Like People in History (68 page)

By the time I reached Fifth Avenue, I realized that no one was bothering to notice me. Meaning, I wasn't acting loony, no matter how I'd felt for a moment there. I'd try another block, walk along Broadway. I did, and again no one especially stared. So I walked on, occasionally checking faces for odd looks. Gramercy Park was visible down one avenue, and then I was there, at the hospital's front door, so I might as well go in, no?

Three people were at the desk. I gave the room number and was given a large red plastic visitor's pass you'd lose only if you were legally blind, and I waited with other visitors at the elevators. They all seemed to be carrying flowers and shopping bags filled with cards and gifts and fruit baskets. I carried nothing. I couldn't believe I was here.

The walls on Matt's floor were covered with children's drawings and pleasant reproductions, everything modern and cheery, although as I passed the open doorways, the patients inside looked pretty bad. Anything in the least out of the way or resistant would stop me, I suspected— anything at all. But nothing did. I continued to follow the numbers past the nurses' station. No one there more than half glanced my way.

As I neared the corner of the floor where I supposed I was headed, I heard music:
The Magic Flute
, the middle of Act 1. I knew this part. Papageno and Tamino and the Three Ladies. The Queen of the Night had just sung the first of her two big numbers. The three women now introduced a new theme, telling the men,
"Drei Knaben jung, schoen, hold und weise umschweben euch auf euer Reise: sie werden euer Fuehren sein, Folgt ihrem Rate ganz allein."

The tenor and baritone (Wunderlich surely, and wasn't that Walter Berry?) repeated the first two lines, then all five moved apart to sing the separate lines leading into a glorious little
fughetta
on
auf Wiedersehen.
Who but Mozart was so prodigal with melodies? Who else would have bothered to turn a mere "Goodbye" into such a delicious moment?

I wished I could hear it again, but the orchestra had moved on... No! Wait! The music stopped. Was the tape being rewound. Yes. As I located the doorway of the double room I was looking for, the little quintet started up over again. I stepped in: the bed nearest the door was empty. Just past an undrawn internal curtain, the room's walls were tinted red by a luscious sunset filling the entire sky over New Jersey and pinkly staining the leaves of a small forest of plants and flowers set upon the double windowsill. Stacks of books and magazines tottered against one wall. A few gifts recently opened lay
en déshabillé.
Two chairs, a mobile bed table on which the cassette player was hidden by tissues, water pitcher and glass, vials of unguents, all dominated by an oversized postcard depicting someone's quattrocento
Expulsion from Paradise
, featuring a spherical Earth rolled like a hoop by a cherub-lofted deity, while an archangel poked two slender youths of unclear gender past what looked like a stand of fully fruited peach trees. Headphones stretching behind the postcard connected to the cassette player: the quintet was once more singing the beautiful good-bye.

Upon the bed, as though just resting a second on a chaise longue, listening, his eyes closed, clad in almost diaphanous pale-green hospital pajamas, slightly frowning in concentration on the music coming through the earphones, was Matt Loguidice—beautiful as ever. No, more beautiful—his face not much thinner, not drawn and Auschwitz-skeletal as Calvin's and so many others' had been, but clarified, ennobled. Matt's hair was still rich and thick, not chemo-dry and dying, but full and curly, spattered with diamonds of gray, and one striking four-inch lock over his left brow had gone completely white. The large, easily grasped, muscular flesh of Matt's body as I had known it was gone, of course, replaced by a new spareness, but it looked taut, with very little looseness of skin visible through the open vees of his pajama neck and the unbuttoned top at his waist. Matt's legs were visible through a tangle of sheets, the false one made of expensive "fleshlike" plastic, covered with a skin-colored net fabric, so it bent and even wrinkled a little like skin. Doubtless from the VA.

My relief was so extreme, my pleasure at seeing Matt not ghastly and dying, as I'd feared, was so heartfelt, so complete, that when the pale gray eyes finally did open a second later, Matt's own surprise was genuine.

"Mr. Myxtplqztrx!" He smiled as he greeted me as of old. He removed the headphones and adjusted the bed to lift his torso.

For a second I was afraid I wouldn't be able to speak.

"My hero!" I responded, aiming toward the night table to shut off the cassette player.

Matt misinterpreted that movement as a kiss, so I shut off the machine and let myself be pulled down to buss Matt's cool dry forehead. Those eyes I'd known so well looked up, curious, expectant, slightly unclear.

