The Tin Box (28 page)

“Done.”

William dropped a kiss on the tip of Colby’s nose. “I love you, Colby.”

Colby’s widest, brightest smile lit up his whole face. And this time his eyes held an extra glow that William would have sworn had never been there before. “I love you back,” said Colby.

They were still tangled together as they dozed off. The old hospital building creaked as a breeze picked up, and all the ghosts settled for a while, momentarily at peace. The sun dropped behind the hills, tingeing the sky with oranges and reds. Two men in love napped in each other’s arms, dreaming of their future together.

“
J
ESUS
, Will. This thing weighs a ton.”

“It weighs about a hundred and twenty pounds.”

Colby grunted as they set the stone carefully into the small indentation they’d prepared in the grass. Then he stood and stretched, revealing a strip of skin between his waistband and the hem of his shirt. “It felt heavier.”

“You’re the one with all the muscles.”

Colby smiled and moved closer so he could caress William’s upper arms. “Yours aren’t bad either.”

William made a face. “I’m not going to win any bodybuilding competitions.”

“So? I don’t want a bodybuilder. I want you.”

Colby had said those words in various ways and under various circumstances over the past two and a half years. William finally believed them, and that felt good.

William stooped to wipe some stray dirt off the stone, then stood and took a few steps back to assess the result. He and Colby had decided to place the marker near the edge of the fenced-off grassy area, so that it could be easily seen from the pathway.

William James Wright

April 18, 1915 – February 7, 1975

Brave and Loving

Never Forgotten

Of course, nobody knew whether Bill was buried in this particular plot of land or somewhere else on the property. Maybe his was one of the bodies accidentally discovered by the construction firm several years back and then hastily reinterred. It didn’t matter. His bones were here somewhere. Besides, it was better to have the stone close to the main building—where he’d spent most of his life, and where visitors were most likely to see it.

“Looks good,” said Colby. He stood off to the side, hugging himself a little in the chill. He was wearing one of William’s gray cardigans with the elbow patches—professorwear, Colby called it, even though William hadn’t yet sought a teaching position. The sweater was too big on Colby, making him look like a boy in his father’s clothing. He was adorable, especially with the dampness flattening his spiky hair and gathering on his cheeks and nose.

William nodded. “Yeah, I like it. It’s dignified.” He retrieved the spade from where he’d left it, leaning against a tree, and he dug a hole a few inches in front of the stone. He didn’t make the hole very deep, because the last thing he wanted was to disturb any burials. It didn’t need to be very deep, just a little over a foot—enough to bury an old tin lunchbox.

When the hole was large enough, William nodded at Colby, who reached into the wheelbarrow they’d used to carry the stone from the car. He lifted the tin box and handed it to William.

William smiled. “Thanks.”

As gently and reverently as if the box were a body, he placed it in the hole he’d dug. It fit well. He buried it and tamped the soil into place. The tin box no longer contained the letters Bill had written; those had been preserved. Instead, sealed within were a few sheets of paper covered in William’s careful writing, plus a heart-shaped pin in rainbow colors, which Colby had acquired at a gay pride event a few years ago and had asked to include.

In another month, he and Colby would plant some flowers. One of the members of the hospital board had suggested a rose garden with a hundred bushes—one for every fifty people buried at the hospital, according to the best estimate.

Taking his spade, William stepped over the low metal fence. He stood next to Colby and both looked at the freshly turned earth. Colby wrapped an arm around William’s middle and leaned close against him.

“Caretaker,” Colby said in a low voice.

“What?”

“Caretaker. It’s the perfect job title for you. It’s who you are.”

“But I’m not—”

“Think of what you’ve done for this place. For Bill. For me.” He squeezed William gently and looked up at him with his brilliant smile. “What you will do for our daughter when she arrives.”

William gave him a fierce hug, feeling the surge of elation and terror that always arose when he thought of their coming addition. Colby’s friend Layla had agreed to collaborate with them on their family life as well as on their film project, and she was due to give birth to their daughter in two months.

“It’s starting to rain,” Colby observed. He was right. The mist had transformed into a light drizzle. Little droplets were caught like jewels in his hair. “Probably time to put things away and take off. I’ll make us some soup and we can watch one of those boring science shows you recorded.”

“They’re not boring.”

“Last night you fell asleep while you were watching one. You snored.”

