The Professionals Circuit Archive - A Time to Grieve	     A Time to
Grieve

 

by Susan Douglass

  
 *He's gone. He's really gone.* Ray Doyle swallowed down the lump in his
throat. *And I didn't even get to talk with him one last time -- to say
"good-bye" at least.*

Doyle had gotten the word that morning through a phone call from the AIDS
Action Center. Tim Anderson, the man whom he had served as a "buddy" for
the past year, had finally succumbed to the deadly disease; a neighbor had
found him dead, in the small flat he had called "home."

*Of course his family wouldn't go near him,* Ray thought bitterly. Tim had
been thrown out of his parents' house the minute he had informed them of
his diagnosis. He had wandered the streets, homeless, until AIDS Action
had discovered his huddled form on the center's doorstep. A newly trained
volunteer, Ray had been given this man to take under his wing. Ray had
found him a job with a printer in the gay community, part-time because of
his illness. Later, Ray had helped get him medical care and disability
payments, a reasonably comfortable flat. Ray had talked to him on the
phone, had visited him -- gone shopping for necessities, cooked him a cake
to celebrate his birthday. He had simply held his hand as Tim lay
frightened and wheezing on his bed.

Now Tim was dead. Ray had known that the death was certain to occur, at
least until a cure for AIDS was found -- unlikely within Tim's lifetime.
But Ray's emotions churned against the force of the inevitable.

Tears sprang to his eyes. No longer fighting them, he let the rivulets
travel down his cheeks. Life with Tim had become a regular pattern. He had
given Tim painting lessons. Tim had initiated him to the brain-twisting
wonders of a certain nightly quiz show. A new pang cut through him. When
he watched the show tonight, who would discuss the topics and questions
with him, the status of challengers and current champions?

*Maybe I could get Bodie to watch the show,* Ray mused to himself. He
doubted it. The rigors of Bodie's duties within CI5 prevented anything
like regular viewing on the telly. Doyle had once belonged with CI5. This
was until two years ago, when a reporter from a tabloid newspaper had
tittered about government money being used to hire homosexuals in the
formidable anti-terrorist organization ("your TAXES!" the headline had
screamed). Ray's involvement as a gay man had been uncovered; a reporter
had trailed him going to certain pubs in off-duty hours. Cowley had been
forced to ask for his resignation. The Controller had fought it tooth and
nail because he despised bigotry of any kind. But it was either fire the
"pansy" or else lose all government recognition and funding. CI5 would
cease to exist.

Ray smiled through the unwiped tears which had dried on his cheek.
*There's another of us still there. We are EVERYWHERE.* His mind rested on
Bodie -- his lover. Bodie had to be extremely discreet, watching for
followers when he came to Ray's shabby bed-sit -- the only place he could
afford from his job at a florist shop owned by two lesbians. Of course,
Ray could never visit Bodie at the official CI5 flat assigned to him.

Doyle counted his blessings, however. He still had his life, his health.
His last HIV test still showed negative. His days of easy pick-ups from
bars were over years ago. A warmth spread through him. Above all the
blessings of health, he had Bodie -- who was really all and everything he
needed in his life.

*And he's coming here tonight,* Doyle thought. Bodie's presence would help
chase away the sorrow of Tim's death. Doyle scampered up from the lone
couch which also served as his bed. The flat's stove was miniscule -- but
it served him well. He carefully selected the ingredients for tonight's
dish. It would be Chinese, his own recipe for egg rolls and chow mein. He
fought off a new wave of sorrow as he prepared the appetizer and meal. Tim
had eagerly consumed his chow mein, the last time Ray had carried it to
his flat.

The door rattled as a key turned in the rickety lock. Finally it was
shoved aside as Bodie walked through. "Mmmm," he murmured, sniffing the
food's fragrance. Doyle was just dishing it onto plates for serving. Bodie
strode over behind Doyle and nipped him on the neck. "Someone else tastes
good as well."

"You berk," Ray rasped. "Sit down and wait." At his lover's mockingly
crestfallen look, Doyle lifted his face, opening his mouth invitingly. As
Bodie's lips met his, he plunged his tongue into Bodie's warm cavern,
wriggling it.

"Hey, that tickles," Bodie groaned.

"But you love it," Doyle retorted, then plunged his tongue inside again.
The pairs of lips twisted and turned in their passion. Here, in the
privacy of his home, Ray wouldn't have to worry about the disgusted looks
of straights, who would cringe annoyingly at the sight of two kissing men.

