Room
by Gwen Mintz
The morning emerges. Like a photograph being developed, the latent image appears in fragments until there is a whole. Staring out the window, you blink. Moment follows moment and the dark shadowing disappears. A jagged silhouette of mountains emerges against the blue-purple sky. You blink and lose the security you’d found enveloped in darkness. Not ready for another day, you claw at the nocturnal fringes, whispering not yet, not yet.
Morning spilling in illuminates this tableau: A woman, you, standing at the window, head against the glass, arms tight across her chest, her back intentionally to the body, the man, your brother, lying on the bed. On the wall above is a shelf decorated with mementos and photographs. You have not sent him gifts. You are not in any of the pictures.
The room is quiet save your brother’s breathing.
As Jared labors for another inhalation, you think it’s probably the most work he’s ever done in all his twenty-nine years of life.
There is a soft knock at the door. A slight turn and you see this morning’s nursing aide slipping in. Your attention back out the window, you pretend not to hear her greet the unresponsive man on the bed, telling him that she’s going to take his blood pressure, his temperature and respiration.
He’s dying — what’s the point? you want to ask. But you remain silent even when the aide touches your arm and offers her condolences.
You move your head and perhaps she takes this as acknowledgement, because she nods and smiles. You shake your head as she leaves the room; you were merely looking for another angle through which to observe the morning goings-on on the other side of the window.
I’m sorry, the aide had said.
I’msorryI’m sorryI’msorry. The words whisk around in your heart, stirring up all kinds of emotions you’re quick to discount or discard. Why is it anyone crossing Jared’s path somehow ends up apologizing when he’s the one responsible?
Anger rises, but you squelch it, afraid —
Of? Of what you — and, more importantly, what you don’t — feel towards your brother. Afraid it will lead you not to protect, but to hurt him even now as he lays dying.
You grunt in surprise. Why does he evoke such discord? You haven’t seen or spoken to him in years, and today he is someone you cannot know, that you do not wish to know.
He was gay, that you knew. A heroin addict, that you chose to ignore. And now one or the other, perhaps both, of these choices, you think, have led him to this hospice bed, dying of AIDS.
Three days now. Much of your time has been spent sitting in the chair by the window, reading or watching the people drift in and out. They have come to pay their respects, to say farewell. The majority are men — a number more generous than has ever frequented your room — and, out of boredom, you begin a game in your mind.
You call it: Lover/Friend/Both.
You examine the men as they move around the bed, making small talk to with your brother, with each other if more than one visits at a time, and you try to place the men in your brother’s life.
Many of the men are not effeminate, as you expected, and several are very good-looking, of various shades, and you are envious that your brother had such offerings at his table while you sat around, starving.
After awhile, the game unravels. You cannot know really the status of any of them in Jared’s life; you cannot tell who is gay and who is not. Often, though, you are questioning your brother’s taste in friends and lovers. Both.
The man who called you days and told you that your brother was dying comes in just after the lunch hour.
He acknowledges you, welcomes you, tells you how glad Jared would be to know that you are indeed there and then he forgets about you. He pulls a chair up to the bed and sits.
You watch with interest as the man takes Jared’s hand and holds it as he speaks. He’s sharing the moments of his morning with your brother, his voice easy and unhurried. Later, he places your brother’s hand back on the bed, and, leaning forward, the man caresses the bone-thin arm, still speaking, laughing at points intended to be funny.
You want to turn away, need to turn away, embarrassed — disgusted? — at this intimacy between two men, but you can’t tear your eyes from the closeness. You cannot recall ever beholding such; you know that you have never felt such and it terrifies and fascinates you all the same.
The man rises from the chair, pushes it back, and on his knees, he positions himself near the head of the bed. He is still speaking and as he lowers his head, you’re sure he’s going to kiss Jared and you bolt upright, the chair tipping to the floor.
The man glances at you. He rises, approaches, but you walk past him and out the room.
The door closing behind you, you look up and down the hall for haven. Unable to find one, you simply step forward to the water fountain across from you. You lower your mouth to the arching stream. You drink and drink until your belly aches. Moments later, the man is behind you, hands tentatively on your shoulders. You cannot shrug them off although you think you should. He has comforting hands and you wonder if these same hands have held your brother, touched his face, and caressed his penis like it was the most precious gift.
“Were you his lover?” you ask.
“I love him, yes.”
“Are you positive as well?” You turn to face him.
“No,”
His answer surprises you and you search his face, like you used to scour Jared’s for traces for deceit.
The man smiles. “I met Jared after he’d been diagnosed. I love him, but I’ve never had sex with him.”
He is handsome, you think. A wicked thought follows: you know how much Jared enjoyed sex; such a pity; your brother never had opportunity. You stare at this man’s face and then, without clear thought, you lean toward him, your mouth aching.
His laughter is light against your lips. His eyes question: why?
Looking past him, your mind imagines Jared regaining consciousness to find his lover bucking beneath your lips. Maybe that would even the score.
Your brother’s partner leans into you, whispers in your ear, suggest the two of you take a walk.
You nod, your mind, numb. Turning, you half-gesture to the room and the man smiles again.
“Jared’s not going anywhere,” he tells you.
He wants to tell you about your brother. He knows that you do not want to be here.
When he spoke to you over the phone, you asked repeatedly How did you get my number before you outlined the reasons why you could not come.
True, you were being summoned because you are the only next of kin. True, your brother and you were not even speaking, but your being here was one of the last things Jared requested before he slipped into a state of unconsciousness.
