As If Death Summoned. Alan E. Rose
up by a number of witnesses. When Carl Sandburg was researching his biography on Lincoln, he found, as he delicately put it, a ‘streak of lavender’ running through the president’s story.”
Father Paul was speaking to a couple and waved for us to join them. He wore his clerical collar, though he was no longer affiliated with any church or denomination. He’d left the church, I’d been told, or the church left him. To a number of staff and clients who’d been burned by the church’s intolerance, judgment and rejection, he was an antidote, a reminder that Christianity had another face and another heart. We began walking toward him and the two men he was with. They were not just a couple; they could have qualified as twins: both blond, both tanned and gym fit, both dressed in identical royal blue blazers and white slacks, handling their champagne flutes in their right hands while balancing cigarettes in their left.
“Oh, look,” said Sandy. “How adorable. I wonder who dressed them?”
“Now, now, behave yourself,” I whispered.
Father Paul introduced us to Brandon Chittock, the older “twin,” and— I forget his blond, blue-blazered partner’s name since Brandon did most of the talking.
“We were just discussing the prevention work you’re doing with Steve’s team,” said Father Paul.
“Yes,” said Brandon. “I was telling Father Paul here that I believe the solution to preventing the spread of HIV is in establishing loving and committed relationships.” He turned to his clone and they pecked each other on the lips. “Gay men need to grow up and stop all this juvenile screwing around and one-night stands. That would do it. Then it would only be the IV drug users getting infected, and, in truth, we’re all much better off without that lot anyway.” He looked as smug as his words, confident in his place in the universe and clearly in control of it. I felt myself bristle, but remained quiet, swallowing a gulp of the soda water along with what I wanted to say.
“I’m sure the Prevention Team values committed, monogamous relationships as one way to stop the spread of the virus,” said Father Paul. I didn’t look at him or respond to his peace-making comment. I was too busy staring daggers at Brandon, who continued giving us the benefit of his wisdom.
“Oh, I realize our opinions,” speaking for both of them, “may be terribly un-PC.”
“PC?” asked Sandy. “Personally Courteous?”
He stared at her. “Politically Correct. Not the opinions straitjacketed into the approved views of the day. No, I’m afraid we’re far too independent-minded to allow ourselves to be so straitjacketed. Liberals fight for the freedom of expression of views, so long as they are their own politically correct views.”
“I respect your views, as your views,” said Father Paul sincerely. “People become infected for a complex variety of reasons. Which is why an effective prevention program must be equally complex and varied in its approaches.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but after thirteen years, there’s no excuse any more to get infected. It’s been over ten years since it was determined to be a virus and understood how it was transmitted. Gay men have known how to protect themselves for the past decade, and they haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve got no one to blame but themselves.” He drew on his cigarette, making a big effort of blowing out the smoke as if it required immense thought and concentration.
“It’s not like they haven’t been warned,” agreed Brandon II.
So much for brotherhood. They stopped just short of saying “those people” deserved it, whereby I would have ripped out their cancerous lungs.
“Eventually, one has to grow up and take responsibility for one’s actions,” Brandon opined from his view on top of Olympus, “and that means accepting the consequences of those actions. In a way, it could be said they deserved what they got.”
Perhaps sensing my lung-ripping-out intentions, Father Paul quickly responded. “As I said, the reasons people become infected are many, varied, and complex. Our role is to support those who are infected and to prevent others from becoming infected, without judgment.” I stood fuming next to him and sensed that Sandy, by her uncharacteristic silence, was also busy fuming.
“Well, you’re a better man than I, Father,” Chittock offered. (Fuck yeah!) “And out of respect to you, and our dear friend Jerald, I shall make a personal donation to your organization. We only came to support Jerald during his time of penance.”
The Brandons exchanged droll smiles, as if saying, Oh the tales we could tell. Then he took his partner his champagne flute, placed his cigarette in an ashtray, and took out a leather checkbook and gold-plated pen from his blazer. He wrote the check, blowing on the ink, tore it out, and handed it to Father Paul. I so wanted to say something to these two offensive, un-PC pricks when I became aware of Sandy holding my arm as Father Paul graciously and gratefully accepted the donation “on behalf of those who shall benefit from your generosity.”
Brandon II nodded in the direction of the open door.
“Ah, yes,” said Chittock. “If you’ll excuse us. We’re leaving Tuesday for Cancun with another couple, and they just arrived. We still need to coordinate our departures.”
“Thank you again for your donation,” said Father Paul.
Once they left, I spewed out the breath I’d been holding in. “Insolent, insufferable, insensitive pricks!” I hissed. I hadn’t hissed in a long time. Sandy was still holding on to my arm like we were a couple, though her grip was in danger of stopping my blood flow. Perhaps she feared I was going to hurl the bowl of caviar after them. “Now, now,” she said, “I can forgive an awful lot of insensitivity if one is willing to contribute to our cause. How much is it?”
Father Paul held up the check. One hundred dollars.
“Why that insufferable prick!” hissed Sandy. “I hope he gets sunburn in Cancun.”
I was even more incensed. “That’s pocket change to him. It’s an insult. I think we should tear it up in front of his face. Show him we don’t need his measly charity.”
“But we do,” said Father Paul, folding the check and slipping it into his pocket. “We do need his measly charity. The people we care about need it. And it is one hundred dollars more than we had before.”
“How can you excuse such behavior?”
“It’s not my place to excuse or accuse. I try to accept people for where they are, without judging them.”
Sandy released my arm. “Honestly, Paul, you should try judging people sometime. It can make you feel really, really good.”
He smiled at her. “I’m too great a sinner myself to sit in judgment of others. And I know that people are continually changing. As for Brandon, it’s not yet his time.”
“His time?”
“To empathize. To understand and feel compassion for others. It’s not his time.”
“If they ever give Nobel Prizes for niceness, you’re a shoo-in,” said Sandy.
“I’d still like to tell him what he could do with his ‘donation,’” I said.
Perhaps concerned I might say something we would all regret— though giving me immense, if momentary, pleasure— Father Paul remarked, “The balcony has a wonderful view of the city. Why don’t you check it out?” Translation: Cool off before you do or say something harmful to our efforts here. I saw Sandy nod in agreement, so I set down my glass and walked onto the large balcony, gripping its railing and taking several deep breaths. It was a sweeping view of Portland, with Mount Hood shining white and conical in the distance. I tried to focus on the mountain to calm myself.
In a way, it could be said they deserved what they got.
I’d heard that same supercilious, self-righteous attitude before. We were leaving the memorial service