I'm pleased to share with you Chapter Seven, "Broken," in its entirety below. The content of the chapter is self-explanatory; all you need to know is it takes place in late 1988. Oh, and it's suitable for all audiences.
Thanks for taking the time, and I hope you enjoy it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BROKEN
Two weeks later, I went to David’s for
an early Christmas dinner.
It
was the first time someone, other than a relative, had invited me over for a
meal–certainly another gay man. I
was so excited, I couldn’t wait to go.
When
I arrived at David’s apartment late that Saturday afternoon, I was surprised
when he told me it would be just the two of us. Especially considering how much work he was putting himself
through, going all out as though he expected a houseful of family and friends.
In
addition to the traditional roasted turkey, stuffing, and gravy, the meal
consisted of a tossed salad with homemade dressing, garlic mashed potatoes,
steamed broccoli, oven-warmed buns, and cranberry sauce, which David told me
he’d made using a secret recipe of his grandmother’s. And, for dessert, he’d baked a pumpkin pie, including the
crust, which he garnished with fresh whipped cream and sprigs of mint.
Overstuffed,
David and I sat at his intimate, candle-lit dining table–the everyday items
normally found on it moved to the floor, in the corner and out of the way–where
we talked, laughed, and enjoyed ourselves until well into the evening.
When
it came time to clean up, we worked together to transfer everything back to the
kitchen. Afterward, I stood in the
short hallway, leaning against the narrow half-wall, and watched David
fastidiously rinse the dirty dishes, piling like items on top of each
other. In amongst his impatient
and frustrated mutterings about the lack of counter space, our lively dinner
repartee continued.
Once
everything had been rinsed and stacked, David excused himself to use the
bathroom.
As
I sauntered about his living room, admiring the things he had–and, dare I say
it, allowing myself to consider sharing them with him, if and when we became a
couple–I felt I needed to do something more to show my appreciation for
dinner. After all, David had done
everything he could to make me feel like an important guest. Perhaps, I thought, I should start
washing the dishes and help free up some space on the counter.
Having
rinsed the sink, clearing it of remaining food debris, I turned on the hot
water and added dishwashing liquid, just like I would if I’d been home. As I did, a tingle ran up my spine and
spread throughout my body; I found myself humming a familiar tune I couldn’t
place.
For
the first time, I felt what I imagined it must be like to live with someone, to
be in an honest-to-goodness relationship.
Having shared a delicious meal, and after cleaning up, David and I, the
two of us, would settle in for a quiet evening together at home–watching TV,
talking, or just being in each other’s company. As I thought of that, I felt warm and full inside.
Standing
at an unfamiliar kitchen sink, washing someone else’s dishes, admittedly felt
unusual, foreign, because I’d never done it before. But it also felt somehow right, like it was meant to be.
I’d
never considered the possibility, but I discovered an unexpected intimacy doing
such a mundane task–working with those things someone else uses everyday to
prepare and eat food. Perhaps, in
some respects, more intimate even than having sex together.
That’s
when it happened. Caught up in my
reverie as I was, I’d added David’s crystal wineglass to the sudsy water
without realizing it. Then,
absentmindedly, I’d pushed the dishcloth into it, snapping off a large piece
glass, and driving the resulting sharp edge into the base of my right index
finger.
Searing
pain shot through me, and I instinctively retracted my hand from the
water. In amongst the soap
bubbles, I saw a flap of skin.
Blood and water ran down my hand toward my wrist. When I tried to see if a piece of
broken glass had lodged into the wound, seeping blood obstructed my view.
The
first impulse I had was to dip my hand back into the sink of hot, soapy
dishwater, to wash away the blood before it dripped onto the floor. But I already knew that would sting
like hell. Not to mention, mixing
blood with the clean water didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
Then
the thought of HIV came to me.
While
there was still some confusion about how the virus was transmitted from one
person to another, there was no question contact with infected blood was one of
the primary ways.
