As if death summoned, p.4
As If Death Summoned, page 4
I smiled with some embarrassment. “Careful. You’re almost sounding like a saint.”
He sighed. “Yes, I’ve got to watch that.”
I could tell he was fatigued. His voice was hoarse, his breathing labored. I made movements to leave. “I should probably be going.”
“I’ve enjoyed our talk. I hope we’ll have more opportunities. Some people center me simply by being in their presence. You’re one of them. Father Paul is another.”
“I was thinking the same of you. Well, I’ll let you get back to writing your eulogy.”
As I stood to leave, he said, “A favor?”
“Name it.”
“When my time comes— or rather, when my time is up— I expect there’ll be many people attending my memorial service.”
“I expect there will.”
“I’d like you not to be there.”
I blinked.
“On that day, go off by yourself. Climb some mountain. Eat an orange in my honor and recall the times we’ll have shared together. Whisper my name to the wind, and say good-bye.”
Tears were welling up, and I said softly, “I promise,” then turned and left.
• • •
In the few months Cal had remaining, we spoke often, when he was in the office and feeling up to it. And when he no longer could make it into the office, I would visit him at home, and then in the hospital, and then in hospice. We shared a common philosophical bent and had great conversations, about life and death and the possibility of a human soul, about some kind of afterlife, or a cycle of incarnations, cycling, cycling, forever cycling toward perfection. Perhaps what made these discussions so special was that we knew one of us was very close to the end of his life, and that both of us were facing unknown futures.
Almost in spite of himself, Cal remained a saint to the end, playing his role on how to die fully conscious and with dignity. He had been right. His memorial service, held in the downtown Unitarian Church, had standing room only. Attending were his staff, his board of directors, the mayor and members of the city council; the governor had come up from Salem; hundreds of clients and volunteers and friends were there to say good-bye. He was forty-five years old.
On that day in early May, I climbed Table Mountain out in the Columbia Gorge. The day was especially clear, the wildflowers spreading across the hillsides like confetti following one’s going-away party. I reached the summit in the afternoon, grateful to have it to myself, and sat there, shirt off, feeling the sun on my back, the breeze murmuring in my ears like the faint whispers of distant ancestors. I peeled my orange, eating it slowly as I recalled Cal and this brief time our paths had come together— while remembering another farewell, not that long ago, staring up into a star-filled sky arcing over the Bogong High Plains. A different sky, a different hemisphere, the same grief. Immensity, whether a starry tapestry overhead or sitting atop some mountain, is a good antidote to sorrow and death.
I withdrew from my daypack an old battered collection of the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay. The cracked binding fell open to the page, as if the volume knew what the moment required. To me, the words had become an anthem for this modern plague.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
I sat there, watching the sun cross the sky, watching the great river flow, metaphorically like time, down to the sea of eternity, until day’s end nudged me with a chilling touch. I closed the book, replacing it in the pack, slipped on my shirt, and stood looking over the Gorge as the sun, like some fellow traveler, began taking its leave into the west. I whispered Cal’s name. Here we go our separate ways, my friend. Godspeed on yours. Then set off down the mountain to continue my own journey, alone.
His ashes were sent back to Oklahoma.
Friday, February 24, 1995
10:58 p.m.
Providence Hospital, Portland, Oregon
Sometimes I’m wandering in a blizzard, knee-deep in snow, unable to see six feet in front of me. Sometimes it’s spring, the brush and heath decked out in their dusty-drab, Down Under version of green. Sometimes it’s autumn. Yet always the same dream: I’m lost. I’m alone. And I’m looking for someone.
“For your partner, Gray?” O’Shaughnessy asks.
“No. Even in the dream I know he’s dead. Someone else. I’m looking for someone else.”
• • •
Opening my eyes, I squint against the fluorescent light, grounding myself once more in this second-floor waiting room as the dreamscape fades. Must have dozed off. The room remains empty, hospital sounds murmur and hum and ping in a low-level audio blur. Otherwise it’s quiet. Less trauma and drama than the first-floor waiting room next to ER. This is for the long-term emergencies. Like me.
