As if death summoned, p.15
As If Death Summoned, page 15
Over the next three sessions, my relationship with O’Shaughnessy did not improve. I told him everything, holding nothing back: about my childhood, my adolescence, my suiciding years, my searching. I thought he might at least ask what I was searching for. He didn’t. About my coming out, meeting Gray, our years in Australia together, Gray’s illness and death. About Steve’s allegation, apparently supported by Sandy and most people in the greater metropolitan area, that I didn’t permit anyone to get close to me. I tried to sound a little miffed at that. O’Shaughnessy didn’t seem to notice; indeed, he didn’t seem to notice much; didn’t ask questions, didn’t express anything as I poured out my heart and spilled my guts— though admittedly I didn’t really have my heart or guts invested in any of it. He sat behind his desk, notepad and pen before him, poised to write something noteworthy, something insightful whenever I got around to saying it. But nothing seemed to engage him, nothing seemed to warrant why I was here, pouring out my not-really heart and spilling my not-exactly guts.
Along with not asking questions, he made no observations, never requested clarification or more information. I began to feel guilty, like maybe I was keeping him awake. In truth, I didn’t care for O’Shaughnessy’s attitude; his brusque impersonal manner verged on rudeness. He managed only the most basic courtesies— ”Good day,” when I arrived— as if they were social requirements he was obliged to fulfill. He offered no smile. No warmth. No connection. Didn’t make the least effort to establish rapport or empathy. I considered his behavior unprofessional. Therapists are like mothers: by definition, kind, patient, understanding, and bestowing unconditional love whether they want to or not. Was he this cold with everyone he worked with, or did he have a particular dislike of me?
After each session, I railed at Sandy about his manner. “I have known more sensitive Marine drill sergeants!” I actually didn’t know any drill sergeants except in the movies, which I felt should nonetheless count. “Really, your cat Fernando has better social skills.”
I knew what I was doing. I was building a case for my eventual decision (which I had already made) to end therapy. And maybe, after our disastrous start, I also wanted O’Shaughnessy to know that my decision would have nothing to do with race. It was simply a waste of my time and money, though admittedly only a minor ten-dollar co-pay.
It was near the end of our fourth session when he abruptly flopped his notepad onto the desk. “I get so damned bored listening all day to what people think are their problems.”
Excuse me. Bored? He gets bored?
“Isn’t that like an occupational hazard for a therapist?” I said. “Isn’t that what you’re getting paid for?” I was irate. Here I had been baring my soul (not really) and he was bored?
“No. I get paid to help people move on from where they’re stuck. But too many seem content to wallow in their stuckness. Endless recitations of what happened to them, what others did to them, what they did to others. I just want to say, ‘When are you finally going to forget all this stuck-stuff and get on with living your life?’”
“You’re saying I’m stuck.”
“To quote my son, ‘Duh.’”
“Well, I know I’m stuck, okay? That’s why I’m here. If I wasn’t stuck, I wouldn’t need to come here listening to you telling me how stuck I am!” I realized I was shouting and dialed it down a notch. He’d gotten me riled.
“Honestly now,” he said, “aren’t you as bored as I am in these sessions?”
“I don’t know. Just how bored are we talking about?”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a solid eight.”
“Yeah? Well . . . well, I’m only a seven.” So there!
He sat back in his chair. “That’s the first genuine emotion I’ve seen you express in the month you’ve been coming here.”
I fell into a silent funk. I was not paying an admittedly minor co-pay to be told I was boring!
Then O’Shaughnessy asked, “Just wondering: Did you ever weep for any of those people you lost to AIDS?”
“Weep?”
“You know, tears. Crying. Sobbing uncontrollably.”
That night on the Bogong High Plains, lying naked in the dust, weeping next to the bonfire as the flames leapt into the black sky . . .
“Once.”
“Once.” He pondered this for a moment. “How many people did you say you lost to AIDS?”
