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CHAPTER 3:

By the next morning, Eric's feelings had settled like lead weights in his chest and stomach.

Randy's family attended no church, so a non-sectarian service was held at the funeral parlor.
Eric noticed Scott Thompson sitting near the front, behind Randy's mother and father and
others he assumed were related. He decided to speak with Scott after the service.

When Scott was standing alone, Eric went to him. "I owe you an apology," Eric offered. "I
acted like a jerk last night."

"No apology needed," Scott assured him. "We've all had a taste of hell the last few days. It's
been tough on everybody."

"Can we talk, sort of privately?" Eric asked.

"Sure. Let's go over there," Scott gestured to a far corner. They walked over and sat.

"You were right," Eric began, trying to speak softly enough to keep the conversation private,
"right about me getting tested. Although, I really don't think I need to worry."

"Uh huh," Scott agreed.

"But I think I should play it safe, just to be sure. I . . . I don't really want to go to the public
health department. Do you know a doctor I could see right away?"

"Sure, let me write down a name and phone number for you." Scott pulled a pen and the
funeral bulletin from his breast pocket and began to write on it.

Randy's parents approached. Their faces were complete with sadness. Eric and Scott stood.
"Thank you both for coming," Randy's father said. "Elizabeth, I don't think you know
Randy's friend, Scott Thompson."

Scott and Randy's mother shook hands and exchanged "Hellos".

Randy's mother then reached out to Eric and hugged him. "Eric, I'm glad you were here. Just
look at you." Randy's mother brushed the hair back from his forehead. "Aren't you ever
going to stop growing?"

"I think I've stopped," Eric smiled through the sadness. "It's just been a while since . . . Too
long. It's nice to see you . . . I just mean . . ."

"I know." Randy's mother patted Eric's hand.

"Eric, I have something for you," Randy's father said. "I found it on Randy's dresser. Since it's
addressed to you I thought he would want you to have it."

Randy's father handed Eric an envelope, addressed to him at college. In the lower left corner
Randy had written, "ERIC, PLEASE READ THIS!" The envelope contained more than a
letter. Something heavier at one end caused it to bend slightly. Eric and Scott each hugged
Randy's parents, then sat down to continue their conversation as they walked away. Eric
slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.

"Here, call this doctor this afternoon," Scott whispered as he handed his note to Eric.

"You sure he's OK? In terms of dealing with this sort of thing?"

"I'm sure. He handles lots of AIDS cases. There's nothing you could tell him that would
shock him." Scott regretted the sarcasm as soon as the words left his mouth.

"You don't like me very much, do you?"

"Eric, I'm sorry. It's not you. These last few days have been brutal. Although, to be honest, I
spent enough time consoling Randy over you. I may not be starting with the best
impression."

"Maybe now I'm the one sticking my nose where it doesn't belong, but were you and Randy . . ."

"No, just friends. Well, more than friends, I guess. I mean we weren't lovers. I was more like
the proverbial older brother he never had."

Eric nodded.

Scott shifted in his seat. "Eric," he began. Then he cleared his throat. "You know, Randy
never got over the fact that you cut him off so completely. By the time he got back from
England after his surgery he had finally given up on the idea of you two as a couple. Still, he
hoped you could be friends. By the end he would have settled for knowing that you gave a
damn. But you wouldn't even respond to his letters. You sent them back unopened for
Christ's sake. Why did you do that to him?" Scott's whispering became pleading. "Christ,
Eric, didn't you care how much you hurt him?"

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Eric defended himself. "I guess I knew. I didn't want to, but I
had no choice. What happened between us wasn't right. I needed to follow the will of God."

"Frankly, I don't even want to understand this god of yours who requires dishonesty and the
repudiation of love."

"Love isn't always what it seems. And what do you mean dishonesty?"

"Your dishonesty. Dishonesty by cutting Randy out of your life as if he meant nothing to
you. Dishonesty about who you are and what you feel. It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to
figure out what you did to Randy. You couldn't deal with the truth so you cut the one person
out of your life who reminded you what the truth was."

"You don't know me well enough to say that." Anger rose in Eric's voice as he tried to
maintain something near a whisper. "And what do you know about the truth? The truth is
God created me to be heterosexual, and that's the truth I'm living by."

"Oh, Eric, that is such crap." Scott had given up trying to hide his exasperation. "You're
living according to the truth, huh? Then answer me truly. Did you love Randy?"

Eric took a deep breath while he tried to frame a response.

"Well?"

"I loved him, in a sense," Eric offered.

"In a sense? Eric, look at me and tell me that you loved Randy only 'in a sense'."

"I said I loved him. But things were different then. I was different."

"Do you miss him?"

"It wasn't right."

"If you hadn't returned Randy's letters unopened you would know that he fell in love with a
guy that summer in England."

Eric looked at Scott, his eyes widening.