Since
I’d had sex with only a few people, I was almost certain I wasn’t HIV+.
Still,
Kurt and I had engaged in risky sexual activity, just after I’d come out a few
years earlier. And I hadn’t been
brave enough, or saw good reason–that is, I hadn’t entered a committed
relationship yet–to get tested.
The last thing I wanted to do was contaminate the dishwater with my
blood. Even though, in the
unlikely event I was infected, I doubted the diluted virus would be dangerous.
As
I stood in David’s kitchen, holding my hand upright, using a tissue from my
jeans pocket to wipe up the blood and water so it wouldn’t drip on the floor, I
started to panic. How could I have
been so careless? Would David be
upset when he found out I’d broken one of his wineglasses? How could I have ruined an otherwise
perfect evening?
I
looked at the cut on my hand. It
was still bleeding. A lot. And I didn’t know what to do. I was no longer thinking clearly.
Just
then, at the other end of the hallway and across from the kitchen, the door to
the bathroom opened.
“What
happened?” David asked, looking at my hand, then up at me.
I
pointed to the water in the sink and explained about the wineglass.
As
I spoke, David went into action.
He opened a cupboard door and produced a roll of paper towels. Unrolling several sheets, he tore them
off and handed them to me. When
I’d cleaned my hand and arm, he inspected the wound. Blood kept getting in the way.
“I
don’t think there’s any glass in it,” I told him, my voice shaky.
David
tore off several more sheets of paper towel, folded them into a thick pad, and
gave them to me.
“Keep
your hand up,” he instructed.
“Apply pressure to stop the bleeding.” The calm yet earnest tone of his voice reminded me of my
mother, on those occasions when she’d shown concern for my wellbeing as I was
growing up.
Several
minutes later, I removed the soiled pad.
“It
looks deep,” David said. “You
might need to get stitches, to stop the bleeding.”
My
heart sank.
The
word “stitches” took me back to a hot summer evening in my late teens. My father and I had been on our way
somewhere in his pick-up truck. To
our right, the driver of a car on a side street missed the stop sign and
slammed into us. In the passenger
seat, I was thrown to the left.
When
we were safely out of the vehicle, my father took a look at me and said I
needed to go to the hospital.
Without realizing it at the time of the impact, my head had hit the
steering wheel, opening a gash. I
felt something warm on my forehead and touched it. My fingers were covered in blood.
As
I laid on a stretcher in the Emergency ward, a doctor injected my scalp with a
local anesthetic, then dabbed at the wound to clean it. He threaded numerous stitches through
the layer of skin to close the cut.
At
the time, I hadn’t felt much beyond a pulling sensation, as the suture thread
had been drawn through my skin.
But the idea of what had happened, as if hemming a pair of pants, had
made me sick to my stomach.
Regardless
of what David had said, I wasn’t going to Emergency at St. Paul’s Hospital–that
was for damn sure. Not only did I
not want to inconvenience him, by having him take me there–even if he did like
to drive his car–but also I had no intention of allowing a doctor to stick a
needle in my hand, to freeze it or to sew it up. Eventually, the bleeding would stop on its own. It had to.
Blood
kept oozing from my hand, faster than I was willing to accept.
Determined
to stop it, I returned the compress to the cut and pressed even harder. David prepared another pad of paper
towel and exchanged it for the one I had.
Several minutes later, we looked at the cut again. The bleeding seemed to have slowed,
somewhat anyway, and I breathed a little easier. Still, I couldn’t get the idea of stitches off my mind.
As
I continued to hold my hand up, pad firmly in place, David drained the sink and
sprayed water over the items in it, clearing the soap suds to find the broken
wineglass and shards. He looked at
me and smiled.
“You
drama queens are all alike,” he said.
“Always needing to be the center of attention.”
Several
times while he worked on washing and drying the dishes himself, David asked to
see the cut.
Finally,
when the bleeding had mostly stopped, he opened a cupboard door and took out a
first aid kit. He unzipped it,
made a compress from several feet of gauze, and affixed it to my hand with
medical tape.