“Thirty-one.” Cal and Jerald. “Thirty-three.”
“Thirty-three. Do you remember their names?”
“Of course I remember their names,” I said moodily.
He slid his notepad and fountain pen across the desk toward me. “Write them down.”
I looked at the notepad, then at him. “Why?”
He sighed. “Because I want a sample of your handwriting.”
“Okay-okay. Jeez.” I took the pad and pen. “How do you want them? First names, last names? Alphabetically? Chronologically?”
“First names will suffice. However they come to you.”
“However they come to me,” I muttered, and I began to write,
Wystan— one of the organizers of what would become the Victorian AIDS Council; fiery, passionate advocate, knowing it was a matter of life and death. His life, his death.
Donald— professor of classical studies at Melbourne University, all pipe-smoking and tweed, erudite with a wonderfully wry sense of humor.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave . . .
Wesley— raging queen who accosted the Minister of Health on the steps of Parliament, dressed in full gown, heels and tiara (Wesley, not the Minister of Health). I smiled, remembering. It made front-page news with photos in both The Australian and The Age. Wesley was so proud.
Anthony— who died angry, raging at the dying of the light.
Nicholas— who died at peace with where life had brought him. (Note: Dying at peace is preferable.)
Rupert— gentle smile, gentle soul, generous spirit.
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind . . .
Barry— sweet-faced kid from Barongarook. So much like Tyler . . .
I choked, tears suddenly stinging my eyes, and put the notepad back on the desk.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this.”
“Keep going,” he said brusquely.
I sat there, staring at the name, remembering a kid with his life before him. We called him, “Barry from Barongarook.” A beautiful boy, barely a man, in so many ways like Tyler: kind, innocent, open to the world, lusting for experience. He’d escaped his small town in western Victoria for the big city, finding there the life he’d dreamt of . . . and it was where the virus found him.
O’Shaughnessy’s voice breaking in, but this time with a surprising gentleness: “Please. Continue.”
I picked up the pad and pen and resumed writing.
Jonathan— proud, willing to stand up to his Church, confident in God’s love for him as he believed God created him.
David— shy fellow, shunning the attention, always working behind the scenes for others.
Pressure built in my chest. It was becoming harder to breathe.
Laurence— the only one who wept for us as he lay dying, for we who would be left behind.
Eyes filling with tears. I breathed out slowly.
Trevor— forsaken by his family who refused to come to Melbourne even as he was dying, even as he begged his mother and father to come, begged to see them one last time . . .
I broke into a sob, covering my eyes with my hand, and wept silently.
“Keep going.”
After a moment, I wiped my eyes on my shirtsleeve, and continued writing.
Rodney— funny, funny fellow, like Lukas, outrageous sense of humor, who kept everyone laughing to the very end . . . when he left everyone crying.
Joe— bravely continuing to care for his dying partner even as he himself was failing by the day.
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave . . .
It was hard to see the names as I continued writing, tears dropping onto the notepad.
Martin— trying to find some meaning, some purpose or plan in all this suffering and sorrow.
Stefan— so matter-of-fact about it: shit happens; so does life; so does death.
Some names were now blue-black blurs, made anonymous by tears and ink running together, as if already erased from memory, as if they’d already become indecipherable in time.
“All right,” O’Shaughnessy’s voice, “that’s enough.” He reached for the notepad.
I jerked it away, holding him in a steely gaze, whispering fiercely, “I’m. Not. Done.”
He stared for a moment, nodded, and sat back in his chair. I wiped away tears, and continued writing names as the faces rose up before me, like a moving queue from my past.
Alex— died feeling betrayed by life, all his hopes and dreams and immense talent made suddenly irrelevant.
Giles— indefatigable punster to the very end. (“I’ve no appetite, but my doctor said I must eat something. He gave me a raisin to live.”)
I chuckled even as I continued crying and writing, writing and crying . . .
Cal— finding an ancient God in the midst of a modern plague.