I pull myself up in the chair, checking the clock on the wall. Approaching eleven. But I’m operating on East Coast time; as far as my body is concerned, it’s 2:00 a.m. Too bad I’ve never been able to sleep on planes, buses, trains, in cars— anything that’s not my bed— so unlike Gray, who could sleep on a roller coaster. A flicker on the television screen draws my attention. Eleven o’clock news. I find the remote and listlessly aim it at the TV, taking it off mute.
“Tonight, a major setback in the Department of Justice’s investigation into allegations of corruption by members of the Portland Police Bureau . . .”
I’m immediately, fully awake. The story has been dominating local news, and, like most of the city, I’ve been watching since it broke in early January.
“The primary witness in the Department of Justice’s investigation was shot this afternoon by an unknown assailant and is at this hour reported to be in critical condition. The witness, whose identity has not been released, presented evidence alleging extortion and civil rights abuses by members of the police bureau . . .”
The anchor goes to a reporter on scene at the hospital, this hospital, who is downstairs and outside in the chilly temperatures. She has little to add, so she notes the heavy police presence, that the witness remains in critical condition and is under round-the-clock guard. She reminds viewers there is still a second witness, a police officer named Blake O’Connor, who recently came forward to testify. He looks young in the official department photograph shown on the screen. Third-generation police officer, I’d read. His face and name have been in the news during the past week. Originally, his identity was suppressed, but once leaked by the grunge press, he was identified by the mainstream media as well. By testifying against his fellow officers, O’Connor was breaking the police’s unwritten Code of Silence— the same code, it was pointed out, as the criminal underworld’s. A recent editorial in The Oregonian commended the young officer for his courage and integrity, hailing him as a true representative of the men and women who loyally serve Portland on the police force. The mayor praised him. The police chief praised him. He was toast.
At the end of the newscast, I switch off the television and feel a new heaviness descend over me. I know more about this investigation than I should, more even than the police or the FBI. I know way too much . . .
Chapter Four
The Mount Bogong Tragedy
[Northern Victoria, Australia, October 1984]
On August 5, 1936, three men set off from Hotham Heights on a skiing expedition to Mount Bogong. All were experienced skiers. Cleve Cole, thirty-seven years old, was a leader of the Lone Scout organization in Melbourne and co-author of a book on scouting; Howard Michell, twenty-three, was the scion of a wealthy textile family in South Australia; Percy E. “Mick” Hull from Hawthorn, Victoria, also twenty-three, was well familiar with the highlands. They were in good spirits when they departed. They would be the first men to cross the high plains in winter. Their plan was to ski up the summit of Mount Bogong, then on to the Staircase Hut, where they’d left a cache of provisions for their return trip. They never made it to the hut.
I learned of the famous disaster on my first trip into the Bogong High Plains. It was 1984. I was new to Australia, and Gray was so excited to show me the region. We stopped in Glen Valley, a jumping-off point to the numerous bushwalking trails and campsites. I was still adjusting to Aussie terms: While he pumped the petrol (gasoline), I went inside the milk bar (convenience shop) to use the loo (toilet) and buy some biscuits (cookies) for our tea (dinner). In there, I found a wall display filled with flashy, touristy brochures of the Victorian Alps: Mount Hotham, Mount Beauty, Mount Bogong, and the high plains that lie amid them. To a person from the Pacific Northwest, calling them “mountains” and “alps” seemed a misrepresentation. These terms must be understood in the context of the largely horizontal topography of Australia, the flattest of the seven continents. Mount Bogong, the highest “peak” in Victoria, rises to only about 6,500 feet and appears more like a rounded hilltop. Among the brochures, I also found an older sun-bleached, flyspecked pamphlet, mimeographed on cheap paper. The title in faded ink read, THE MT. BOGONG TRAGEDY. I took one, along with the chocolate biscuits, and read it as we got back on the road.
