Sensing Light (21 page)

XVII

H
ERB WENT FROM CLINIC
to the monthly department meeting, Ray's last before his sabbatical began. Since Ray wanted him to counsel the young assistant chief of medicine who would be in charge during his absence, he had to attend. Though able to follow the discussion, Herb made no comments about the department's ongoing financial woes, despite several prodding glances from Ray. As he was leaving, Kevin stopped him.

“Are you OK?”

“I'm fine.”

“Really?”

“It was a little concussion.”

“Then…do you have time for coffee? I need your advice about the suramin trial.”

“To be honest, Kevin, my mental powers are not quite back to a hundred percent yet. You sure you want advice from me?”

“Herb, if you're functioning at twenty percent, that's better than me with all eight cylinders firing.”

They sat in a corner of the empty cafeteria. To postpone having to deal with another intellectual challenge, Herb asked about Kevin's weekend. His probing, warm curiosity surprised Kevin. Herb gave an apologetic shrug. He hadn't meant to pry.

“It was pretty intense,” said Kevin.

“What happened?”

“I was in Boston, at my father's funeral.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Was his death unexpected?”

“Hardly. He lived for three years after being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. It must have been a joy for my mother to have it drag out that long.”

“You sound angry,” said Herb, leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his interlaced fingers.

“I know. I shouldn't be.”

“No?”

“He wasn't a kind man. In fact, he was a stubborn bastard. But I never took the initiative to work things out. I assumed he'd eventually accept who I was and want my forgiveness. That never happened.”

Herb's forehead wrinkled as he concentrated.

“What do you think, Herb? If I didn't try to repair things between us, do I have the right to be angry at him now?”

“Why not? He was the parent. In the big picture, didn't he have a bigger share of responsibility for the relationship than you?”

Kevin thought for a moment and said, “Maybe you're right.”

Hoping he was on a roll, Herb said, “And if you're like me, you're probably mad at yourself, too.”

“Huh…you think?”

“Definitely. And I know what I'm talking about.”

“How so?”

“I didn't have much of a relationship with my father. That's an overstatement. He never showed me affection. Then he died when I was twenty-one. Nothing was resolved—I mean for me it wasn't. I'm sure he never saw any problem between us.”

“You still sound angry.”

“Just sarcastic. I got over it. Other people came into my life. His significance receded.”

“Gee, that's inspiring.”

“Sorry if I sound flippant, but it's true. If nothing else, age does give one perspective on stuff like this. I was angry well into my thirties. Now I think I should have been grateful. Growing up as the only Asian kid in an all-white suburb of New York City had to be far better than living through World War II in China.”

“Was your dad just indifferent or abusive?”

“I'd say he took indifference to a level that approached cruelty. Here's an example. He traveled a lot for work, but he did happen to be in town the weekend I graduated from high school. And, by the way, my class had voted me most likely to succeed. He didn't bother to come to the ceremony. It wasn't important to him. I was just another piece of furniture at home, nothing more.”

“And you're not still angry?”

“Oh, I guess there's a spark or two left. But mostly when I think of him, I'm sad. He was such an unhappy person.”

“That's a lofty view. Wish I had it.”

“You will. And when you do, you'll accept that you weren't responsible for what happened. Neither was your father. Shit happens. And when there's no love, it's not rational to feel loss or guilt.”

“I don't think that attitude is going to work for me. I have a few good memories to feed the guilt.”

Kevin could hear his father's voice, shouting and laughing, “Kev, this is gonna be a huge problem!” At the end of the first summer Kevin spent in the garage, his father had tested the twelve-year-old boy's mastery of the socket wrench. Kevin scooted under a car and unscrewed oil pan bolts while his father called out five second intervals. He slid back out, oil pan in hand, in eighty seconds. “That's faster than Jones,” his father had said sotto voce with a wink. “I can't fire him. He's got three kids at home. He needs the job more than you do.”

Kevin's nostrils flared. His eyelids turned red.

Herb had been running on pure emotion. Now he was at a loss for the right thing to say. He had to start thinking again.

“Then you're lucky, Kevin. I don't have a single fond recollection.”

“But you've got so much confidence. Isn't that supposed to come from good fathering?”

“Who knows.”

“Maybe we should be in a self-help group.”

They both laughed, but Herb couldn't sustain the humor. The desolation of his childhood felt too close. Wanting to hold onto his connection with Kevin, he confided the difficulties he had been having since the accident.

