On Saturday, when I was working in the men’s garden, I looked over at the Russells’ patio. I had become so accustomed to seeing Mark sitting there watching me. I knew, sadly, that he would never be there again, but Mrs. Russell was there and she called me over.
“Richard,” she said, “Mr. Russell and I have been admiring the work that you do for the men. Frankly, we aren’t happy with the lawn care service we have, and we were wondering if you would be willing to take over the care of our property. Of course, we’d pay you.”
I thought for a moment. As soon as school ended for the summer, I’d have the time to care for both places. When I told her that I’d have to wait until vacation began, she said it was fine. Then she added, “Please, Richard, we want you to use the pool, and Joey as well. We seldom swim, and it seems ridiculous to have this pool sitting out here unused.”
I thanked her, and said, “I’m sure Joey will be delighted, but if it’s okay with you I’ll tell him he can only use it when I’m in one of the two yards. He’s a great swimmer but a little young to be on his own in the pool.”
She agreed and I went back to work happy.
When Mark became sick, I had prayed for him every day, not to God, because I no longer believed in God, but as messages to Mark. Surprisingly, he always received them. After he passed, I still prayed to him, hoping that wherever he was he was still receiving the messages. Somehow, that comforted me, although it often also caused me to cry. I guess I’m a pretty emotional person, and our relationship was certainly an emotional one.
On Sunday afternoon I returned to the men’s home and began mowing the lawn. After a time, Christian came out on their patio and called me over. As I walked to the patio, Christian disappeared inside and returned with two glasses of lemonade. As he handed one to me, I noticed that he appeared sad.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
He sighed and said, “Last evening, when we were working in the kitchen, Peter turned, lost his balance, and fell. He hit his head on the floor, and he damaged his shoulder.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “Is he okay?”
“Well, he has a concussion, and the doctors aren’t sure yet if they can repair his shoulder completely. Those joints are pretty tricky.”
“But will he be able to play the piano?”
“We just don’t know yet. I’m going over to the hospital in a few minutes to be with him. He’s pretty down right now.”
“Can I go see him?”
“Wait a couple of days and then go. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. He’s very fond of you, you know.”
I did know, and I just nodded. It had never occurred to me that the men would get old. They were two of my mainstays when Mark died. Like Mark, they had urged me to be open to a new relationship, but I saw no possibility of that happening.
I guess I got teary, because Christian put a hand on my shoulder. I stood and hugged him, hard as he hugged me back.
Again, it seemed as if my world was falling apart. Then I realized that Peter’s was too, and I wondered if I was being selfish.
When Grandma picked me up that afternoon I told her what had happened. She cared a lot for Peter and Christian, and she was upset by the news.
Late Wednesday afternoon, Grandma and I drove to the hospital. When we went into Peter’s room he was lying on his back, gazing at the ceiling.
He turned his head as we entered. At first he looked annoyed, but he managed to smile a little. He reached out with his undamaged arm, taking Grandma’s hand in his.
“Millie, you didn’t need to come way over here,” he said weakly.
“I know,” she said, “but we wanted to see you.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much to look at,” he said, smiling wryly.
“That’s not what I meant. We wanted to come because we’re your friends.”
He was silent for a moment, and I saw tears in his eyes. “I’m afraid I may never be able to play the piano or the organ again,” he said softly.
“What did the doctors say about your shoulder?” I asked.
“They said the only thing they could do would be a complete joint replacement and they didn’t really recommend it. They said it was a long, difficult procedure followed by a great deal of painful rehab, and at my age they don’t recommend the surgery. Anyway, I don’t want that. I guess I’ll do some rehab to get back what motion I can, but I can’t face the surgery and I would be a burden on Christian for a long time.”
“I’m sure he would say that wasn’t a problem,” Grandma said.
“But it would be,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve told the doctors I don’t want to do it.”
Then he said, “At least Christian and I will still be able to go to Symphony Hall.”
I did envy them that. My trip to the concert there had been a highlight of my young life.
We didn’t want to tire him out, so we only stayed a short time.
On the way home, I said to Grandma, “It will be so sad if he can’t make music anymore. I guess hearing it is one thing, but making it is totally different.”
The next time we saw Peter he was more cheerful. The doctors had told him that the problem with his shoulder was in the tendons, so he would be able to retain some motion although he wouldn’t be able to raise his arm higher than horizontally.
“But,” he said, smiling, “I’ll still be able to play!”
In his day, Peter had been a very successful organist and church musician, having held posts in several large churches. Since he had moved to the Cape, he had played for a church in Hyannis which had a small, two-manual Skinner organ. I had heard him play a few times, and I was amazed at how much music he could coax out of that small instrument.
