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CHRISTMAS NIGHT WAS memorable for Robert, if only because it
was the night the one great love of his young life was taken, stolen away by a
disease he could never have imagined just a few years before. The night was
also memorable because there was a kind of Christmas miracle, even if it
lasted only a few moments. Keith came back to him. His Keith, the one who could
make him laugh and make him feel “like a million bucks.” For the briefest of
moments, the real Keith returned, smiling and making of his death mask face a
hint of what had been there before: a handsome, distinguished man whose cheeks
were no longer sunken and hollow, whose green irises were rimmed in yellow no
more, and whose smile could light up a room.
Maybe
seeing the old Keith, handsome, devilish, strong jawed from his Mediterranean
heritage, was just a figment of Robert’s imagination, something he wished for
so hard it came true. But the lucidity that came late that Christmas night was
not his imagination. Something had clicked in Keith’s fevered brain and for
just an instant, he came back.
But it was
only to say goodbye.
Robert had
spent the long afternoon cooking. He knew it was pointless. Keith, in his best
moments, could only keep things like Jell-o and protein drinks down, and Robert
had no appetite himself. But in spite of a decided lack of hunger around the
Harris/Jafari household, Robert had made quite a testament to culinary
expertise in the marble and glass kitchen. The counters were crammed with
cutting boards where Robert had used his Wusthof cutlery to prep a garden of
fresh herbs, mincing parsley, sage, basil, and thyme into stacks of fine green
confetti. He cut garlic into translucent slices. Halved lemons lined up in an
orderly row beneath the windowsill, waiting to release their juices. And there,
near the sink, a twelve-pound goose waited for Robert’s touch, ready to have
its skin loosened and lifted and for him to infuse it with chopped herbs, to
stuff its cavity with lemons and whole garlic cloves, and, finally, to be
buttered and rubbed lovingly with extra-virgin olive oil and trussed. It would
spend the rest of the day basking in the heat of an oven, religiously basted
every forty minutes. Robert had made oyster stuffing, rich with
fresh-from-the-sea briny juices, sage, and fennel sausage. He had shorn the
bottoms off artichokes, trimmed their leaves, and stuffed them with a mixture
of bread crumbs, garlic and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. In the sink, a mound of
Yukon gold potatoes awaited peeling. Brussels sprouts needed to be cleaned,
steamed, and tossed in butter, lemon juice, and garlic.
And when the
kitchen windows fogged with steam from bubbling pots and the whole first floor
of the penthouse was redolent with roasting bird, Robert went into the little
powder room off the kitchen and threw up. He sat there by the toilet
afterwards, gasping, and wiping angrily at his mouth and nose with Kleenex that
left shreds on his stubbled face. He started to sob, the tears coming easily,
hating himself for being such a coward, for spending all this time, all this
money, to prepare this glorious yuletide feast no one would ever eat. He
slapped his own face, punishing himself for being so stupid, stupid, stupid. Who
was he trying to kid? Did making a Christmas goose with all the trimmings wipe
out a year of love, passion, and happiness? Did all the cooking, decorating,
and wrapping of presents put a different face on Death, who paced the
penthouse, features furrowed, waiting to take his own Christmas present, which
lay, just inches away from “delivery” on sweat-soaked Egyptian cotton sheets?
Why couldn’t
he accept what was happening? It was over. It was only a flame that had flared
and then was snuffed out. He forced himself up, gripping the little pedestal
sink, and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror
above the sink, hating the vibrant, rosy glow in his cheeks, his fine,
small-pored skin, twinkling blue eyes that betrayed not a hint of his
exhaustion and despair, and his shining blond hair, in ringlets because of the
kitchen humidity.
Why did Keith
have to die?
Why did Robert
have to live?
He closed his
eyes and went into the kitchen, ready to feed the fabulous food to the garbage
disposal. The work, just like the preparation of the meal, would take his mind
off things.
And then he
heard Keith’s voice, watery, weak, a shadow of its former self, call out. If
the garbage disposal had been on, he wouldn’t have heard it. But the sound of
his own name coming from his lover’s lips filled him with a kind of insane joy
and optimism. The irrational part of him wanted to take it as a sign, a U-turn
in the road toward death.
His Keith was
getting better! Getting better in spite of the fact that all these other men
with AIDS were dying quick, painful deaths. Keith would be the exception to the
rule. He always had been. A sob caught in Robert’s throat and he hurried toward
the stairs.
“Robert?”
Keith’s voice sounded again, querulous and weak as a kitten. But it was
Keith and he was calling for him.
Robert rushed
up the spiral staircase, tripping once, a startled laugh escaping from his
lips. Who knew? This AIDS thing was still so new. Who was to say there weren’t
people out there who could beat it? People with imagination and fortitude.
People like
Keith.
Robert
hesitated outside the bedroom door. Inside, it was quiet, and he dreaded going
in there and finding Keith on the bed asleep, a sheen of sweat clinging to his
sunken cheeks, his breath phlegmy and labored. What if Keith’s call was just a
momentary peek through the twin curtains of fever and consciousness? Or worse,
the product of his own overly-hopeful imagination?
What would be,
would be (hadn’t some virginal blonde even once sung about it?). Robert steeled
himself: deep, cleansing breath, let it out slowly. And entered the room.
Keith was
awake. His face looked even more drawn and tired—the color of ash. Robert would
have said it was impossible for him to look any sicker even this morning, but
now he did. In the air, despite the cinnamon and vanilla scented candles in the
room, was the smell of sickness and shit.
But oh, Lord!
Keith was looking at him. Looking right at Robert. And he was seeing him! For
the first time in forever, their gazes met and connected. Robert approached the
bed warily, as if a sudden movement would send Keith plummeting back into
unconsciousness.
“Honey? Can
you hear me?” Robert stood, wringing his hands, heart fluttering, beating
against his ribs.
“Of course.”
Keith’s voice was a croak. Gone were the bass notes that had made him sound so
sexy and assured. Keith reached a bruised hand out over the covers and patted
the bed. “Would you sit next to me?”
“Oh, of
course!” Robert took two steps and weighed down the bed, reaching out to brush
a strand of hair off Keith’s forehead, biting his own lip at the heat radiating
off Keith’s flesh. “I’m so happy you’re awake.”
Keith
swallowed. The swallow took a long time and looked as if it took all of the
sick man’s effort. He let out a weak sigh and turned his head. He looked up at
Robert and managed a wan smile. Robert closed his eyes and gently laid his head
atop Keith’s.
And then Keith
began to talk, his old voice suddenly returned, strong and sure. “I have just a
few things to say, Robert. And I need you to shut up and listen. No
interruptions. The first thing I want to say is ‘Merry Christmas.’ I’m so sorry
I couldn’t be a bigger part of things for this, our first Christmas together,
but that decision was taken from me and it doesn’t look like Mr. Claus is
seeing fit to give me a chance to make it up to you.
“The
second thing I want to say is that I love you with all my heart. I searched
forty some odd years for you, for what I’ve always dreamed of, and what I thought
I couldn’t have when you dropped, like a gift, like an angel, into my life last
winter. You were what I hunted for all my life: a family. You are my family.
Don’t ever forget how precious that is.
“The
third thing I want to say is that you’re an idiot, running around, burying your
head in the sand and trying to make a Christmas that neither of us has the
capacity to enjoy. And last, I love you for that. I love you so much for
trying…for hoping against all odds that this moment would come and I would let
you know how much I appreciate you. For hoping that we might share one final
kiss before I have to go. And my love, I do have to go.
But I
couldn’t leave without you hearing these four words. You. Are. My. Family.”
BUY ORIENTATION
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