You thought your brother might have scripted something better than deathbed requests. Still you came, although you feel something of a hypocrite. You cannot express grief you may not feel and that’s what you think is being asked. Are you sorry that he’s dying? You don’t know. You just don’t know.
The man wants to tell you about the years since you’d seen Jared last. You recall that you and your brother had had an argument, over what you cannot say and it was mutual, your decision to ignore the other. But you are here now, and whether you want to hear them or not, your brother’s partner is telling you stories as you walk the hospice grounds.
He was a fascinating one, your brother. His athletic build and handsome looks got him into both trouble and amusement, though in different measures.
“I’m not sure when it started to fall apart,” the man tells you. “But he’s a good guy. He always was.
“Once we were in Hollywood, at a party — he could get us into the best parties — but we ended up being thrown out of this particular one,” he says while you allow your mind to dissolve into the bright yellow flowers planted along the sidewalk border.
“When we left, your brother had somehow ‘acquired’ a leather jacket. An Armani leather jacket.” He smiles as if Jared deserved such, especially after being treated so un-hospitably.
You understand what he’s saying, though. You’d witnessed Jared moving through life as if it owed him and should be more than willing to pay, even if he had to help it along the way. And you can see Jared wearing that jacket as easy as he wore his S-T-Y-L-E.
The man’s smile grows. He knows you’re connecting to that image; how easily it was to be entranced by his flair.
For a short while, your brother and this man found themselves in Oregon. One day, one very cold day, the man continues, they were walking on a downtown sidewalk and a homeless guy, wearing only a shirt for covering, was heading toward them. Without question or thought, your brother shrugged off his insulation and bestowed the jacket on the homeless guy.
“He was always caring for others like that,” the man says.
You come to a stop and he looks down into your face. You squint in the sunlight. “So this,” you say, gesturing toward the building designed especially for AIDS patients, “isn’t enough. You’re telling me my brother was a thief as well?”
**
You could share a story, you think. It too would show the kind of person Jared was.
You are home from school. Climbing the stairs, you are surprised by the voices drifting down. You are always the first one home.
The voices come from Jared’s room. Your brother. Another male. You wonder how they beat you here. You turn towards your own room. Before you enter, Jared’s door opens and he and his friend spill out into the hallway, half-dressed and giggling.
The other guy, a boy you do not know, notices you first. Jared’s attention follows. Suddenly, both are quiet and appear embarrassed.
“We were playing basketball,” Jared says as explanation. “We were gonna go clean up.”
You know Jared can’t get a wad of paper into a trashcan sitting still on the floor. Some things make sudden sense. “You should definitely shower after playing around,” you tell your brother with a smirk.
Jared can do nothing but give you a dirty look.
“You’d better shower and get out of here before out parents get here,” you tell Jared’s friend and head into your room.
You are immersed in your homework when yelling comes from the hallway. You open your bedroom, Jared, across the hall opens his at the same time. His friend stands, fresh from the shower, in the open bathroom doorway. Your father stands in the hallway, in the middle of you all.
“Who the hell are you?” your father says. “And, AGAIN, what the hell are you doing in my house?”
You, Jared and this boy exchange glances. Then the boy says, “A friend and,” he continues, pointing at you, “she told me to shower and get out before you came home.”
Your eyes widened, though you did say this.
You are surprised further when your father’s hand smacks across your face. Again. And then again.
“Daddy!” you yell, ready to explain. But he’s already caught up in his anger. He beats you there in the hallway before some boy you do not know and Jared does nothing.
You both know your father can live with a daughter he thinks to be a whore, but he will not live with a son he knows to be a fag.
**
The staff social worker is concerned, talks to you about being stuck in denial and anger. You want to laugh. You want to tell her that you are not denying anything: You’re fully aware how angry you are with Jared.
She recites Kubler-Ross, holding out a collection of pamphlets. As if she were offering religious tracts, your guard is suddenly up, alert. You shake your head. Moments later, though, your hand holds a fan of brochures: “Good Grief.” “Getting Through The Stages.” “When You Think No One Understands Or Cares.” You shove them into your purse and make your way to the front door.
Outside the air feels so good. You breathe deep, relief pumping your lungs full. Rushing across the parking lot, you realize how hungry you are. In your car, you leave and head toward the town’s business section, in search of a fast-food restaurant. Finding one, six cars in line, you sharply veer your vehicle toward it.
In line, you rummage through your purse for your wallet and come upon the brochures. You slip your car into ‘ park,’ open the door slightly and drop the pamphlets to the ground. You pull your door, although it doesn’t close completely. You pretend not to see the papers flapping away.
Food in lap, you sit in the restaurant parking lot. Take your time eating the extra-large order of greasy fries, licking the salt from your fingers as if it were the only thing you now have to do. And it is, isn’t it?
You recall how — younger and still a friend to Jared — you once read Baldwin’s novel “Giovanni’s Room” at his request. You understand now something of the book: how in the space of a room one could feel trapped and lost and confused, and yet leaving, would mean insurmountable loss.
You came because you wanted something from Jared. You were willing to bargain, argue, be resentful — whatever it took to get what you think he owes you. You don’t want to be here, but you want your brother to tell you that he’s sorry.
That, or ‘thank you.’
You laugh at the memory of the social worker and her grief stages. You are suddenly at some kind of acceptance: you know now — again — that you will get nothing from Jared, and you spend the next hours staring out the windshield, at the sign on the building before you, pondering what, for $4.95, the manager’s special might be.