"They've gotten together a couple of times since, on Randy's trips to Europe. They've always
stayed in touch. Until the day he died Randy hoped they would figure out a way to be
together. Just look at yourself. You're jealous."

Eric looked away from Scott, and stared unfocused toward the floor. "It's just that. . ."

"If you're living by the truth, then have the courage to speak the truth," Scott challenged him.

"Yes." Eric looked up at Scott with liquid eyes. "I love him. I miss him. And I envy the hell
out of that guy from England."

"Oh, Eric," Scott's voice cracked and tears flowed freely. "Why didn't you tell him?"

Eric and Scott hadn't noticed they were now alone in the parlor with Randy's casket at the
far end. A door opened, and the funeral director entered. "Excuse me. We have to move the
body now. If you would like a moment or two more to pay final respects, that would be
fine."

"I think I've paid all the final respects I can stand," Scott said, taking a wavering breath and
wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

"I'd like a moment." Eric turned to Scott. "Can you wait?"

"Sure," Scott replied.

Eric got up and made the long walk past the empty chairs. He sat in the first row. Staring
ahead, he looked in Randy's high school graduation eyes. He took out the envelope Randy's
father had given him, opened it, removed a piece of paper, unfolded it, and began to read.
_________________________________________________


Dear Eric,

I hope you are reading this letter. Unfortunately, I have some news that may be distressing for
you. I am HIV positive. I don't think you need to panic. I'm pretty sure I got infected since
we've been apart, but I can't be 100% sure. Sorry about that. You're almost certainly not
infected (unless I got it from you. Is that even possible?) But you might want to get tested just
in case. I'm sorry for upsetting you like this.

So far my health is fine, and I could easily live another ten years or more, depending on
medical breakthroughs. But considering the circumstances, I'm feeling the urge to tie up loose
ends with you. Maybe that amuses you, that I'm still dealing with you, since you were
finished with me a long time ago. But don't feel sorry for me, not that you would. I think I've
found the love I've been looking for. But I'm sure I will never stop caring about you as well.

I am enclosing a little gift for you. Do you remember it? It's the ceramic pink triangle on the
gold chain that you gave me that last Christmas, before you decided to be a minister and
started dating Maureen. I'm not sending it back because I don't want it. In fact, I have worn it
every day since you gave it to me. I am sending it back to remind you of what we shared. The
last few times you even talked to me you always wanted to talk about your faith. Now I'm
sending this back to you as a token of my faith- my faith that what you and I shared was good
and beautiful. I don't actually expect you to wear it or anything. Maybe you won't even keep
it. But I hope you will. Just something to remember me by. And as you continue to hope that
I will someday share your faith, I will continue to hope that someday you will honor and
respect the love we shared.

So, this is how it ends between us, at an impasse, our hopes for one another mutually
exclusive. Still, no matter what, I will never believe it is ever wrong to say -

I love you.

Randy
_________________________________________________


Eric tipped the envelope. The pendant slid into his open hand. Grasping the chain with both
hands, he held it in front of his face, examining it, remembering it. Then bowing his head, he
slipped the chain around his neck. As he looked up again at Randy's picture he heard a slight
clink as the triangle came to rest against his gold cross.

Eric reached up to his breast and held the triangle and cross together. The three day old knot
in his throat dissolved, and for the first time since learning of Randy's death a clear exquisite
grief emerged in relief against all Eric's other feelings.

Eric held the pendants more tightly, squeezing them against each other. He did not care that
their edges pressed painfully against the flesh of his hand, threatening to break the skin and
draw blood. He dropped his head forward and wept fiercely for several minutes.

Scott came forward and sat beside him. He put a gentle friendly arm around Eric who
slouched and rested his head on the older man's shoulder. Eric's heart had no room for
judgments that would separate him from the comfort he wanted in this moment.

"Are you going to be alright?" Scott asked.

"I have no idea," Eric answered, slowly shaking his head from side to side. "I have no idea."
__________________________________________________


Graham Carter knocked on the door to Steven's bedroom. "Steven, may I come in."

"Sure. C'mon in." Steven swivelled in his chair to face his father entering the room.

"Steven," his father said taking a seat on the edge of Steven's bed, "we need to talk about your
trip to Boston. Under the circumstances, I don't think . . ."

"Dad," Steven interrupted, "you know how much I wanted to go to Boston. I'd been missing
Randy terribly. But when he died, I no longer felt like I wanted to go . . ."

"That's good, Steven, because . . ."

"Dad, listen! I've been thinking about this over and over. I know it doesn't make any sense. I
no longer feel like I want to go. I feel like I have to go."

Steven's father rose from the bed and walked around the room. He rubbed at the tension in
his neck. Then he sat back down. For the first time in over eighteen years, Graham Carter
looked at his incomprehensibly queer son and said, "Steven, I understand."