“I
missed my calling,” he said. “I
should have been Florence Nightingale.”
*
The excitement of the evening
thankfully over, David and I carried our cups of tea to the living room and
settled into the two cozy, wingback chairs.
The
table lamps on both sides of the sofa, reminding me of tall, narrow, Grecian
urns, cast the room in a warm glow.
Smooth jazz tunes from David’s favorite radio station out of Seattle
played quietly in the background.
I
shifted uneasily in my seat and cleared my throat several times.
“I
have a question,” I said tentatively, as though seeking permission to ask
it.
“Why
am I not surprised?” David responded.
I heard the tick of his teacup as he set it in the saucer on his lap.
“It’s
been on my mind for weeks,” I said.
That
was true, it had been. Just as it
was true I’d been determined not to bring it up.
But
the events of the past few hours–from the fantasy of being part of a couple, to
feeling vulnerable when I’d cut my hand, to seeing another side of David as
he’d tended to me–had weakened my resolve. If there’d been a time to raise the subject, I thought it
was then.
I
gathered my thoughts and tried to select my words carefully.
“I
was just wondering, you know, when you told me before…um, that I’m not your
type. I mean, how did you know?”
“Here
we go again.”
“What
do you mean, ‘here we go again’?” I tried to ask it in a joking manner, to keep
the tone of our conversation light.
“I haven’t brought this up before.”
“Maybe
not directly, Priscilla. But I
know where you’re going with this.”
“Oh,
yeah? And where am I going?”
“We
already discussed it.”
“No,
you discussed it. I
listened.” He gave me that
skeptical stare. “But I don’t get
it,” I continued.
“That’s
right, you don’t. And you’re not
going to.” I attempted a
laugh.
After
a moment, I tried again. “When you
said I wasn’t your type, you didn’t even know me. How could you be so sure?”
“I
knew. Like I said before, it’s
either there, or it’s not.”
“But
I don’t understand. How am I not
your type?”
“You
won’t give up, will you?” David said, taking another sip of tea. “Well, for starters, you’re too
desperate. People can smell how
needy you are from a mile away. No
one wants to be with a needy, old queen.”
He smirked at me.
I
shot him a look. “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re
welcome. I know you don’t mean
that now, but you will…one day.”
Neither
of us said anything. Then David
spoke up.
“I
see how you might have gotten the impression I changed my mind, that I’m
interested in you now. But, as far
as I’m concerned, Gertrude, nothing’s changed. We’re still where we were before.”
“But–”
“No
more buts,” David said firmly.
“And no begging. It’s not
becoming to a woman like you.”
I
wanted to say something else, I really did, but I stopped myself. What was the point?
For
some time afterward, David and I sat quietly, drinking our tea and listening to
the music.
But
my mind was churning.
In
less than a year, I’d turn thirty.
I
knew, or I’d been led to believe, anyway, that once a gay man had reached that
milestone age, it was all over.
Just like that, he’d be old, undesirable, and invisible, especially to
those he most wanted to find him attractive.
From
that point onward, the chance of meeting a partner would be even more difficult
than it had been (read: impossible).
Through no choice of his own, the poor sop would live the rest of his
life isolated, lonely, and miserable–what he’d probably dreaded most happening
to him.
Seeing
myself end up like that scared the living crap out of me. I couldn’t conceive of the possibility
I’d go through life without ever experiencing real and true love–at least once. In the event that was the case, I believed
little else would have any meaning.
The
light and airy riffs of George Benson’s “Breezin’” floated about David’s
apartment.
Time
was running out.
Despite
my persistence, the clubs had been nothing but a disappointment, and I had no
reason to believe they’d be any different in the future. Before it was too late, I had to try
something else.
But
what?
The
only other thing I could think of was what I’d told myself I never would. After all, I had to draw the line
somewhere.
As
I pondered the situation I was in, I knew I might not want to do it. But the decision had already been made
for me.
