“In the late summer of 1984, he came down with a cold. A simple cold. But it stayed. One night, he woke me up gasping for breath, and I just knew. I rushed him to the hospital. It was pneumocystis, which was the pneumonia that killed so many people early on in the epidemic. And like he had a ‘Kick me’ sign on him, as they were treating him for that, the spots activated. The KS. They attacked his mouth and then his lungs and then, well, then. He just …”
Turk wipes a tear out of his right eye.
“It was so fast. He was my life. When he died, my heart died. Somehow I survived long enough to get the cocktail of drugs that’s kept me alive, but that’s a part of me that didn’t make it. I’ve dated since, but never once have I allowed anyone to move in, because they couldn’t possibly take his place. He’s that one-of-a-kind person we all search for. He’d serenade me in the evening, making up nonsense songs that were so, so strange and so, so funny.”
“I just read his song ‘Three Sightless Rodents,’ ” I say.
He looks up at me, and I sing it to Turk.
“Three sightless rodents, three sightless rodents. See how they perambulate, see how they perambulate. They all perambulated after the agriculturist’s spouse. She cut off their lower extremities with a utensil designed for the dissection of meat. Have you ever seen such a spectacle in all your existence, as three sightless rodents, three sightless rodents.”
This makes him laugh, and the laugh soon turns to sobs, and he puts his head in his hands and his thick back heaves up and down. I don’t know what to do, so I put my hand on his neck. It feels interesting. Like I’m touching family, in a way. And I am.
He finally wipes away the wetness from his face and wipes his nose a few times too. I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the unused Kleenexes he handed me back in the church. He takes it and thanks me.
“His biggest regret was that he never made peace with your father,” he says. “Pastor Logan asked him not to tell anyone, even his wife. The help was conditional. The money came from the church, and the pastor was petrified of a scandal. What if his congregants found out that their money was going to someone with gay cancer?”
“Whoa,” I say.
“Yes, well. Anyhow, Russ disobeyed that and did tell Phyllis, and she was so angry and ashamed. She demanded that he not tell your father. And it tore him up that he couldn’t, but he promised her…. They got divorced by mail. Afterward, it plagued Russ, knowing that his son didn’t know where he was. And many times, he woke me up crying. He knew he’d hurt Phyllis, but he couldn’t understand why she’d punish Matthew. He wrote him a letter, telling him the truth. But he just couldn’t mail it, and that was a failing on his part. I still have trouble forgiving him for that, for leaving it untended and for leaving it on me.”
“What about all the letters we found?”
“The unreadable ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, if they hadn’t been unreadable, you’d know that they were all birthday cards. The first two were from Russ. He decided that he’d keep it light and avoid any mention of what was going on, in the hopes that Phyllis would have a change of heart and let Matthew see them. A couple months after he died, I took over the practice and sent your father a birthday card. Mine was not so tame, as I hadn’t made any agreement with Phyllis, and I felt Matthew had the right to know. So in that first card, I explained to him what had happened. I hoped that by leaving off the return address, it might get past your grandmother, and for the first decade or so I included an address inside the notes, in case he wanted to write back. I so wanted to know your father, but he never responded. I was never sure if that was his choice or Phyllis’s. How long ago did she die?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Hmm,” Turk says. “Where did you find the letters?”
“In a box with all of his stuff, at the pastor’s place.”
“So if your grandmother was intercepting my notes before she died, apparently Pastor Logan took it on himself to keep up the practice.”
I think back to something weird my dad told me the first time I saw him back in Billings.
“My dad said the pastor always brought in my dad’s mail. He must have been funneling the letters out for years. Why would he do that?”
Turk looks angry. He shakes his head. “Beats the hell out of me. Did you know I went to Billings? Did you know I met your father and grandmother?”
“You did?”
“I did. Spring of ’85. It was torture, not knowing whether your father had even seen the notes, and at a certain point I figured I’d take a trip and meet Russ’s people. I found the house and rang the doorbell, and your grandmother answered. The moment I saw her face, I realized I couldn’t follow through. I pretended to ask for directions, and we spoke for maybe thirty seconds. When I lingered after, hoping to catch a glimpse of your father, I saw the pastor peek out through his blinds. I nodded at him, and he was very strange, kept looking out his blinds at me. One of them called the police on me, and I remember seeing your father come outside when the police car arrived. I had to tell them I had the wrong address and was sorry to have bothered anyone. Your father, he was maybe twenty by then, handsome beyond belief. I always felt, well — I always felt that in some way he knew who I was. I’m sure that’s crazy. It’s just a feeling I had and never got rid of. The way he looked at me.”
“He didn’t, I’m sure,” I say. “I’m pretty sure this will be news to him.”
“So we’re going to tell him?”
I put my hand on his back in a way that feels normal, now that I understand that he’s my blood. He is me, and I am him, and I am my grandfather. We’re the same. It’s freaky to think that someone who is just like me died of AIDS. That someday, I might get a disease because I’m a human and all humans get diseases and die. It’s part of life, I guess, and that makes me feel surprisingly alive.
“So can I call you Grandpa?” I ask.
The smile starts at his ears and lengthens the minus signs to full dashes, and I see his teeth, so small and a little browned out, and I love them.
“You must,” he says.
MY NEW GRANDPA and I have lunch at a pasta place in his neighborhood, and even though the news he just gave me is sad, I feel a little giddy. Maybe I haven’t found my grandfather, but I have found someone I like, who seems to understand me pretty darn well. I especially like telling Turk funny things, because of his reactions. I explain to him, for instance, how my mother says things like, “I need to own this feeling,” and then add, “I think it would be cool if there was some sort of business out there that bought and sold feelings, leased them, or allowed people to buy aftermarket feelings at reduced rates.” He looks at me with kind eyes and says, “Oh, Russ.”
It could be creepy. But it isn’t creepy. It makes me feel connected to my granddad.
When he goes to the restroom, I look at my phone. I have a bunch of text messages from Aisha. The most recent is all question marks. I know I should answer, but I just want to focus on Turk.
I write: Call you in a bit. All good.
Toward the end of lunch, I see someone with a beer walk by. I look at Turk and say, “Would it surprise you if I told you I’m a little too curious about alcohol?
“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Alcoholism can run in families, you know.”
“How would I know if I’m an alcoholic? If I should be going to meetings?”
“How much do you drink?”