tap and shaker. The
cute busboy Nick was on duty and that hotty — what’s his name . . . Scott or .
. . Steve — something with an S. He was sizzling, but quiet — a memorable sight
nonetheless. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, even though he’s passed
beyond the shadow. Then there was Bobby, the waiter — eyes filled with magnetic
trouble, everyone caught in his trace.
The
bar was bellied with the beach bums — Sam, Kurt and Mother. They weren’t really
bums, but they always seemed to be at the bar from the time I entered to the
time I left — never failing. Mother was the oldest specimen of drag queen to my
acquaintance. He must have been seventy and I would love to spin his story, if
it were known. However, it was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Mother, with his
sagging falsies, shabby feather boa and askew lipstick was a fixture at The
Cavern — as ubiquitous as the barstools.
The
Cavern was unique. Thinking about it, years before the fire that razed it to
rubble, the place had three huge rooms — a front bar, a dance floor (actually
two dance floors) and a back bar. The back bar opened onto a volleyball court,
where in summer we could watch the players volley in their all-together. In
winter, the court was a vacancy between the back bar and the shack. The shack
had yet another bar — more intimate and the place for pick-ups.
The
Cavern was just that. The walls and ceiling were tan stucco, sculptured into
stalagmites. The floor, except the dance areas, was uneven and gravelly. Bruce
Q., the owner and a real queer StarWars geek, was inspired by the outpost bar
on Mos Eisley. I often imagined Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo drifting in from
the beach in search of the Millennium Falcon. The room was hung with a variety
of rubbery and plastic cave creatures. The most fascinating was a thing Bruce
Q. called the Zippilin, a cross between a bat and a cat. He had it rigged on a
cable and, every once in a while, the thing would go sailing over the dance
floor and yap like a Zippilin, however a Zippilin yapped. Scared the crap out
of new visitors. The veterans just howled.
When I
pulled Matt into The Cavern, no one was dancing. No one dared, even though
Carlos, the DJ, spun platters. No one dared trip over the dance floor before
the bewitching hour, when Donna Summer blared over the two eight foot speakers.
I waved to Teddy Fitz and to Sam and Kurt, and then presented Matt to Mother.
Matt was withdrawn, but that didn’t discourage me. As the Christmas elves
spread the spirit, I believed he would come to life. He was a product of a gay
ghetto after all — Melrose.
“Mother,”
I said. “May I introduce you to my friend, Matt?”
Mother’s
face broke into a clownish smile. She raised her tattered begloved hand for my
caress. Matt looked away — nerves bubbling. Drag queens might have been his
discomfort zone — at least seventy-year-old chicken-boned crones like Mother. I
learned that some gay men shunned drag queens, perhaps sensing their own inner
Ethel Merman wanting to pop out and sing That’s Entertainment. This reaction
was not unique.
“Matt?”
I nudged.
“Glad
to meet you, Miss.”
“It’s Mother,”
croaked The Cavern’s icon. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa is su casa.”
Mother
had somehow made the place her own over the years, the poor dear. I knew she
would launch into a history of Long Branch and the good old
days when the boardwalk stood proud over the gay community, who frolicked under
it. However, Matt already drifting away. I nodded to Mother, and then nudged
Matt along the bar.
“What’ll
you have?” I asked.
“Corona with lime,” Matt
said. “And I’m paying.”
I
grinned. Was this to be my Sugar Daddy for the evening — Computer Programmer
cash? Merry Christmas, Martin.
“Teddy,
a Corona with lime and my
usual.”
My
usual changed from season to season, but it was, if I recall at the time, a
thing called a Suffering Bastard — a double rum and Curacao concoction with
more fruit juice than a gay orgy.
The
drinks were duly prepared and served on holiday napkins.
“Where’s
your elves hat?” I asked Teddy.
He
laughed, and then plundered the bar for a pink stocking hat. On him it looked
like a head condom. Matt laughed, and it was about time.
3
It seemed like an eternity before The Cavern filled up. We drank in near
silence except for the occasional comment on the decorations, but how long can
you talk about balls — well, the glass kind, at least? I now thought that
Matt’s shyness would dampen the evening, but every time I thought to steer us
around and exit past Gus the Bouncer, another acquaintance would pop through
the vestibule and under the stalagmites. Things became lively when the Leather
Santa arrived — ho ho ho. He was in red-coated leather from top to waist, and
then wore lacey leggings with his ass hanging out the back, as any appropriate
Leather Santa should. His beard was not the fake department store variety. It
was real and as white as . . . well you get the idea. When he bounced through
the foyer, his pack of porn calendars on his back, the place exploded in
laughter. Christmas was here at last. Even Matt roared at the sight. Although,
how much was soulful glee and how much Corona with lime, I couldn’t
fathom.
