My father was 23, turning 24. My mother was recently turned 18. It was 1973. Spring. May. A six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and god only knows what else and they were standing together in front of a Justice of the Peace saying "I do." That was 1973.
My mother had said yes because it was the only way she was gonna get him to ask. Drunk and god only knows what else, that is. Today they have been married some 27 years. It sounds like one of the stories from "When Harry Met Sally"?
I'm 24, turning 25, a year older than my father that day in 73 that he said "I do." I'm a lifetime older than my mother comparitively. Ok, so its only 7 years. But seven gay years, like dog years, can be multiple lifetimes. I'm 24, turning 25, and mom turned 45 only 2 months ago or less and they celebrated 27 years today. And I'm standing in my boxers and a tee shirt in my kitchen cooking tonights dinner.
Dinner is nothing special these days, some stir fried vegetables, something thats trying to be pot roast in the oven that I was calling london broil and some mashed potatoes. Instant potatoes. Instant because I left work late. Instant because I had to call and wish them a happy 27th. Instant because... I really didn't care and because he wasn't here yet and because he hadn't called to say he was going to be late again to night, and because I was probably eating alone tonight. Again.
27 years. Thats essentially my lifetime, because well, it is my lifetime... after waiting two years to dispell any talk that they had to get married, my parents had me. Two years after that my brother was born. It was the 70's. The economy was shit, and neither had had good jobs, but who cared. 'We are married, lets have some kids.' and they did, two boys, and they stopped. Dad became a truck driver. Mom took in kids to watch. And we had a family.
And it worked. Sorta. Mostly. They fought. I remember some of the fights. They are funny now in hind sight. But they were married and they had kids so they had responsibilities like a mortgage so problems went away. A big fight, arguing, some yelling, breaking dishes, and then the next morning it was fine. Maybe because they spent so little time together. My dad was a truck driver after all. He wasn't home during the week. Only on weekends. But 27 years.
He and I have dated some four years. College lovers, we met when I was 20 and he was 24. I'm 24, turning 25, and hes 28, turning 29. And hes not home form work and its 8:30 and dark. And he still hasn't called.
We've lived together a year now. Playing family, I like to call it. I bought the house. Technically, he rents from me. The finances are separate. He makes more money than me. Ignore though, your conclusions. We are no married couple. At least not in any more tradiational manner. We are boyfriends, not husbands. And my 'boyfriend' is not home from work and its 8:30, and its dark, and its May 22, 2000 and my parents have been married 27 years today because of six Pabst's Blue Ribbon beers in the ugly white and blue and red cans, and god only knows what else.
He once told me that he loves me. He had had six Heineken's in the green bottle. We made love that night. But I didn't kiss him. I don't like the bitter taste of beer.
Dinner is near ready and the London Broil lately pot roast is cooling for slicing on the counter and the stir fried vegetables are on the plates. The instant potatoes are becoming stiff, ready to serve, so I add some more butter and salt and pepper. The dinner isn't appetizing and so I take the pot of potatoes to the rear patio and eat from the pot with the same cooking fork. Its May 22nd and its 8:30 and its cool like spring should be an my parents are married 27 years and the potatoes are salty and buttery and taste so good and the phone is ringing...
So he's calling. Finally. I let the answering machine pick up and listen for him to ask, "John, where are you?" but the voice is a woman. Its Calista, and i like her voice as it echoes through the house through the screen to the back patio. I get up and answer the call.
Calista is beautiful. Blond, with blue eyes and golden heart, she makes everyone smile. She has a round face, porcelain white with the requisite beauty mark by her lip. A southern accent, with a clipped laugh giggle and a sheepish and yet seductive ending to all of her thoughts. "Hey Calista, I was just eating... Whats up? Its been forever!"
She's getting married. This girl, 21, graduating from college is now officially engaged. The beautiful ring, the ceremonious question begged on one knee, a crying "Yes". The works. Storybook. The wedding is in October. Late October 2000. Five months, less, from now.
"Can you come? Please?!"
"Of course! I wouldn't miss it. Congratulations!"
"Bring you know who with you. You know how I love him."
"I'll let him know as soon as he gets home."
"Great... well I'll call you again later this week, but now I have to finish making the announcements."
"Oh, no, sure, I understand. This is so exciting!"
"Love you."
"Love you too, sweetie. Take care."
She was gone. And I was standing again in my kitchen with the potato fork crying. 9:05 PM.
I asked him to marry me one night. Lord, it was mid-summer, at the beach, while we were participating in a group vacation with some of my straight friends from college. Calista was there. I had just graduated, embarking on a new career. A new improved life for a new improved John.
It was a dark warm evening. Early night I suppose. My memory isn't the greatest even at my age. Add on its one of those things I wish to forget. We were walking on near deserted stretches of sand. North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The sand was still warm. I had liked the way it still burned the soles of my feet. Yes, so I can remember it more than I wish.
