Chapter 72: Henry, Redux

Sydney and Troy had worked for Mary Margaret since graduation. Her shoe empire provided for a wide and long career path for two loyal friends. “Follow the money,” had long been their collective mottos. MM’s money, to be specific. And that’s precisely what they’d done.

            All of their lives suffered a seismic shift the year Tayloe died.

            Nearing retirement, Sydney and Troy helped their friend, Mary Margaret, through a year of profound grief. When she asked them to help her create the Tayloe Kinney LGBT Foundation, they shelved their retirement plans and dug in with both gloved hands. In the most unlikely of pairings, Sydney, Troy and Mary Margaret built a legacy to honor her daughter that provided support and survival resources to emerging LGBTQ+ youth around the world.

            “I’m the one who pushed to expand into Israel.” Troy beamed.

            “You haven’t answered my question, Judith. How do you know these two?” I waited.

            “Yeah,” winked Sydney. “How do we know each other?’

            No one volunteered a word. Finally, Avery broke the silence.

            “They fucked.”

            “What? Can you repeat that, just a little softer, please?” And lowering my voice, “Who, exactly fucked? You and Troy? And Sydney?”

            “Oh, god no.” Sydney stifled a laugh.

            “Hardly,” Troy echoed.

            “It was MM and I. We fucked, you morons. In a wild schoolgirl moment of exploratory—and I might add, one time only—madness, we, as the lady says, fucked.” Judith looked pleased to have it all out in the open.

            “Oh my god,” Troy said.

            “You didn’t know? Seriously?” Judith said.

            “I never told him.” Sydney winced. “MM swore me to secrecy. Sorry, love. I’d completely forgotten it until the Marvelous Mrs. Maxwell here jolted my memory.” And then, cattily to me, “Nice sweats, Drew.”

            I excused myself. Despite a line to the ladies’ room twenty deep, the men’s room was empty. I was relieving myself when a voice to my left said, “Well, Drew? Drew Carter? I’m guessing at the name, because you’re missing a name badge. Anyway, welcome.”

            A smiling Dr. Jeff extended a hand awkwardly across the urinal. In equal parts disbelief and shock, I shook the hand of my first-year crush.

            Sensing my discomfort and his own faux pas, he added, “It’s much nicer on the patio. Let’s get a drink.”

            In daylight, and fully zipped, we began our retrospective. What did you do? What do you do now? Where to you live? Married? Children? Come back to the University much?  We took a collective breath.

            He made me laugh. It was as though Jeff’s impish self, circa 1973, had been transplanted into the body of a fit senior (and a damn fine one at that, from what I could see fully clothed). It was, as Jeff had often been, disconcerting.

            “So, did you ever learn to confront others? To ask for what you want?”

            I considered the question and blurted out, “Did you ever learn to put on clothing? Aside from speaking engagements, obviously.”

            His blue eyes sparkled.

            “Sorry, but you know, I can’t remember you ever wearing more than a pair of boxer shorts on our hall. Dead of winter, sweltering summer, it made no difference. Do you know what that can do to a 17-year-old struggling with hormones and a secret attraction to semi-naked men? You were a goddamn flirt.” And then to his husband, Dr. Keith, who had just joined us. Smiling, I repeated, “Your very cute husband was a goddman flirt back then.”

            “Wish I’d known him then.” Dr. Keith extended a hand. “We didn’t meet until after Jeff’s wife died. That was, what, 15 years ago?”

           “So, you were married? To a woman, I mean?”           

“Don’t look so shocked, Drew. I was still figuring it all out back then.”

            I smiled, knowingly. “A lot of us were.”

            “So, what about you? Bigshot author, therapist. You said married, right?”

            “Bigshot, no. Married, yes.”

            “Where is he? I’d love to meet the man who landed the cutest guy on the hall.”

            “Would you listen, Keith? Goddam flirt then, goddam flirt now.” I sent them both a look of mock disbelief, and continued. “Yes, married. Happily. His name is John, and if he’d known just how much in demand he’d be, he might have changed his mind and joined me. As it stands, he couldn’t. It was a work thing.”

            “I don’t believe you.” Dr. Jeff smiled, challenging the generic excuse and calling for a do-over.

            “Ok. Just to prove to you that I can handle conflict—although none here that I can see—he could have come. He chose not to. He was hoping to avoid all the small talk that these things can generate.”

            “Oh, god, aren’t we all? Seriously. It would have been great to meet him. Maybe another time, right?”

            I laughed. “After this weekend? Never say never.”

            They each nodded, slightly puzzled, but distracted by the crowd as it began to amble back into the Colonnade Room. Jeff announced, “The program’s starting again. I think you’re going to appreciate our next speaker.”

            We parted company with warm hugs and promises to meet again. None of us really believed that interchange, but our southern manners prevailed. I found a folding chair had been placed in my standing-room-only footprint. The graduate student to my side motioned me to sit. I graciously accepted. It seemed there were actually some advantages to getting older.

            Dr. Jeff returned to the podium. “I hope you all had a chance to stretch and to reconnect to some faces from the past.” He shot me a quick smile. “It’s amazing the impressions we leave from 40 years ago. And, refreshing to see how we’ve all turned out. On that note, I’d like to introduce our next speaker, who was, by the way, a student on my hall in 1973. I was his resident advisor then, and now count him as a friend and colleague. Please welcome,  Class of ’77, Medicine ’81, Dr. Henry Toppler.”