Every Note Played(23)
“This’ll fix you.”
Knowing that breakfast with a side of laxative is not the first item on his morning menu, Richard stands and waits for his Rilutek. Bill pops the pill into Richard’s mouth, tips a glass of water gently at Richard’s lips, and studies Richard’s eyes as he swallows, watching for signs of distress. Richard gets the pill down without any fuss and then follows Bill into the master bathroom.
He doesn’t flinch about being naked in front of Bill. Any modesty Richard had was pulverized to fine dust after their first week together. Bill’s seen it all. He cared for his partner who was diagnosed with HIV in 1989 through full-blown AIDS, Kaposi’s sarcoma, and the pneumonia that killed him in 1991. The experience catalyzed a change in career from travel agent specializing in excursions to exotic destinations on private islands to home health aide specializing in excursions to exotic diseases in ordinary living rooms.
On the books, he’s officially Richard’s morning home health aide, but Richard has come to think of him as equal parts brother, doctor, therapist, and friend. Richard wishes every day that he didn’t have ALS and therefore no reason to have ever crossed paths with Bill, but since Richard does have ALS, he thanks God every morning for this strange, beautiful man. God bless Bill.
Bill turns on the shower, rolls up a sleeve, and checks the temperature several times with his hand before he’s satisfied.
“There you go. Hop in.”
Richard steps up and over the wall of the tub, less than two feet high, an elevation he’s actually measured and is acutely concerned with. Clearing it already takes concentration and conscious effort. At some point in the coming months, his legs won’t possess the strength to raise his feet over the wall. Maybe by then he’ll be in a new condo with a walk-in shower, one he can shuffle his feet into while he can still walk, wide enough to accommodate a shower chair that can roll right into the stall when walking becomes a memory. If not, Bill will have to sponge bathe him. So many wonderful changes to look forward to.
Richard stands with his back to the showerhead, grateful for the heat and pressure and touch of the water spraying his skin, one of the few moments of each day when he still enjoys being in a physical body. He pees. No mess to clean up in here. Just outside the open shower curtain, Bill is rubbing a dollop of shampoo between his latex-gloved palms.
“Let’s have that gorgeous head of yours.”
Bill is bald and openly jealous of Richard’s head of thick, wavy black hair. Richard is openly jealous of Bill’s healthy motor neurons and strong muscles. Slightly taller than Bill, Richard bends over, offering the crown of his head as if he were being knighted. Bill works the shampoo into Richard’s hair, and Richard smiles with his eyes closed, diving deep into this newly discovered carnal indulgence. Head scrubbing for Richard is a hedonistic experience approaching nirvana, almost as sensually pleasing as a blow job. If Bill were an attractive woman, Richard’s pretty sure he could climax off an intense head scrub. He channels every unresolved, agonizing itch he’s suffered through since yesterday’s shower into the sublime satisfaction of Bill’s nails combing the base of Richard’s skull, raking the top of his head, scratching circles above his temples.
The scrubbing stops, and Richard peeks his eyes open. Water is spraying past the open curtain, and suds are dripping down Bill’s forearm. Bill adjusts the curtain and continues. He massages Richard’s scalp well past the point of clean hair. Again, God bless Bill.
He finishes, and Richard rinses. Bill squirts bath gel onto a sponge, and Richard moves out of the shower’s spray to be washed, front side first, then back. Rubbing the sudsy sponge along every inch of Richard’s body, Bill sings “They Say It’s Wonderful” from Annie Get Your Gun.
The whistling and the singing drive Richard nuts. Bill is a Broadway buff and a karaoke fanatic. Every morning he belts out a medley of songs from every era of Broadway, from Porgy and Bess to Oklahoma! to The Lion King to Hamilton. Richard sits proudly on the other end of the musical spectrum. He loves classical piano, the notes alone evoking powerful emotion, each wordless composition translating a privately interpreted journey. Listening to Schumann is like looking at a Picasso, like breathing in God. Listening to Bill serenade him with Broadway tunes is a fork dipped in vinegar, stabbing him in the eye.
But Richard hasn’t shared his distaste for Broadway with Bill. He figures it’s not wise to risk offending the man who washes his penis. So he quietly endures every maddening medley. He’s thought about asking Bill to play music from Richard’s iTunes playlists. They could enjoy getting bathed and dressed to Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Schumann’s fantasies, Chopin’s preludes. As there are no lyrics, this would shut Bill up.
But Richard can’t bear it. He can’t bear to listen to the masterpieces of these great composers, the music playing in the practiced circuits of his mind, never again to be executed by his fingers. The exquisite agony in hearing the music he loves but can never play is far more painful than Bill’s rendition of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” So Richard tolerates Bill’s singing. In a million ways, living with ALS is a practice in the art of Zen.
Bill shuts off the water and dries Richard with a towel. The two men move over to the sink. Bill wipes shaving cream onto Richard’s face, finger painting his cheeks, chin, neck, and upper lip. Bill stops singing once he has the razor in hand. Richard watches Bill’s brown eyes devote themselves to every contour of Richard’s face. Bill is breathing deeply and audibly through his nose, and as if it has its own gravitational pull, Richard finds himself inhaling and exhaling in sync. When Bill is finished, he wipes Richard’s face clean with a hot, wet facecloth.