There was a slight breeze off the ocean. The air had the familiar salty taste, and with the breeze, a comforting weight and presence to it. There were muffled conversations from lovers in the dark alcoves of the dunes away from the water, away from the glow of the distant streetlamps. A few calls from the far off bars. A car engine. A radio. The waves weren't large or noisy.
I was in heaven, spending these days with my best friends and this man I loved in such a romantic place. Seeing the pieces of a mature adult life falling into place. Feeling like family, having responsibilities, understanding why my parents married. Knowing that somehow this is what it felt like to be committed to someone. Understanding the contentment and satisfaction of this. Having this purpose to life. Rapture. I was 22 turning 23.
I leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. Holding his hand to bring him to stop and face the water, I spoke softly my love for him. He squeezed my hand silently and dropped his eyes to his barefeet in the sand. Searching for his gaze, I dropped to my knees and put my face to his bare stomach.
"Do you think that... that we are ready to..." but he cut me short.
"No John. Here... stand up." and I did. "We should be heading back, its late."
And so I agreed, and so we did. But he wasn't holding my hand and I wasn't quite keeping up. When we reached the hotel, I sent him up to bed, desiring to sit a while more by the ocean. He squeezed my hand again and asked that I not stay too long. "Please come to bed."
I sat by the ocean near the entire night. I retreated to the hotel room only after high tide was licking at my bare and now cold toes, and the first signs of dawn were lighting the sky above to the left over the Atlantic. I dried my eyes and proceded to bed.
I've been holding the cooking fork listlessly now for some half hour. Its 9:30 but I've eaten nothing. There is no appetite. Lighting a candle I curl up on my couch in my living room. Mine. He only rents. Is he only renting me?
The relationship has been monogamous by default. We never really discussed monogamy. I was too in love at first to consider sex with anyone else. Later, I was too tired I guess. We have not made love for three months or more. Did we even talk anymore? Somehow, we fell into these roles, our jobs, our classes, this life.
We talked quite a bit on return from the beach. He surprised me. No, we were not ready for marriage, but certainly we could try living together, he said. And he moved into my apartment not long afterward. Six months or so? We had to wait for the respective leases to expire and for me to close on this house. Owning a home was always my dream. And I have one. Have had one for a year. I'm 24 going on 25 soon.
The house has three bedrooms. Mine, the large master bedroom which we share each night. The smaller master bedroom is his. He dresses there each morning. There is a third room. Its a guest room now, but it was to be for a child. Leaving our options open we had said. We haven't discussed it again.
The room is heavy around me, hanging precariously about shouldered into place by the flickering candle light. The air is humid and warm. Stiffling. I wish I could swallow these thoughts. But like dinner, there is no appetite. 27 years. Quarter to 10.
The night he had cheated on me I found him locked in his room crying. Thats when I learned that he had been monogamous these years. I had never asked. I hadn't wanted to know. That was I guess, 4 months ago? It wasn't a significant fight. I don't think it was really a fight at all. I had unlocked the door against his protest and held his head in my lap.
I didn't cry that night. There was a tranquil fog over me as I absorbed his apologies and misery. I was detached and hollow. That was how I held his feelings inside of me, in that hollow, I collected his tears. He slept in his bed that night, whimpering even in his sleep. After tiring of the display, I lit a solitary candle and sat dry eyed in my master bath staring at the tub I intended to fill, and yet never did. I did not work the next day, and so I was relieved when quietly, he exited the house without entering my room.
He tried to talk about what had occurred that night at dinner, but I dismissed the topic with a disapproving scowl and a suggestion that I be given time to think. He slept with me again that night, but I recoiled from his touch. When I awoke I had found myself in his arms. We never again discussed the topic. He began working late more often.
The neighborhood is quiet now. Lights from the adjoining townhomes are switching off. I can make out only that it is after 11 from the mantle clock. I smile and understanding smile and stand from the couch. Exstinguishing the candle, I flood the room bright with the light from the over head lamp. The day had been mostly sunny, but his umbrella was not by the door.
The picture of his mother and brother are consipicuously missing from the mantle. Falling up the stairs hastily, I entered my room and found his pictures were missing from his bedside table. Slowly backing from my door across the upstairs foyer, I paused with my hand on the door to his room.
I take a labored breath and push open the door. The sound of the hinges requiring oil peels through the empty room, the indentations from his bed posts and chest of drawers still fresh on the carpet in the moon light. Flipping on the overhead lamp to see in light what I had made out in shadow, I step in to the vacant room.
Vacant, it would seem, except for an envelop
on the window sill. Opening the envelop and unfolding its contents, I sighed
in relief reading the two lines:
My dearest Johnny -
I love him.