On August 6, the three skiers had been overtaken by a sudden blizzard. They dug a snow cave where they waited three days for the storm to end. But on August 9, running low on food, they decided to make a break for the Staircase Hut. They soon became lost in the whiteout conditions and for the next five days wandered with little food, exposed to sub-freezing temperatures and severe winds. On Friday, August 14, they finally descended Mount Bogong into the rugged and largely un-surveyed Big River Valley country. By then, suffering from exhaustion, hunger and hypothermia, too weak even to continue carrying their sleeping bags and gear, they dumped them and tried to find their way through the thickly timbered wilderness with its steep ravines. They had matches to start a fire, and now wood, but their fingers were too badly frostbitten to use them. Cole’s feet were blistered, making it impossible for him to walk any farther, so they decided Michell would go for help. The remaining two men took shelter in a hollow log. According to Hull’s later account, after three days Cleve Cole lost hope that Michell had made it through, and at that point he seemed to lose his will to live. Hull woke later that night to find his companion missing and went out looking for him. Discovering him unconscious and partially covered in snow, Hull managed to drag him back to their log. By that time, he, too, doubted they would be found alive.
But the night before, on Sunday, August 16, Michell had reached Glen Valley, stumbling into the township so debilitated that he could give only the sketchiest details of where he’d left his companions. He was driven to the Omeo District Hospital where he would eventually recover, though needing two toes amputated. The alarm was sounded, and search parties set out early the next morning. Every able-bodied man in the vicinity joined in the effort. Skiers came up from Melbourne. Both the Maude and Yellow Girl mines suspended operations so their workers could join the search. More than 120 men set out into the rugged country with no clear idea where to find the missing skiers. They started on horses, but soon had to leave the animals behind as they climbed into the difficult terrain. Meanwhile, back in Glen Valley, the women prepared food to send out by packhorse to the parties over the coming days.
On Tuesday, August 18, at around eight-thirty in the morning, one of the search parties climbed a high ridge overlooking a valley. A member shouted across the expanse, “HALLOOOOO!” and was surprised to hear a faint whistle. Below them, they saw Hull emerge from thick brush. The seven men made their way down the slope to find him in a gravely weakened state. Cole was in even worse shape, lying unconscious inside the log. For the next two hours, they administered first aid to the badly frostbitten men and fed them hot liquids. Too weak to walk, the skiers were carried on stretchers improvised from saplings and oilskin coats. In rain and hail, against a strong north wind, it was slow going out of the steep gullies and ravines. The team took turns carrying Cole and Hull on the makeshift frames. Holding them shoulder high, they crossed the rushing Mitta Mitta River, wading waist deep into its freezing waters. In six hours, the party had covered only three miles. Exhausted, they made camp at four in the afternoon, continuing to care for the two men as best they could.
Early on the morning of Wednesday, August 19, they set out again. A member of the party was sent ahead to get help. Incredibly, by early afternoon the young man had covered fifteen miles and was close to Glen Valley when he came upon another rescue party led by Harold Hull, Mick’s older brother. Word was sent to the township the two men had been found, and the second search party went out to help bring them in. A Sister Watson of the Bush Nursing Association drove a motor car up the river as far as the road would go to meet them, returning to Glen Valley with Cole late in the afternoon. Suffering severe hypothermia, he was too fragile, his condition too critical, to move him to the district hospital. A doctor from Omeo attended to the unconscious man. Cleve Cole died shortly after nine that night, having never regained consciousness.
By all accounts, it was a disaster with a tragic ending. But it also became a stirring piece of Australian lore and a source of national pride, how the townships had rallied to save two of their own. The Sydney Morning Herald hailed the effort as “a magnificent example of the working of the bush code.” The Western Mail in Perth called it “one of the most thrilling alpine dramas enacted in Australia.” The following years saw the construction of a series of huts on the Bogong High Plains to provide shelter to future skiers. The first to be constructed was the Cleve Cole Hut.