“It's terrifying,” he said at the end of his account. “This is how I've made my way in the world. I can't let myself imagine what it would be like if I don't recover.”

Kevin grabbed Herb's wrists and squeezed. Herb didn't withdraw.

Looking him straight in the eyes, Kevin said, “You're going to recover completely. You've got to believe that, Herb. I do. I'm absolutely sure of it.”

XVIII

F
ROM THE CAFETERIA
, K
EVIN
drove across town to the Department of Public Health. Entering the building required passing through a gauntlet of protesters who carried placards reading “Out of the Baths, Into the Ovens.” They shrieked curses at him.

His mouth was dry as he opened the conference room door. Sixty people were inside, all standing though there were more than enough empty chairs to accommodate everyone. Members of two gay Democratic clubs, enraged by each other's presence, appeared ready to throw punches at the least provocation. One was pressuring health department officials to shut down the bath houses. The other waved the American flag and Bill of Rights, charging that closure would violate their constitutionally guaranteed freedom. While Gwen usually handled AIDS policy issues for their program, a gay man had to represent them here.

Both sides heckled him, shouting, “Where do you stand on this, Bartholomew?”

Kevin trotted to the front of the room to take refuge with the rest of the speakers.

An attorney for the bath house owners, a man in his early thirties wearing a three piece suit and designer eyeglasses, followed him.

“What's your position, Bartholomew?” he screamed.

Kevin refused to respond.

The lawyer pulled at Kevin's sleeve and screamed at a higher pitch, “Doctor, I'm talking to you!”

Kevin yanked his arm away.

“You'll hear what I have to say, publicly,” he replied coldly. “I'm on the schedule.”

Kevin found it baffling that any educated gay men believed bath-house closure was a threat to individual rights. Every sane person he knew thought knowingly transmitting the retrovirus was de facto homicide. How could permitting unsafe sex to go on in public bath houses be different from abetting murder, he would argue. The data were incontrovertible. For a gay man living in San Francisco, the more bath-house sexual encounters he had had, the greater his risk of being infected with the AIDS virus. Kevin had no ambivalence about taking sides in this dispute.

After his turn at the microphone, Kevin knew he had come across as uninspired. He had cited statistics and made analogies. The bath houses were as causally linked to AIDS as mosquito swamps were to yellow fever. It was that simple. But neither his delivery nor his rhetoric had been compelling.

The other side didn't mention the one argument for keeping bath houses open that might make sense—the damage had already been done, the majority of bath-house patrons were probably already infected. Gwen and Kevin had been briefed by the health department about a recent survey. One out of twelve men interviewed in local bath houses reported persistent swollen lymph nodes, an almost certain sign of HTLV-III infection in the ARC stage of disease, which meant an even larger proportion must be infected and asymptomatic, invisible below the iceberg's water line, continuing to transmit the infection. The health department had also hired private detectives to document what practices occurred in bath houses. They reported most sexual activity included anal intercourse, almost always sans condom. Soon, the only people whom closure could protect would be the next generation of young gay men.

When Kevin left the meeting, the slick attorney followed him into the hall.

“You're disgusting, Bartholomew,” he taunted.

“Excuse me?” said Kevin, his hands involuntarily forming fists.

“You think you're some selfless, compassionate healer, don't you? That's a convenient delusion. You're really a self-loathing homosexual. You want to take away the freedom of others to rationalize your own guilt. I bet you're a Catholic, aren't you?”

Kevin smirked. His fists relaxed. The dart had missed its mark. Catholic guilt was at the bottom of his problem list now.

“And you're a lawyer, right?” he said with contempt. “Isn't that supposed to be someone who can defend his position by arguing on the basis of rules, facts, and logic? And the best you can do is a scummy slur. How pathetic. Where did you go to law school? One of those places that advertises inside a matchbook cover?”

“Fuck yourself, Bartholomew.”

The lawyer showed Kevin his extended middle finger.

“Go back to law school,” Kevin said as he walked away, “You missed the part about murder. It's not protected by the Bill of Rights.”

