After the Hurricane(37)

“I don’t know how,” Santiago said.

“You will. If I have to, you have to. Right? One way or another. We just have to. That’s all it is.”

Santiago put his arm around his friend, blessing the uncaring bartender, and each man sipped his whiskey, tears ruining the vintage. But inside, Santiago was crumbling away.



Rosalind had been pregnant once before, almost two years ago, back in 1985. They had met young and been together for a long time, almost two decades, and he had hoped that it would continue, just the two of them, for the rest of time, but she wanted a child, she was desperate for one. There had been so many compromises she had made in that time, so many ways that Santiago had not been the man they both thought he would be, that he did not know how to deny her this, no matter how much it terrified him. And besides, perhaps they would be one of those couples unable to have children. He agreed to start trying, this hope in his mind, and she was pregnant within three months. Terrified out of his mind, Santiago had dipped into his emergency stash of whiskey, which he had promised, then, never to have again, never ever, he had promised Rosalind and Dr. Moretti and everyone, but it was medicinal, surely they would understand that. And then, drunker than he had been in a long time, his system no longer as used to alcohol as it had been, he had called Neil to tell him the “good news.” But before he could say anything, Neil told him that he was dying.

“This is a terrible joke, Neil,” Santiago said. But he didn’t hear laughter, Neil breaking the moment, just silence.

“It really is, isn’t it?” Neil said, sounding thoughtful, and exhausted. “Who knew fucking would have consequences? Fuck that free love. Now I’ve got the bill. I thought I could avoid complications with men, no messy pregnancies. Turns out this AIDS thing is real, no matter what Reagan says. Doesn’t say. Can you believe it?”

“No. I can’t. I don’t. What . . . how did . . . I don’t understand,” Santiago stammered, his heart lead. “How long do you have?” How could you not tell me this before?

“I knew you would want to come out here.” Neil answered the question Santiago hadn’t asked. “You have Rosalind, work. I didn’t want to fill your life with my tragedy.” You are my life, Santiago thought. You and Diego and Rosalind, that’s it, you’re my family.

“How long?”

“They don’t know. They tell me medicine isn’t an exact science. But, Santi, if you were planning on coming out here, well. Better make it soon.”

He was on a plane to Los Angeles the next day. Neil was a skeleton, and Diego was barely speaking to him, furious.

“What’s happening?” Santiago asked, as they sat in Neil’s garden, passing a joint back and forth.

“He’s mad at me.”

“Obviously. Why?”

“I wanted him to kill me. He said no. I don’t know why he’s got to make such a big deal out of it but that’s him, I guess,” Neil said, his voice weak but still him, as irritated by other people’s idiocy as ever.

“Why are you always trying to kill yourself?” Santiago joked, and Neil smiled at the gallows humor.

“I wanted him to kill me. Totally different.”

“How?”

“Poison. Like Socrates. Anything else is too messy. And I want an open casket, so all my queens can mourn the loss of my beauty.”

“One of those queens gave you this thing,” Santiago observed. Neil nodded, his face peaceful.

“I forgive them. It will take them, too, in time. I’m so glad I didn’t give it to Diego. At least I didn’t do that. That’s the best thing I did, I think, not doing that. The best thing I did is the thing I didn’t do. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I wouldn’t wish this on Nixon.”

“That’s big of you.” Santiago smiled. “Do you want me to do it? Kill you?” Neil looked at him, and shook his head.

“No. Diego would never forgive you. And he will need you when I’m gone. You might need him, too. I couldn’t do that to you.”

Santiago took Neil’s hand in his own, and kissed it, tears blurring his eyes.

“I called my father,” Neil said. Santiago reared back.

“Why?”

“I wanted to forgive him,” Neil said, simply. “So I did.”

“What did he—”

“Nothing,” Neil said. “It wasn’t for him. It was for me.” Santiago shook his head.

“I could never do that.”

Neil shrugged.

“You never know what you can do.”

“Do you regret anything?” Santiago asked.

“I wish I had been a parent,” Neil said. “Not that I would have wanted to undergo the process that entails, that sounds disgusting. Don’t know how you straights do that shit. But I wish I could have had a kid. If only to be better than he was, my dad. To show him that I could. And to leave something behind. Something that says I was here. Now there will be nothing left of me when I go. I don’t think I will care much, when I’m dead, but for now, it’s a sad thought. If I had a kid, it would be a happy one. I could use that now.”

They watched as the sun set, in silence, each thinking about their future, however much of it there would be.