Reluctantly, Ray pulled his mouth away. A pot of stew was still simmering.
It would burn if he didn't watch it carefully. "Save some of your appetite
for dinner," he exclaimed. "Afterward, you'll get your dessert." He
wriggled happily as Bodie stroked his hair, then his buttocks.

After the savory dinner, Doyle curled his head against Bodie's chest.
Unaccountably, the tears welled up again. He struggled to swallow them
down. Bodie wasn't involved with AIDS Action; he couldn't afford to
associate with any organization considered too "gay." *But AIDS isn't a
gay disease,* a shot of resentment insisted, within him.

He shook his head. Bodie had never met Tim. Ray couldn't let his sense of
loss spoil one of the too-few evenings he spent with his lover.

"What's wrong, sunshine?" Bodie asked gently. His hand ran over the
springy curls.

Ray shook his head vigorously. "N...Nothing," he replied. "Nothing that
involves you, anyway."

Bodie brushed his lips against the broken lump of Doyle's right cheek.
"Anything that involves you involves me. You must tell me."

The resentment suddenly exploded, white-hot, filling Ray's mind. He
knocked his lover's hand away, thrusting his body to the far end of the
couch, as far away from Bodie as he could get. "No!" Doyle lashed out,
sarcasm lacing his voice. "It wouldn't involve a *respectably* employed
government servant such as yourself!"

"Ray," Bodie began. Doyle's irrational fury cut him off.

"You're defending Queen and country -- and our great Prime Minister as
well. Why should you care that people are dying? All around us, people are
suffering, getting sick and dying -- but of course, they're just a bunch
of 'queers!' Meantime, they can't get the right medicine because it's all
considered 'experimental.' But why should *you* care? You're sitting
there, pretty, in your gilded closet!"

Bodie shoved himself toward him, on the couch. He seized Doyle's arms in
an iron grip. Blue eyes glittered within a pale face. "Don't *ever* tell
me I don't care," he spoke steadily. "Don't think I haven't seen the
wasting bodies and faces. Cowley and I -- we have to work from the
inside." Doyle continued to glare defiantly at him.

Bodie suddenly let go of his grip, his head bowing, reddening in obvious
shame. "But I usually see those faces only on the telly and in the news
photographs," he whispered. "While you -- you actually do the real work,
getting your hands 'dirty' so some of the straights would say. I bet the
straights treat you like you have the Black Plague. And look, sunshine,"
he indicated the tiny dimensions of the flat. "This is your reward. Cowley
has always said you were the best -- but he was forced to sack you."

Doyle felt his own cheeks growing hot. "I just acted like a complete berk,
screaming at you like that." He smiled crookedly. "A screaming queen,
that's me." The flood began to build up in his eyes again. The lump rose
in his throat. "Why do you put up with me?"

Bodie enfolded him in tender arms. "Did your AIDS 'buddy' die today?" he
asked softly. Ray could only nod. "I should have seen that something had
happened," Bodie added. "Go ahead, cry. Let it all out. Don't do what I
did when I lost my mates in Special Services, or we'll have to send Dr.
Ross out here on a private call." Bodie had kept his grief within him that
time, Ray recalled -- with almost tragic results.

Doyle clutched at his lover's outstretched hands. The dam cracked, then
broke open completely. The torrent of his sobs rushed outward, tumbling in
rapids. More cries welled from the source of mourning within. Would they
never end? *Tim, wait for me,* his scattered thoughts cried out. *Why
wasn't I there, with you when you died? You were in such pain. You never
told me of it.* The flood rushed out of him, but now the waters were
gently washing over him, healing his soul. *Go now, Tim. In peace -- to
that place.*

Some interminable time later, Doyle lay, resting his head against Bodie's
chest. The flood had spent itself, at least for now. He had lost a
precious life in Tim -- but he had Bodie. He nuzzled his cheek against
Bodie's arms; he reached for the packet of rubbers which lay inside the
side table's drawer. Tonight, he would celebrate the wonder of Tim's life
with his special expression of love. And his beloved would be there to
celebrate with him.

-- THE END --

*April 8, 1990*

******

*AUTHOR'S NOTE:* I wrote this the day after I found out that one of my
best friends had died of AIDS. "Tim Anderson" is based on a composite of
two people with AIDS I knew who are now both gone. Sorry about the unnamed
"certain quiz show" but my friend got me addicted to JEOPARDY, and I don't
know the British equivalent. Anyway, I thank you all for your indulgence
in allowing me to write this tale, and get some of it out -- and I thank
the "circuit" for existing. This story is dedicated to my two friends and
to all people living with AIDS.

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