XIX

G
WEN LEFT CLINIC EARLY
that afternoon wearing capris and a tee-shirt. She drove to Noe Valley where her best friend, Nan, had just claimed a tennis court. Their bond, forged twenty years ago while sharing seats on the bench of the Stanford women's varsity team, had endured despite the divergent directions their lives had taken. Nan married a lawyer right after college—they did have that in common. She became a suburban matron and didn't work outside the home again. Her daily life was unaffected by the turmoil of the 1960s that so influenced Gwen. Nan's three children were all older than Eva, and Gwen often thought of Nan as an older sister—except on the tennis court where her speed, powerful swing, and natural blond hair made Gwen feel like Nan's doddering old aunt.

They lost touch during Gwen's years in medical school but reconnected when Eva was born. Nan would come to San Francisco and provide advice and support. A few years later, Nan's youngest child was diagnosed with a kidney tumor. Gwen would drive to Menlo Park, their roles reversed.

After volleying for ten minutes, they began a set. Gwen's first serve nicked the net.

“Let,” hollered Nan, shifting her center of gravity from one foot to the other.

Where does that energy come from, wondered Gwen.

She lost in short order by a double fault, two long returns, and another double fault. The second game started with Nan's serve getting by her. It was one she would have been able to return a year ago. In college, she had been well-matched against Nan on the court. Not anymore.

Gwen set her hands on her hips and shouted, “You may have to play the outer lines for this to be competition.”

“It used to be about winning, Gwen. Now it's about exercise.”

“Uh-huh,” wheezed Gwen as she rushed the baseline and returned a serve over Nan's head as she was creeping up to the net. Nan raced back. She had to lob her return, allowing Gwen to send a forehand smash which Nan could only watch. They both laughed.

There was another bond they shared. Sophomores on the Stanford tennis team traditionally strengthened their forearms and got their art requirement out of the way at the same time by taking a studio course in carving marble. Their team mates were soon bored with the repetitive hammering, but Gwen and Nan were entranced by shaping stone blocks into human forms. They still made dates to visit local museums whenever sculpture exhibits were in town.

As they walked off the court, Nan said, “We're on for the De Young next weekend, right?”

“Absolutely! I'm not missing a chance to see some of the Pergamon collection.”

“Hey, how's Eva?”

“The same. At least she's not pregnant or doing drugs. I guess I should be grateful.”

“That's for damn sure.”

“Actually, if I can think objectively and ignore how she treats me, it does seem that for fourteen, she's doing all right.”

Nan slung an arm around Gwen's shoulders.

“There you go,” she said. “That's a winning attitude.”

XX

F
ROM TENNIS
, G
WEN WALKED
to a neighborhood Italian restaurant. Inside, Kevin was seated with an open bottle of Chianti on the table. He filled two glasses as soon as he saw her.

“Sorry about your father,” said Gwen.

“I'm not. Let's talk about something else.”

He had anticipated Gwen bringing this subject up and decided he didn't have the stamina to sort through his conflicted emotions again today.

“OK, we won't go there. What's happening with Marco's mother?”

“I just got a telegram. She's finally out of the woods. He's coming home the day after tomorrow.”

“Yay!”

“After four operations and a pulmonary embolism, she left the hospital with her mind and mobility intact. Can't ask for more than that, can you.”

“I guess what he's gone through makes what we do seem easy.”

Kevin showed her a little smile which quickly faded. He was still tense from the tantrum session at the health department. He told her about the debacle.

“Did the director make a decision?”

“He thinks there isn't enough community consensus to force closure.”

“Shit!”

She had already given Kevin the short version of her meeting with the AIDS Action Committee. Now she went into the gory details.

Kevin was sinking into pessimism. He realized they had to stop talking about work. He asked how Rick and Eva were doing.

“Oh, he's the good guy. I'm the witch.”

Uh-oh, thought Kevin, this might be a mistake too.

“He truly is the good guy. He doesn't lose his temper like I do. Plus, he's not the father who abandoned her. She can blame me for that.”

Kevin winced.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to cry.”

“Aren't you being a little hard on yourself? Think about how much experience Rick has with kids. And he's not her father. She can't push his buttons like she can yours.”

“I know. Rick has the clinical distance to see her as a patient with a treatable condition.”

Kevin laughed.

“So when did you say Marco is coming back?”

“Wednesday evening,” he answered blithely.

Hearing his blatantly counterfeit tone, Kevin shuddered. He couldn't pretend not to notice it. Something was wrong between him and Marco. He didn't understand it, had no desire to think or talk about it, but knew he needed to, that he should use this opportunity to get Gwen's help.

She looked at him with concern.

“I'm worried…” he said.

He couldn't articulate the fear any further. It was too amorphous.

Gwen turned pale.

