* * *
Dante and I stood in the doorway of the gallery. The door was open, an invitation for visitors to walk in and take a look at the art. Emma was lost in thought as she was reading the New York Times. I could see the headline: “Facing the Emotional Anguish of AIDS.”
She looked up and smiled. “Aristotle and Dante,” she said. “Well, it certainly looks like you’ve been camping. Have fun?”
“Yeah,” Dante said. “I’d never been camping before.”
“Never?”
“I’m not exactly an outdoors kind of guy.”
“I see. You’re a nose-in-a-book kind of guy.”
“Something like that.”
“So Ari’s the outdoorsman.”
“Well, I guess you could say that,” I said. “We used to go camping two or three times a year when I was a kid. I really loved camping. El Paso’s so hot in the summer. And it’s so cool up here.”
“You like to fish?”
“Not really. But I used to go with my dad. I think we both read more than we fished. My mom was the real fisherman in the family.”
There was something about her. It was hurt, I think, her hurt about losing her son. She seemed to wear that hurt—but it didn’t make her look weak. Somehow I felt like she was strong—and stubborn. She reminded me of my mom—that hurt she still carried over my brother. He wasn’t dead, but she’d lost him.
“I’m glad you stopped by. I have something for you.” It was the painting. She’d wrapped it up. “I wanted you to have this.” She handed it to Dante.
“I can’t take this. It’s your son’s work. And—”
“I have the work of his I treasure most in my home. The rest is in this gallery. I want you to have it. But it’s for both of you.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, one of you keeps it for a year. And the next year, it goes to the other. Back and forth like that.” She smiled. “You can share it for your whole lives.”
Dante smiled. “I like that.”
I liked that too.
We talked for a while. Dante asked her if she had a husband.
“I had one of those at one time in my life. I loved him. Not everyone you love is meant to stay in your life forever. I don’t have any regrets. A lot of people live their lives in their mistakes. I’m not one of those people.”
I thought about that. I was thinking that maybe I was the kind of guy who just might live his life in the mistakes he made. But maybe not. I guess I’d be finding out soon enough.
She and Dante talked about a lot of things, but I mostly listened. I wasn’t really listening to what they were saying—not really. I was listening to the sound of their voices. I was trying to hear what they were feeling. I was trying to learn what it meant to really listen, because I hadn’t ever been a very good listener. I was too in love with what I was thinking. Way too in love with that.
Before we left, she told us to always remember the things that matter, and that it was up to us to decide what mattered and what didn’t. She hugged us both. “And remember that you matter more to the universe than you will ever know.”
Six
AS WE WERE DRIVING BACK down from the mountains, back into the desert, Dante had a long yellow legal pad on his lap. He was writing down more suggestions for his brother’s name to give to his mother.
“Do you think she even reads that list?”
“Of course she reads it.”
“How much influence do you think you really have?”
“Well, I’m sure I’m about to find out. What do you think of these names: Rodrigo, Maximo, Sebastian, Sergio, Agustin, or Salvador?”
“I like Rodrigo.”
“Me too.”
“She might be a girl. Why don’t you want a sister?”
“I don’t know. I just want a brother.”
“A heterosexual brother.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“You think your parents will love him more than they love you?”
“Of course not. But he’ll give them grandchildren.”
“How do you know he’ll want kids? How do you know your parents want grandchildren?”
“Everyone wants to have kids. And everyone wants to have grandchildren.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I said.
“It’s mostly true.” Dante had this I’m certain look on his face.
“I’m not sure I’d ever want to be a dad.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t picture me as a father. Not that I really think about it much.”
“Too busy thinking about me?” He was smirking.
“Yeah, that must be it, Dante.”
“No, I mean, seriously, Ari? You wouldn’t want to be a dad?”
“No, I don’t think so. Does that disappoint you?”
“No. Yes. No, it’s just that—”
“It’s just that you think there’s something wrong with someone who doesn’t wanna have kids.”
Dante didn’t say anything.
I knew it was no big deal. But I realized Dante could be judgmental. I hadn’t noticed that about him before. Not that I was above being judgmental. Everybody was—especially the people who claimed that they weren’t. I guess I thought Dante was above that. He was a mere mortal like everyone else. Hey, he wasn’t perfect. He didn’t need to be. I sure as hell wasn’t perfect. Not even close. And he loved me. Imperfect, fucked-up me. Nice. Sweet. Wow.
Seven
I WANTED TO ASK ARI what he knew about AIDS. I wanted to ask him if he thought about it. More than four thousand gay men had died of it. I’d watched the news with my parents, two days before Dante and I had left to go camping. We saw images of candlelight vigils in San Francisco and New York, and afterward, we didn’t talk about it. A part of me was glad that there hadn’t been some kind of discussion. And I knew that Dante knew something about it because his parents talked about things that were happening in the world all the time.
I wondered if Dante and I just weren’t ready to talk about something that was probably going to affect our lives. And why the hell was I thinking about this just as we were on the outskirts of the city?
* * *
When I pulled up into the driveway, my mom and Legs were sitting on the front steps, my mom reading a book.
Legs sat up and barked. I thought of the day I found her. I thought of me, my legs in a cast. I sat next to her and kissed the top of her head.
Dante reached down and hugged my mom.
“Nice,” she said. “You both smell like smoke.”
Dante smiled. “Ari turned me into a real camper.” He sat on the front steps and started loving on Legs.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I turned Dante into a regular Eagle Scout.”
My dad came out of the house. “Back in one piece, I see.” He looked over at Dante. “He wasn’t too hard on you, was he?”
“No, sir. And I learned how to pitch a tent.”
The wiseass in me almost wanted to say, And we also learned how to have sex. All of a sudden, I felt a little ashamed of myself. I almost felt myself blushing. Shame. Where did that word come from? For that one moment, I felt dirty. I felt like I’d done something really, really dirty.