“C’mon,”
I said, pulling Matt off his too permanent stool.
“What?
Where?”
“The
back bar. Santa wants to take a picture of us.”
“I
don’t photograph well.”
“Hell.
We all look like shit when sitting on Leather Santa’s lap.”
A
queue had already formed and the music had changed to Deck the Hall with Balls
of Folly.
“And
what should Santa bring you, little boy?”
I
giggled, Santa’s bony knee up my ass, and Matt blushing on the other knee.
“A
vacuum broom. And it better have all the attachments.”
Flash.
“Oh,
attachments,” Santa roared. “And what might you be doing with those
attachments?”
“Never
you mind,” I said, standing abruptly — so abruptly, Santa’s other knee gave
way, Matt sliding to the floor, his cowboy hat flying off. Mother retrieved it.
She donned it and on her, it was the stuff of nightmares.
“Did
you lose this?” she asked.
Matt’s
good spirits fled. He snapped it off Mother’s head, brushed it off (the hat,
not the head) and rushed back to the front bar. I shrugged, and then followed.
I fully
expected that he would be gone. Why do I pick these guys? Where did they come
from? I gather them like moss on a log.
I got
to the edge of the empty dance floor, and then halted. My flighty Texan hadn’t
fled. In fact, he seemed as companionable as ever at the bar and with . .
. Russ, who flitted in the shadow of Customer Chris, who from a distance
bookmarked the stalagmites.
“Is
that your date du jour?” came a voice, a rather masculine voice. I knew it
couldn’t be one of my fairy companions.
“Of
course that’s our Martin’s latest squeeze,” came a silkier voice.
I
turned. It was my favorite ladies, if ladies you could call them — Ginger and
Leslie. We hugged. Ginger, she of the deep voice and butch hair and beer belly,
was less a hug than a tackle. However, Leslie’s stylish coif tickled my nose. I
had known these two forever — or at least it seemed so. They both sang in the
Errata Erastes Choir — Leslie a soprano — Ginger, bass.
“Which
one?” Ginger asked. “The tall drink of water or the cowboy?”
“That’s
no question,” Leslie said. “The cowboy. We didn’t bring our Martin up to use a
stepladder in bed. Besides, he’s more Russ’ type. Right?”
“Correct,
you are,” I chirped.
“Well,
he’s cute,” Ginger said.
“Like
you would know,” Leslie chimed in. “If he had tits, you might dance a hoe down
there, but he’s definitely mucho macho, with that shadowy chin and those . . .”
“Dreamy
eyes,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s broken.”
Ginger
tugged my waist, nearly breaking my back.
“They’re
all defective.”
“At
least, the ones you’ve picked up.”
“Standard
fare for you, Martin dear.”
“Why
should you be surprised?”
I
pulled away.
“Stop
it. It’s Christmas and I won’t be denied my New Year’s broken heart.”
“So
you’re getting all the way to New Years?” Ginger asked.
“Shush,
Ginger,” Leslie said. “He’s been known to get as far as Three King’s Day.”
They
roared, but went suddenly demure, gathering me close.
“Queens at ten o’clock,” Ginger said.
I
followed her finger, and sure as hell, in came three of the most obnoxious
members of the Jersey Sparrows — from their Pennsylvania nest. Todd
Moorehouse, a professional type and snob, his anti-Christ side kick, Padgett
Anderson, a hair-dresser of tri-state renown, and Mortimer Levine, an
unproduced playwright, although you’d think he was Edward Albee, if you
believed what he told you. They strutted into The Cavern as if they were bats
and owned the crevices. Guano, I thought. They immediately pranced toward Matt
with all the élan of Eleanor Roosevelt in New Guinea.
“You
should save him,” Ginger said.
“If
Todd gets his ear, he won’t be able to hold up that cowboy hat.”
I
didn’t need to be told twice. The other chorus members were closing in also.
They must have come in a choral caravan. They traipsed across the threshold in
duos and trios, all sizes, shapes and degrees of camp. However, my concern was
my date. I wouldn’t mind Matt joining the chorus, if he could sing, but Todd,
Padgett and Mortimer were a troika from the Otterson clan, a rich New Birch
entrepreneur, who, in my personal opinion, should stay in Oz and await a house
to fall on him. I had my experiences with that coven. I got to the bar just as
Todd opened his chubby mouth.