Certainly, it was a moving and inspiring tale, but as I would later learn, there was more to the story that never made it into the news-papers or the Glen Valley pamphlet.
Chapter Five
Into the West Hills
[Portland, Oregon, April 1994]
I admired the large house as I walked up the extended driveway. Overlooking Portland, its two wings arched from the three-story center peak, suggesting a glass pterodactyl. A Saturday afternoon in April. One of our major donors, a Jerald somebody-or-other, was hosting a fundraiser at his home in the West Hills. By then Cal was in the hospital, so the board president had asked the management team— Steve, Sandy, and Franklin— to accompany him in Cal’s place. They, in turn, asked Father Paul and me to come along. “You make good impressions,” Sandy said. “You’re both educated and cultured, you speak well, and you don’t drool down your front.” Father Paul looked like a priest from central casting: mid-fifties, he was the oldest person on staff, somewhat portly, with gentle gray eyes, a thatch of iron-gray hair, and a perennial smile. No one had ever seen him riled. They gave me an address, telling me to show up between three and four.
A number of BMWs, Lexuses, and Aston Martins, as well as one aloof Lamborghini were parked in the circular driveway and down along the road. My sensible little Subaru looked as if it was crashing the party. On this pleasantly warm day, I dressed in a sport coat and slacks. The front door stood open, and I entered a large room where many people mingled, each carrying the requisite glass of alcohol. I was relieved to spot Sandy. She came up to me, looking very stylish in a summer dress with a woven wrap about her shoulders. “Oh, good,” she said. “We’re all here now. You, me, Steve, Father Paul, and FY.”
“You look great,” I exclaimed. I hadn’t seen her dressed in anything other than jeans and vests, basic butch wear, since I joined the organization. “Very elegant.”
“Thanks. I can clean up when I need to.”
I was also relieved to find the party a relaxed affair compared to the black-tie functions Gray had dragged me to in Toorak. A string quartet from the Oregon Symphony played something Dvorak-ish in the corner. People stood around chatting meaningfully on meaningful topics, laughing lightly, sipping their martinis and glasses of champagne. There were gay couples, straight couples, plus a number of singles aspiring to couple. At that moment Franklin entered the room, appearing absolutely effervescent. “Franklin looks happy,” I said. Indeed, I had never seen him so happy.
“Yes, he’s in his element,” said Sandy. “Franklin aspires to be one of the A-Gays. He has the right attitude and he speaks their language— Snob-ese— but unfortunately lacks the money to be a member of this club. Oh, look, he’s coming this way. Watch him pretend he doesn’t know us.”
Franklin greeted me jovially like we were old friends, pretending not to notice Sandy. “So glad you could make it,” he said, a hand on my shoulder. He burbled on about what a beautiful spring day it was— “Portland at its finest”— and that there were some “absolutely wonderful people here.” Then he moved on, our finance director the social butterfly, fluttering over to another small group.
Sandy tossed back her drink. “Well, I was 50 percent right.”
“He probably just didn’t see you standing there.”
I also met Steve’s partner, Mark. They made an attractive couple, both HIV-positive, though neither yet showing symptoms. As we went to the open bar and got our drinks— a very fine Chardonnay for Sandy, a truly exquisite soda water with lemon for me— we could overhear a nearby group remonstrating against Clinton’s economic policies, clear signs of the coming apocalypse.
Sandy turned to me. “You’ve got the background in psychology. Explain this to me: How can a gay man be a Republican? I mean, isn’t that a little like Jews campaigning for the Nazis?”
“That might be a bit too strong,” I said. “But, yes, it does demonstrate the human mind’s capacity to compartmentalize. The party that condemns you as a pervert is also the party you believe is best for your business interests. They call themselves Log Cabin Republicans.”
“Is that because the sixteenth and arguably our greatest president was rumored to be homosexual?”