When I pulled back, I said, "I'm obviously the last to visit."

"People have been great!" Was Matt's voice a little hoarse? "Some came from out of town."

"I thought I'd have to wait in line."

"Most come after work. A few at lunch time. This is in-between."

"I'm not tiring you? If I am, I'll go."

"I've just been lying here listening to music. Take a seat, Mr. Myxtplqztrx! See that wooden thing? The chess set? Would you set it up here?" Matt pulled the bed table over in front of himself. "That's fine," he said and began setting up first the black then the white chessmen.

"Planning to be a grand master?" I faced the board and Matt. As ever, I couldn't get over how beautiful Matt was.

"My way to check for dementia. You're white. You go first."

"It's been years. I don't remember any but the most basic Capablanca convention." Even so, I made an opening move.

Matt moved a pawn. The sun streaked the wall behind him orange-red, edged with hot green. It reflected on one side of Matt's face. It must be pretty colorless to have done that.

"It's like swimming or driving a car," Matt was saying. "You have to think a bit, but you never forget the basic moves."

As we played chess, we talked slowly, and I found myself thinking that too was like playing the game, still knowing the basic moves but just a bit rusty on procedure. Matt was more serene than I had ever known him to be. In the past, there'd always been an edge—at times imperceptible, then later on all too evident. Now it wasn't there. Something else was changed: in the past, Matt always favored the bad leg and foot; sometimes touching it too much, at other times leaning toward it. That was gone. He had a new leg: fake or not, it served, it filled the need.

"Can I do that?" I asked once, uncertain about a ploy.

"Sure. Bernard was here," Matt reported. "Said he saw you."

"Bernard?!" For the first time since I'd arrived inside the room, I almost panicked. Bernard the Grunt was dead. Died last year. Set aflame by the same enormous brushfire that swiped Calvin and so many others. Ironic to think the Grunt had developed even the tiny sex life needed to get caught.

"Bernard Dixon," Matt explained. "He said you have a play opening."

Meanwhile, Matt had been using his queen, one bishop, and a knight to mercilessly raid my pawns. In turn, I put up a defense, used my queen, a rook, and two knights to set up my own aggression against Matt's side of the board. In the past and despite Matt's experience— he'd learned the game as a child and for years had played against his grandfather—we'd always been pretty evenly matched.

"Speaking of Bernard and people from the past," I said, "you'll never guess who showed up today. Acting like she's been on a vacation at the Betty Ford Clinic. Sydelle Auslander."

I wanted to tell Matt how unsure I was of her, but Matt merely commented, "I've seen and heard many people from the past since I'm here."

Stung a little, I said, "Like me."

"You?" Matt touched my arm. "You're different. I knew you'd come. You belong here. I don't have to pretend or watch myself with you. Stay as long as you want."

It was the closest thing to a declaration of love Matt had ever made. Touched, I asked, "Is it okay if I come at this time, after rehearsal? Five or so? I'll call and check first."

"You don't have to call. Five's fine. Others don't arrive for another hour. This way I'm occupied yet rested. You don't have to come every day. Whenever you want."

"We'll play chess. And what else? I'll bring you stuff."

"Maybe you'll read to me. My eyes aren't..."

"A book? Magazines?"

"You sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure!" I protested, then I saw what Matt was talking about. I'd not noticed that my king was cornered. Good thing I'd kept one rook in the back row. I "castled" the king and tried to concentrate. "But I am sure. They're all dying to have me out of the theater while they rehearse." I immediately regretted using the word, but Matt seemed not to notice.

Even with my concentration, in a few more moves Matt had me in check and, after some desperate moves, checkmated.

"I'll call before I come tomorrow, to see if you need anything." I moved the bed table aside and kissed Matt's forehead. It was warmer now and a little moister. Was that normal?

Walking across town, I caught my image in a shop window. I looked as though... something wonderful had happened.

What precisely had my horoscope said? Someone from my past will be more wonderful than I thought possible. It hadn't mentioned that it would be someone I had never gotten over. Someone I had never stopped missing. Wouldn't it be terrific if when Matt got out of the hospital, this all continued? As friends. Who knew, maybe even again as lovers? It would be different, of course. We'd have to be very careful to safeguard Matt's health. But with no great claims on Matt's attention from other admirers, with me myself now finally adult enough to know when and where and how to compromise, it could be terrific.

