Chapter 2: Chapter 2

“Well,” I said, setting my cup down, “I should get started.”

Drika gave me a tender look. “You okay, brown-eyes?”

“I’m gonna go stuff my face with bread rolls.” I pushed on the kitchen door, stepping back into my safe zone.

“Don’t do that. You always regret it.” She grabbed her big belly. “You wanna end up like me?”

I chuckled. “All right, all right,” I said, leaning on the doorway, “I’ll have some frozen yogurt and berries. Happy?” I was lucky to have such a wonderful friend. Drika always managed to make me feel better about myself.

“Oh, Chris, somebody’s bound to notice you one of these days,” she said, doing it again. “But you can’t hide in that kitchen forever.”

No, not forever. But maybe…for one more day.

* * * *

That afternoon, I was in the dish pit—cleaning out a piping bag, lost in my thoughts again—when Drika poked her head in the doorway. She hated the dish pit, rarely setting foot inside the small and steamy room. I, on the other hand, could spend hours in here. There was something about the sound of running water that soothed me.

Years ago, I remembered, I could spend days painting water in various forms. Rivers, streams, oceans. I’d stopped painting since I’d moved here. Why?

“Chris…You got mail.” Drika smiled tensely and walked away. From the look in her eye, I knew Lewis had sent me another postcard. He kept sending me mail at the café, writing that since I practically lived there, there was no sense in sending anything to my home. His subtle sarcasm didn’t escape me.

I checked my watch. It was a little after two. I scrubbed my hands and dried them, then stepped out of the dish pit and went to the front, passing Drika by the fridge.

“I think we’re gonna close up around four today,” she said. I remembered that Wednesdays were dead. The kids all went to the drive-in cinema for the early free show. “Are you up for prepping a little?” She handed me a handful of strawberries.

I popped two huge ones into my mouth and nodded. “Sure,” I said with my mouth full, “I’ll stay until we have everything done.” I stepped out of the kitchen, into the café. At the counter, I flipped through the mail, delaying reading the New York postcard while I ate the rest of the strawberries. The card was a picture of the Empire State Building. Did Lewis think I’d never seen the damn building before? I wasn’t thatclueless. Why couldn’t he send me a regular letter? I supposed he enjoyed the idea of John, our mailman, reading these private words before John delivered Lewis’s short missives to me. I turned the card over, and at the sight of Lewis’s long and complicated pen stroke, my heart ached a little. Lewis had been my bohemian in black. An idealist turned cynical. I realized now that I’d loved his broken heart more than I had his smile. I’d been crazy to think we could live here together forever.

With a stiff upper lip, I read his words, wondering when he’d stop writing me and finally set me free.I was ready for him to let me go.Though sometimes, I worried about him getting sick out there in that jungle of bodies.

Hello Christensen,

I miss you. My hands miss you. Why are you so stubborn? St-Clovis is a dead-end street for you. We were wrong to leave the hot cauldron. People are fighting for their lives, Chris. Come to New York. Leave the Frontier Café before you waste your best years on this blasted idea you have of leading a good country life. I know I put that idea in your head, but I was wrong. There is no such thing as quiet anymore. Only the fight for survival.

Don’t forget the cataclysm that’s hit our community and we’re gay and still alive! That’s our gift. That’s all there is. So many of us gone now. Remember Pete, Lizzie’s brother? She buried him last week.

I’ve been hanging out with some guys from ACT UP. We sure could use a good-hearted man like you.

And some homemade cookies.

Lewis

I stared at his handwriting for a long time. For a moment, I hesitated, but then tore the card up. Maybe I was a coward for not following him to the city, but I’d made my choices and Lewis had made his.

I belonged here.

This was my home, not a hide-out as he believed.2

That evening, after another long shift at the café, I sat with my neighbor and good friend Shirley on the back veranda. I was enjoying her usual funny banter on the perils of being a single mother. Her son Troy was four years old—the spitting image of Bam-Bam, that little hulking boy in The Flintstones. The kid was quite a handful. I adored him.

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