The next week, Peter was home and had begun rehab. Christian insisted that he use a walker so he wouldn’t fall again. At first, Peter was very resistant, but after he fell a second time, fortunately not injuring himself further, he relented and began to use the walker.
I had begun writing about my life with Mark. I called the writing Unfinished Symphony. I had thought the writing would be good for me, but now I wasn’t so sure because I got even more depressed and I often cried while I was writing. One evening Joey found me on the front porch writing and asked, “Why are you crying?”
When I told him he gave me a hug and nodded before he went back into the apartment.
As the summer went on, Joey and I swam often. Joey had progressed to the point where he was able to give me suggestions. How humiliating is that? Well, at first I was reluctant to listen to him, but in time I accepted that he could help me improve and that the age difference shouldn’t be a factor.
I worked hard all summer on the two properties, and I could almost feel myself growing. By September I was taller and my muscles had filled out. I began to look like a man rather than like a kid. Even Tim and Joey were impressed.
One day, when I was visiting the men, I commented on a painting in their living room, one which I had admired often.
“That was done by our friend Owen,” said Peter.
“Is he still painting?” I asked.
“No,” said Christian, “sadly he died of AIDS a long time ago. We knew him as a boy, clearly gay and rather flamboyant. We met him in high school and continued our friendship when we were all at university together. He was a kind man who longed for a loving relationship but unfortunately never found one.”
I wondered if that would be how I’d end up, not with AIDS but with no relationship.
My birthday came back around on August 28. I celebrated it twice. The first celebration was with my family. It was a melancholy time for me, as I remembered the way Mark had faced down Tim. The menu was the same as in previous years, and I got some small presents from my brothers.
The next day Peter and Christian gave me a party and invited the Russells. I wondered if it would be hard for them to see their son’s boyfriend moving on, but they seemed in good spirits and we enjoyed a pleasant meal. Peter handed me an envelope at the end of the meal. Inside were season tickets to the Boston Symphony. I was overwhelmed. One ticket would have been a generous gift, but the whole season! I thanked them profusely, hugging each of them.
When school restarted and the leaves began falling, Joey helped me with the Russells’ property. He worked hard and very efficiently. The last day we swam together I realized that he too had grown and bulked up some. I secretly wondered if he had begun jerking off, but of course I didn’t ask. He deserved his privacy.
I was anticipating my return to school. It was my junior year, and although I knew the work would be harder, I looked forward to it.
One day as I was leaving the lunchroom, a boy came up to me and asked if I was Richard Guthrie. When I said I was, he told me that he was seeking some tutoring in American history and Mr. Wallingford, my former history teacher, had told him that I might be able to help.
I agreed to talk with him about the idea, and we made a date to meet in the school library at the end of the day.
I was curious why he needed tutoring. If he was a sophomore he would be taking the course with Mr. Wallingford, and if he was younger, he would eventually get to that course.
When I arrived at the library, the boy was sitting at a table, reading a book about Thomas Jefferson.
I sat across from him and said, “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
He grinned. “I’m Cormac O’Neill.”
Well, I supposed, you couldn’t get much more Irish than that. He had flaming red hair, a pale complexion with a scattering of freckles, and arresting green eyes.
“So, why do you want tutoring?” I asked. “Aren’t you in Mr. Wallingford’s class?”
“Yes, I am, but the problem is I’m not a US citizen and I want to be.”
“You certainly don’t talk like you’re from the old country,” I observed.
He launched into a language which I didn’t begin to understand and ended with another grin. “That’s Gaeilge,” he said, “but people here would call it Irish or Gaelic.”
“Oh,” was my clever reply.
“I was born in Ireland,” he said, “but we moved here when I was three. I’ve learned the language from my parents, but they have no desire to become citizens, so I’m on my own. I know there are classes offered for immigrants to become citizens and I attended one for a while this summer, but it was crowded and there were no other Irish there. Most of the students were Brazilians, and I couldn’t understand them even when they were trying to speak English. So I decided to seek another way.”
“Okay,” I said. “I don’t really know what you will need to learn, but perhaps I can find out.”
We agreed that we would meet again on Monday in the library. Meanwhile, I would do a little research.
On Saturday, while I was working in the men’s yard, my phone rang.
When I answered, I heard Joey crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Th . . . th . . . there’s something wr . . . wrong with Grandma,” he said.
“What?”
“I th . . .th . . .think she’s d . . . dead.”
I went cold. “Call 911 right away,” I said. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I hurried to the house, where I found Christian in the kitchen. I told him what Joey had said, and he said he’d drive me home.
I was scared. It was Grandma who held us together. What would happen if she was gone? I’d never dared to think about that.