Jerald— lusty sinner, late-blooming saint. In the end, so hard to tell them apart.
Until, finally, in the quiet of that small, austere office, I sat exhausted, all wept out, no more tears to shed, staring at the last name on the list.
Gray— who I loved.
The room was silent. Dust motes casually danced in the sunlight coming through the window. I placed the notepad and pen back on the desk.
“Thirty-three lives. Really pretty minor when compared to what’s happening in Rwanda or Bosnia.”
“But you’re not living in Rwanda. Or Bosnia,” O’Shaughnessy said softly. “And it does little good to compare one’s suffering with that of others.”
A box of tissues had magically appeared in front of me. I took several, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. “A friend once asked, ‘How can you remember all their names?’ I asked her, ‘How can you not?’”
We continued to sit in silence with the dust motes and sunbeams swirling around us, until O’Shaughnessy asked, “How are you feeling now?”
“Lighter. I feel lighter. I suppose this is what we call catharsis.”
“I suppose it is.”
I wiped my eyes with another tissue. “For catharsis, I expected some insight. Some reconfiguring of my world. Suddenly seeing it differently, but it’s the same world.”
“People often expect a revelation— why they are like they are, why they do what they do— but for many it’s an emotional release, breaking the blockage of emotions dammed up for so long.”
I nodded heavily, then looked at him. “So. Is that it? Now that I’ve ‘catharsized,’ are we done?”
“You tell me.”
I gazed at the list of names. “No, I don’t think we are.”
“Then I’ll see you next week.”
I pushed the pad and pen back across the desk to him, got up and left the office without another word, went out the door and down the stairwell (Down, down, down) stepping in time to the slow cadence of my heart—
Wystan,
Wesley,
Trevor,
Quietly they go,
Donald,
Rodney,
Martin,
Gently they go,
Jonathan,
David,
Barry,
I know. But I do not approve,
Cal,
Jerald,
Gray,
And I am not resigned.
Not resigned.
I am not resigned.
I walked out onto Eighth Avenue, into the pulsing noise and light and warmth of a July afternoon in downtown Portland, back among the daily living, back into the swirl and color and beat of life, and stood there a moment, taking it all in.
No, never resigned.
Chapter Nineteen
The Dreamtime
[Bogong High Plains, Australia, May 1986]
“Mind the snakes,” said Arnold as we set out on the path.
“Right.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “So, what kinds are there?”
“Mostly black snakes, brown snakes, and tiger snakes.”
“Ah. Which ones are poisonous?”
He turned back, grinning. “They all are.”
“Grand,” I muttered under my breath. Australian fauna can be generally divided into two broad categories: the cute and cuddly, and the deadly poisonous. Following our meeting at the student pub, Arnold invited Gray and me to join him on one of his geology treks into the Bogong High Plains. He made these periodically to check gauges he’d placed at different stations measuring rainfall, wind velocity, and the rare seismic readings. This was May in the antipodean autumn of 1986, three years still before Gray would become infected, four years after the first case of AIDS appeared in Australia, and only four years since homosexuality had been decriminalized in the state of Victoria.
Gray had been eager to meet Arnold, and Arnold was intrigued to hear Gray’s experience lost on these plains as a boy. The two hit it off immediately. I knew they would, mostly because Gray hit it off with everyone he met. Naturally gregarious and outgoing, he could make friends with a statue. Good friends. (“How did Gray manage to break through your formidable defense system?” O’Shaughnessy once asked. “He wouldn’t go away,” I said.) Gray had pursued our relationship with the subtlety of a Panzer division. Later, I asked him why me? With his looks, intelligence, charm and social standing, he could have had anyone he wanted. He answered, “I need some darkness in my life.” To this day, I don’t know whether he was joking or serious. But it’s true, we balanced each other: his sunny, extrovert nature with my own more saturnine, indrawn character.