No wonder I look happy, I thought. I am. To hell with the play. Matt is back!

Spring finally arrived in Manhattan. The cold that had held the city in an unrelenting grasp to the last bleak, snowless yet sunless day of March was broken by gentle rain the first of April. Every tree seemed to bud simultaneously, hell for those with allergies, but picture-card loveliness to everyone else. Crocus and magnolia blossoms pinkly and yellowly threaded every breeze that now wafted, softly, from across the Hudson through the streets of Chelsea.

Inside the little theater, rehearsals were no longer accompanied by the incessant racket of the house furnace. Actors no longer had to shout themselves hoarse to be heard over stage heaters. Nor upon arriving and before warming up did they have to unwrap themselves from Isadora Duncan-length scarves, dig their way out of Siberian anoraks and floor-length coats. The take-out food in the lobby and dressing rooms—based around the constellation of hot coffee, hot tea, and hot soup—became tepid: apple juice and yogurt prevailed. Cigarette breaks were no longer half in and half out the front lobby, a door braced open an inch. Smokers could go outside, and if the wind were down and the sun hot enough, they could sit on a brownstone stoop dotting the long block, thespians begging Sol for the flattery of an early tan.

The play had reached that point in rehearsal where all major areas were completely limned, only minor points of character delineation or refinements of action still needed to be gone over—often again and again. David J. couldn't for the life of him say a particular line as I'd written it. He'd get it wrong every time, despite the fact that it consisted of ordinary phrases and no long words. Blaise finally turned to me. "He'll go up on it when we open. Better rewrite it."

I did. Without complaint. In fact, now that I'd more or less accepted that the show would quietly die, I found a few scenes weren't so bad, were even—was it possible?—okay. For example, the day I'd finally met with Alistair for lunch at nearby Claire restaurant, after putting it off several days: On Alistair's insistence, we'd returned to the theater and walked in on the Casement Trial scene. Unexpectedly, almost embarrassingly, I had found myself riveted: the acting, the staging, the drama itself—it all came together. A fluke, I told myself. Or worse, the writer's ego, hypnotized by something it had written it couldn't get enough of—for a day, a week at most. It happened all the time!

No, no, Alistair insisted, with a tiny hint of awe in his voice. The scene was good. Alistair remained in his seat the rest of the afternoon, as Blaise and the cast moved on to two more scenes from the second act. When he'd gotten up to leave, Alistair hadn't been his usual effervescent self, but low-key. Before I could comment, he'd quickly said, "What I've seen so far has really left me thinking, Cuz. You know how much I pooh-pooh all these gay politicos and all. Yet, what I've seen today, even though it may not be refined yet, was really moving. Thought-provoking. What if Hay and those folks hadn't forced the court to overthrow the ban on
One
? What if Stonewall hadn't happened? Would we all be zipping around and hiding like those poor fifties queens? Daring our jobs, our lives, to be ourselves, to even protest? Yes, definitely thought-provoking," he declared, walking out of the theater.

Cynthia agreed. She'd worked on many shows, and when they reached the crucial weeks before opening any real flaws, any deeply ingrained problems became all too evident. Here, all the problems were being solved as they arose; all the disparate elements were coming together, knitting into a whole.

I would have liked to believe her. Everyone else believed anything and everything Cynthia said. Unfortunately for me, she had something even more difficult for me to believe: a mission, and that mission's main point was Sydelle Auslander.

Following that first surprising reencounter outside the control room,

I'd often seen Sydelle at the theater. Almost every day. No problem. We'd sometimes sit outside together, Sydelle stealing puffs of forbidden cigarette smoke (she was still trying to quit) and, in a desultory fashion, talking. So we too had more or less caught up with each other's lives. Sydelle hadn't remained at the magazine after I left as editor. She hadn't stayed anywhere very long until she'd met Second Why (i.e., Cynthia), she admitted. Furthermore, she admitted she'd often left magazines and newspapers after having made trouble and either forced someone else out—as she had with me—or left such a shambles the publication had collapsed. I was forced to admire her honesty if nothing else as she told me point-blank that she herself was incapable of being editor or even assistant editor at most of these places. She knew that. She also knew she didn't do any of it consciously. Well, not most of it. She half blamed astrology for it: "I'm a triple Scorpio," she once said. "Sun, moon, rising sign all square Pluto. I renovate wherever I go. Can't help it."