“Todd,”
I said.
Padgett
flanked me, and then reached behind toward Matt.
“Who
do we have here?” Paddy asked.
Matt
was talking about life in Melrose with Chris the
Customer, but Padgett interrupted him mid-sentence. Matt stammered.
“Christmas,”
Mortimer said. “Bah, humbug.”
“Just
because we only sang one Chanukah carol at the concert, you’ve become a bitter
queen.”
“Become?”
Paddy echoed.
“And I
was going to buy you a drink,” Mort said.
“That
would be the day,” came a rugged voice. Ginger.
“Ah,
the bulldogs are here.”
Ginger
growled, while Leslie chuckled.
“But
no one answered my question?” Paddy complained.
“Why
we only sang one Chanukah song? They’re not called carols.”
“No.”
Padgett turned again toward Matt, but Russ stepped into the fray.
“Which
one of you knows the line-up?” he asked.
“That
would be me,” Todd said.
“Don’t
believe him. The only line-up he knows was after that raid in Baghdad.”
“Now,
don’t knock it,” Todd said. “Iraq had its moments.”
“Well,
if you two don’t know,” Russ said.
Todd
and Padgett gave each other their usual withering glance. I never understood
them. They were like oil and water, but were inseparable, always feeding off
their essential differences. I guess they were a microcosm of the world, and
thus we orbit. In either event, they marched to the small dance floor, calling
the rest of the choir to attention.
“They’re
sure jittery,” Matt said.
“That
they are, love.”
I
remembered that he smiled, a foam mustache hugging his bristling upper lip. I
wanted to lick that foam away. Here was a stranger. They don’t know ya. They
don’t wanna know ya. In fact, he was stranger than other strangers that I had
met — an out of towner. A professional man. A cowboy and as skittish as a
pancake on a grill. Still, I was a sucker for his lips, although we hadn’t
locked them together yet. A thought crossed my mind — dump the chorus tonight.
They don’t really need my solo. Russ could sing it or Jasper. Jasper was just
itching for it.
“Martin,”
Padgett called. “Are you a part of this chorus or not?”
Not.
But, yeah. And who died and left Padgett director. The director hadn’t arrived,
and probably wouldn’t. He often let us sail without him at impromptu gigs.
“I
guess you’ve got to line up,” Matt said.
“Do
you sing?”
“Like
a frog.”
“A
bass. Come join us.”
“You’d
be sorry. And if I do, not tonight.”
I
gazed at the double line that mottled across the dance floor. There they were —
Padgett, Todd, Mortimer, John (in full drag), Jasper (hoping, no doubt, that I
had a sore throat), Rob and Ron and Ron and Ron (three of them — three too
many), Russ and Harry, and Henry, and Brian . . . and Leslie and Ginger. I
guessed they were the only Errata Erastes’ here tonight.
“Go,”
Matt said, and then he kissed me. It wasn’t much of a kiss and it stunk of Corona with lime, but it
gave me hope that I might get as far as Three King’s Day.
Chapter
Five
Quiet Moments
1
The first two numbers were a bit off key, but I attributed it to the
alcohol and the lack of a director. However, the Silent Night, to which I sang
the middle verse, scintillated. Smoke be damned, I still managed to caress each
note like an angel come to earth. I closed my eyes during the first measure —
no director to watch and the choir would need to follow me with their hum-hummy
accompaniment. I knew Jasper wanted to push the background up and thus drown me
out, but somehow the other first tenors held him in check. My voice soared, and
just as I reached my highest note, I opened my eyes and, through the tobacco
haze, I saw him — Matt the cowboy, his eyes hung on my every tone. I even
thought he sighed — a true fan, won fair and square.
Suddenly,
the crowds disappeared, only he and I, alone and suspended in the midst of this
Christmas carol, my voice leading him to a pre-passionate state. I’m not sure
whether I could still end the number and return to The Cavern’s cabaret mirth.
Still, no song goes on forever. It either finds its cadence or perhaps its
coda, but never lingers beyond the last note. As I folded my hands in my
ultimate Sleep in Heavenly Peace, I somehow knew there would be a last note. I
looked forward to the coda.
We
ended with a rousing Chanukah number with Leather Santa prancing at the dance
floor’s margin and Mother managing something like a hora. Christmas became a
Jewish wedding. On the last chord, which might have been the Lost Chord for the
Lost Tribe, the Zippilin was let loose across the stage, cawing a strange Bruce
Q. Merry Christmas. The DJ struck up Everybody Dance Now and five angels in
jock straps hopped forward — three waiters, a bus boy and some new cutie, who I
knew not. A general cheer went up as both dance floors were jammed with
gyrating merriment.