“That’s because you were giving me such a nice scalp massage.” That was true. They’d been on the couch, William’s head in Colby’s lap, and Colby ran his fingers through the hair he insisted William keep long. It had been very relaxing.

Colby stood on his toes so he could kiss William’s cheek. “Let’s get home and I can massage more than that.” He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and headed toward the shed.

William hefted the spade but lingered for a moment. As his gaze roved over Bill’s marker, he nodded and said quietly, “Yup. It’s time to go home.”

February 7, 2014

My dearest Bill,

You don’t know me, although I feel that I’ve come to know you. My name is William also. Will. Until recently, I was the caretaker at the Jelley’s Valley Asylum, and I discovered your letters there. I hope you’ll forgive me for invading your privacy, but I read them and then I shared them with others.

I want you to know the impact you’ve had. On me first. Your struggles, your words gave me the courage to finally be myself. I spent most of my life trying to force myself into a lie. Not because I feared the kinds of things that happened to you. Honestly, I’m not sure what I feared. But I read your letters and I broke out of my cocoon, becoming the man I was meant to be. I love another man very deeply, as you loved your Johnny. Colby is my sun and my moon. You gave me the courage to make him mine. He loves me back, just as much. We plan to get married soon.

But you’ve caused other changes too. Instead of a life spent doing dry academic research nobody will ever care about, I’m studying you and people like you, and with help from my friends I’m sharing your stories.

We began with a book and a website. There are photos of the hospital. I wrote the words, which are about you and two dozen other patients. You were all sent here for a variety of reasons and you met a variety of fates, but every one of you touched my heart. The book has been very successful. The photographer and I have been on NPR and
The Daily Show
, among other things. I know those words don’t mean anything to you, so let me explain: they mean that literally millions of people know about you, Bill. And a lot of them have written to me, telling me how much you mean to them. How you’ve given them courage too.

Because the book has gained so much attention, now there’s more to do. Colby and I are working with a friend to make a documentary about how gay people have been abused in the name of “curing” us. It’s something I can speak about personally, although my story’s not as bleak as yours. We’ve scraped together some decent funding for the film. Our friend—who’s made a couple of movies already—thinks the film will be a blockbuster. We’re negotiating now with some big-time producers and distributors. It’s going to be good, Bill.

The hospital closed years ago. After the book came out, the people who run the place got a couple of big grants and donations. They’re turning part of the grounds into a museum. A community college is going to offer classes there too. It’ll be a place of life and activity and hope.

You have touched so many of us.

I also want you to know that things are better now. I don’t know if that gives you any solace, but it’s something I’d want to know if I were in your position. Life still isn’t perfect for gay people. My own parents won’t speak to me. But the atrocities that were done to you are not being repeated. My Colby and I are accepted and loved by his entire family. His aunt knits me scarves and his cousin bakes me pies. His mom has actually smiled a few times. (That’s a bigger deal than it sounds.)

I had to move out of the hospital now that they’re doing renovation there. Colby and I bought a little house in central Jelley’s Valley, right across the street from his grandfather’s house. We hired his cousin (not the one with the pies) to do some improvements on the place. We’re turning one of the bedrooms into a nursery with a jungle theme. I’m looking forward to raising our daughter there and helping Colby run the general store. Maybe I’ll teach some classes at the community college when it opens.

Whatever happens, I believe we’ll be happy.

It’s funny. I’ve been thinking of myself as an atheist for a while now, and I assumed that meant when we die we’re just dead. Gone. But look at all you’ve done, nearly 40 years after you died. And here I am, writing you a letter. Lately, I’ve come to believe that after we die some part of our spirit does remain. I’m hoping my letter helps you find peace. We never met, you and I, but I love you. You’re loved, Bill. And I believe that just maybe, in some way, you know that.

And this is the most amazing thing of all: I believe. I believed when I was younger, but it was a terrified, cowering kind of belief. The kind of belief that makes you hide. Then I believed I could pretend to be someone else. I lost that belief too. But over the past months—due in part to you, Bill—I’ve come to believe in myself, believe in the future, believe in ghosts, believe in hope. Believe in love.

Thank you for all this. You will be forever in my heart.

Yrs always,

Will

K
IM
F
IELDING
is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full time. She also dreams of having two perfectly behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.

Kim can be found on her blogs:

http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog

and on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites.

Her e-mail is [email protected], and she can be found on Twitter at @KFieldingWrites.

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IM
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IELDING