“I'm worried,” he faltered, grasping for safe words to hang onto, “about what…this academic status thing might do to us.”

“Oh,” she said, the color returning to her face. “You think he'll be envious?”

Kevin was relieved. She had given a name to the distress, one he could handle.

“Maybe. It's not something we've ever talked about. But I see where you're going. I do need to make sure things stay real between us.”

“Right! Marco isn't that competitive, is he? You two can work it out. Just don't say anything he could remotely interpret as lording it over him.”

“Me?” he exclaimed in mock offense, “Lord
my
status over Marco? Don't tempt me.”

Aware his back muscles were painfully taut, Kevin stretched his neck. Was that a panic attack, he wondered. Will that be the price of fame?

Dishes of steaming osso buco and risotto, redolent with garlic, were brought to the table. Eating was an excuse for dropping the matter.

As their plates were being taken away, Kevin asked, “Was Eva a Girl Scout?”

“Girl Scout? Do you think if I had made her join Girl Scouts, she'd be better behaved now?”

“No, no. I'm just curious. How about you? Were you a Girl Scout?”

“Yeah…”

Gwen recalled a muggy spring afternoon, the smell of chalk and starched clothes mixed with acrid sweat. She had been standing in a line of uniformed girls, waiting to march into the school assembly hall. She was adjusting the front of her Girl Scout dress. It didn't seem right. She had forgotten how many buttons were supposed to show below the belt. She'd been told, repeatedly, how important it was that everyone look exactly the same when they filed onto the stage. Was her scarf completely under her collar? Her sash at the right angle? She could only see the back of the girl ahead of her. There was no way to check. Her anxiety turned into suspicion. Why was it so important that everyone look alike? What if she wanted to be different?

“When?”

“In elementary school. It was part of Pasadena 1950s conformity. All the girls joined. The uniform was chic when we were ten. By the time we were twelve, it was passé, and anyone seen wearing it was ridiculed. So I quit. Sorry, Kevin. Girl Scouts wasn't particularly meaningful for me. Was Boy Scouts for you?”

“I've been trying to figure that out.”

“Why?”

“It's about understanding where my values came from. All I got at home was ‘don't waste money,' ‘do your chores,' ‘don't lie.' And the Church was mostly about not having evil thoughts or committing sins. But Boy Scouts actually had positive ideals. Some were even altruistic. I bought into it. There were these twelve values we had to recite out loud at troop meetings. I'm blanking on the first ones. The last four were ‘thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.' Brave is good. I'd like to have more courage.”

“Interesting. Girl Scouts had same thing. I remember ‘respectful' and ‘considerate' were on their list. I couldn't buy into it. I saw how well those values were working for my mother. She was
so
respectful and
so
considerate, and it made her so miserable.”

Kevin folded his hands below his chin.

“Now we are getting someplace,” he said in a parody of a Viennese accent. “The unhappy childhood that drives great accomplishment in adult life.”

“Indeed. It was grist for my mill.”

“You've been in therapy?”

“Kevin, I've been divorced. It's
de rigueur
. Have you?”

“Once…”

Gwen leaned forward conspiratorially.

“So, tell me about it.”

“You really want to hear this?”

“Of course I do!”

“OK…I guess things came to a head when I moved to San Francisco expecting to fall in love and leave my neuroses back in Boston. None of that happened. Residency was exhausting. Whenever I did escape from the hospital, I'd see all these men who were openly out and looked genuinely gay—I'm using the nineteenth century definition of the word. Big surprise, I sank into depression. I tried therapy because I was desperate.”

“Did it help?”

“Not at first. The therapist thought my problems stemmed from low self-esteem. He made me describe my strengths. That was round one—lukewarm results. Round two was examining values, what we were just talking about, and choosing which ones I wanted to direct my life. That's when I began to believe the person I want to be—fair, empathetic, competent, not needing to control others—was in reach.”

“And it worked?”

“I wasn't cured overnight, but it was a turning point.”

“Impressive! Therapy wasn't nearly so high-minded or transformative for me. Mostly it was about the anger—at my parents, at Daniel, at myself—that was poisoning my life. I needed to exorcise it or at least be able control it.”

“But you're so
not
an angry person.”

“Aha!” she said, assuming the Viennese accent. “This is the result of years of hard work on the couch.”

They were laughing as the waiter arrived with the check.

“That's what we like to see,” he said. “Happy customers.”