I
waved to Matt to join me. He hesitated, but finally moseyed to the margins,
where I picked him off like a carousel ring, pulling him onto the dance floor.
Russ and Chris the Customer joined us for a foursome. I was always amused at
how gay dancers congeal into this modern version of a reel — sort of a square
dance at King Henry’s court, where no one touched, but everyone danced around
everyone else. Even Ginger and Leslie vied to make it a sextet crashing through
our central core, wiggling their asses with lesbian aplomb.
The
set was endless — one of those Black Box numbers designed to burn calories at
the gym. The disco ball glittered and the lasers flashed, and all the while,
the Zippilin barked or meowed or cawed. Finally, the dance slowed. I got to try
my sultry steps out on my cowboy. He wasn’t sultry at all — in fact, he
shuffled about like a klutz. But his eyes were glued to me, and that’s all that
mattered. So I wiggled my tush and flashed my eyes. We were all smiles, until
my friend John cut in.
John
was a sweetheart — a petite drag queen, who did shows at The Cavern and other
venues. He was a weekend queen, never dressing up for work or at home. He was
barely nineteen. So, with his baby face, in drag he was a butter pat on an
English muffin — all nooks and crannies. Bring the Strawberry jam in, please.
When John slipped between us, Matt shuddered. I had a feeling that the drag
queen phobia might erupt, and I wasn’t far from wrong. I mean, Matt didn’t
throw up or anything, but his shuffle became a syncopated walk. His hands went
crabby and he glanced at the bar as if the Coronas were calling him to shore.
Finally,
John began to brush against me and then Matt. I should have known better and
discouraged it, but I’m a natural flirt. I increased my swish and soon John and
I were in full swagger — girls on the patio sort of thing. Matt stopped still,
his face drawn — deep disappointment. Then he fled, but not as I supposed to
the bar, but to the back room.
“What’s
with him?” John asked. “Jealousy bone?”
“I
don’t know, hon. I don’t think so.”
John
grabbed me about the waist, and then grinded.
“He
should lighten up.”
“I
think he has a problem with hot mamas, like you.”
John
released me and stopped his routine.
“He’s
from out of town,” I explained.
“From
Mars, maybe.”
“Now,
Johnny, be good. He’s my try-out Christmas model.”
John
raised his hands high as if to serve the cheese or the Baptist’s head.
“You’d
do better with anyone else here, sweet Martin.”
I
looked about the dance floor. These were my sisters, not my lovers. True I had
been frisky with many of them, but then they were stuffed back in the pack and
drawn out only for color and snappy conversation. I spied that boor, Todd
Moorehouse, and shuddered. Now this would be the only new frontier, and I’d
rather slit my wrists than be intimate with any of the Roy Otterson crowd. No,
my sisters were my friends, not my lovers.
“I
suppose I should see where he’s off to,” I said, shrugging.
“If
you must,” John said. “But if he’s fallen down a sewer drain, I’ll be here
waiting.”
“You
never wait long, Sis,” I said, and then darted toward the back bar.
2
The boom-boom-boom of the dance floor fell into the background as I
explored the back bar. I knew everyone there, so it was difficult to maneuver
through the holiday greetings, as slurred as they were. The jock strapped
angels were flirting about, serving their drinks, and I believe a bit more,
especially that Bobby, who managed to balance his tray despite the many crotch
grabs he was enjoying. Working for tips could be rewarding, I thought. The
other cutie was also doing well, managing the camera for the Leather Santa
crowd. I guess his name was Branch, because there were plenty of Branch, get this
shot, and Branch, bend over and shoot this one between your legs. Still, I
didn’t see a cowboy hat in the crowd.
“Russ.”
He was easy to find, given the bookmark Customer Chris, whose head scraped the
stalagmites. “Have you seen . . .”
“The
Midnight Cowboy?”
He
cocked his head toward the volleyball court. I sighed. It was friggin’ cold
outside, but I didn’t want to get my coat. Still, I was obliged to look.
The
volleyball court was strange that night — empty and a baffle for the music. The
jollity from the shack echoed across the hollow of this solitary spot. Crouched
on the sidelines was my cowboy, his head between his legs, eyes racked on
folded arms. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure this man out. No amount of
phobia could produce such a reaction, unless he was on something and I hadn’t
detected the dosage.
I
sauntered over, towering above him. He didn’t move, so I hunkered down, and
whispered in his ears.