We hiked most of that first day, Arnold maintaining a fast clip. Though half his age, we struggled to keep up. Along the way, he pointed out aspects of the high plains’ geomorphology. We were seeing the land through his eyes— the eyes of a scientist, and the eyes of a lover. Gray was delighted with this guided tour by someone who shared his passion for the region. At one point, he turned back to me. “I hope this is changing your view of the high plains.”
“Definitely,” I said, panting. “I’m developing a whole new appreciation for scrub brush.”
With his bristling beard, sun-burnished face, and weather-battered hat, Arnold looked like some old gold prospector in the Outback. Victoria had its own gold rush history, similar to California’s, even had their own gold rush towns, like Ballarat and Bendigo.
He, like Gray, was a talker, happy to have someone along to talk to, and we learned his story: He’d sneaked into the army in 1941, misrepresenting his age, and became one of the “Desert Rats” who fought Rommel’s North Afrika Korps. To a kid who’d hardly been outside his small township of Glen Valley, the war was an entry into the greater world and sparked in him a wanderlust to see more of it, to see all of it. After the war, he studied geology at the University of New South Wales, then used every opportunity to walk around another part of the planet doing fieldwork until well into his forties— through the Middle East, into Nepal and the Himalayas, the Gobi Desert, even my own Pacific Northwest, in British Columbia. Eventually, he wound up back in Australia and the Bogong High Plains, his first terrestrial love, which became his specialization.
We returned to our base camp as dusk was coming on. I started dinner while Gray built a fire for the night. With a chill to the air, the two of us changed into long pants, while Arnold remained in his walking shorts. I admired his indifference to the weather. I myself preferred the cold, if for nothing else than to keep the bugs down. As the fire took off, Gray brought out a couple of Fosters beers for himself and Arnold.
“You don’t care for our Aussie brew?” Arnold asked me.
“I don’t care for brew.”
“Can I help with dinner?”
“No, you two enjoy your talk. I’ll handle it. That’s how Gray got me into Australia, as an indentured servant.”
“That’s how my great-grandfather came to Australia from Ireland,” said Arnold. “It’s a noble profession.”
“Yeah, that’s what Gray keeps telling me.”
Dinner was easy. I went to the ice chest, removing the vegetarian curry bake we’d prepared at home and brought with us. Our own hearty Indian-Australian concoction, it was a kind of curry quiche, with Tabasco sauce giving it a smoky bite. As the kerosene lantern cast its shadows over the makeshift kitchen, I placed the curry in the camp oven and prepared a salad, listening as Arnold and Gray talked about the indigenous peoples and their concept of the Dreamtime.
“No one can be sure with certainty what it meant to the First People,” Arnold was saying. “Even Dreamtime itself is a mistranslation of the word alcheringa from the Aranda people of central Australia. It might be better rendered as ‘the Eternal Uncreated.’”
I already knew this. In fact, the “ancient” concept of the Dreamtime was introduced as recently as 1938, by Adolphus Peter Elkin, an Anglican clergyman and early Australian anthropologist. It suggested the time before time, or time beyond time, or even time out of time. In the 1970s, it became popularized by another Australian anthropologist, William Edward Hanley Stanner, who coined the term Everywhen to try and explain the concept; then the Dreamtime was appropriated by the New Age movement in the 1980s.
“It’s a difficult concept for us moderns to grasp,” Arnold was saying as he and Gray sat next to the robust fire. “Modern lives are circumscribed and defined by time. Most of us can’t imagine existence without it. Indeed, time is what existence means, the canvas on which our lives are played out.”
I knew Gray was fascinated by such talk. The no-nonsense Melbourne barrister was really a mystic as well as a romantic at heart. All he needed was to see God. Actually, he was the kind of mystic who didn’t even need to see God. It’s why I remained mildly skeptical about his boyhood account of encountering the ghost of Cleve Cole. I know how the mind can play tricks on itself. It’s my business. Not that I thought Gray was lying. I never doubted he believed it.