“Noise
too much for you?”
He
shook his head, never raising it. This was going to be fun. Merry Christmas,
Martin.
“Well,
too much beer in your tummy then, I supposed.”
He
sniffed, raising his head. Those sea-blue eyes were cushioned in vermilion.
“I’m
sorry,” he said with his soft drawl. “I guess I’m not ready for fun and games.”
“Not
ready?”
He
grasped my shoulders, and then hugged me.
“Hold
me, will ya.”
Since
he was holding me, I guess I had no choice. Still, I felt his heart beating on
my chest.
“What
wrong?” I muttered. “What’s upset you? Was it John?”
“Yes,
actually.”
“He
didn’t mean anything, you know. He’s always flirting with me. We’re just
sisters.”
“No,”
Matt said. “That’s not it. It’s that he reminds me of . . . someone.”
News
at eleven. There was someone else — someone gone or left behind.
“That’s
okay,” I said. “You don’t need to tell me.”
I
really didn’t want to know, but it looked like the time was ripe, or at least
the Coronas primed to the appropriate level.
“You
should know,” Matt said.
He
stood, helping me to my feet. He seemed better, but marginally so. It was cold
and my hands were like ice blocks. I blew on them, but Matt took them into his,
warming them, and then guided them into his pocket. That was sweet and
provocative, but he wasn’t flirting or easing towards foreplay. He was just
keeping my hands warm so he could unburden his heart.
“His
name was Luis.”
Was.
Past tense.
“Let
me guess,” I said. “He was a drag queen.”
“The
most beautiful drag queen you could ever set eyes on. He performed at la
Chiquita Club in the Melrose, and the boys loved
him. But he was mine.”
He
sniffed again, and then clenched my hands closer.
“He
was soft like . . . like you sorta and had a considerable following. He sang
like an angel.”
Like
me, sorta. I had a sinking feeling.
“Is
that what you’re after,” I said. I collected my hands and did my own warming.
“I’m no one’s stand in, you know.”
“No,
no,” he said. “That’s not it. I know that people are different and when
something is over, it’s over. But Luis was never over in the sense that we
broke up.”
“Then
he’s waiting for you in the Lone Star State.”
Matt
choked.
“I
wish he was. Not that I can’t be with anyone else, but Luis is . . . well, he’s
. . .”
He
couldn’t say it, and he didn’t need to, because I wouldn’t let him.
“Killed
him, they did. Bastards.”
“No,
no, Matt. It’s okay. You don’t need to go through it. You don’t.”
He
bawled, his head buried in my shoulder, his warm tears freezing on my shirt.
“He
was such a little performer, he was. He didn’t mean any harm, but he sometimes
got into trouble with some of the rougher trade. They’d call him names and he’d
toss it right back at them. But that night, they waited for him. They waited
and . . .”
“No,”
I said. “You’ll not do this to yourself. You’re here with me and on Christmas.
I’m the ghost of Christmas Present, and the ghost of Christmas Past needs to
stay in the past or you’ll never be free of it.”
“It’s
not that easy,” he said. “But . . .”
“Try.”
He
sighed. His eyes were cast down onto the court. The thumpa-thumpa-boom-boom of
the dance floor rumbled in the night. The laughter from the shack was in a
different world. Suddenly, Matt gazed up at me. I think it was in that moment —
you know the moment. Rare as it is, sometimes the fates conspire to snare the
soul and the heart into a universal song, one without ending . . . never ending
— never ended. Never. It was then that I knew that this Christmas gift was more
precious than a vacuum broom. I scratched my head with my frozen mitts.
“I’m
cold,” he said.
“I’m
warmer.” The stars above were beckoning me home. “But we’d be warmer in bed,
don’t you think?”
“Do
you have one of those down comforters?”
“Genuine
Eider,” I said. “An Icelandic beauty.”
“Thank
you for your generous offer.”
“It
stands only if you can leave Luis . . . outside.”
He
shuffled.
“That’ll
be hard. Very hard. But, you know, the best part of Luis is inside me. He’d
make a great acquaintance, if you let him. He sang like an angel — just like
you.”
I
grasped his hand. Cold hands in the dark.
“Well,
it’s Christmas,” I said. “I guess we can let an angel watch over us.”
Suddenly,
an angel appeared at the door. I shuddered, and then laughed. It was a smoking
angel in a jock strap — one of The Cavern’s crew — the waiter — Bobby.
To read another excerpt from Look Away Silence, go to September 29, 2009.
To purchase the Kindle ebook, click http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002HRER5S
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