Scenes from Hugo - 1. Scenes from Hugo

Charleston, SC, 1989

Tracy reached for Owen’s hand in the dark, as the lights brightened to blinding and dimmed again, and the dancers on stage struggled against their gauzy bonds. It was a bittersweet occasion. They had been looking forward to the debut of Brock Rendall’s Illumination, but hadn’t expected he wouldn’t be there to see the result of all his labor. Sure, everyone had known he was sick, but he’d been doing as well as could be expected, with only one recent stay at the hospital, from which he’d recovered. He’d lost a tremendous amount of weight, and wasn’t able to dance any more, but it didn’t stop him from doing choreography and attending most of the rehearsals.

Illumination was to be his personal statement about coping with his illness. It incorporated an ingenious use of lighting; some parts in soft twilight, some in harsh fluorescent, some in bright sunlight, and at times only partial spotlighting of a particular dancer or spot, or even part of a dancer. The costumes consisted of simple, sheer body stockings, loincloths, the occasional mask, and, as a prop, pieces of white drapery of varying sizes, with electric fans hidden in the wings to direct their flow. Tracy found it rather haunting, and wondered what sort of note it was going to end on.

Owen covered his eyes from another burst of sudden brightness, a wave of nausea sweeping through him. The lighting changes were disturbing. He couldn’t make the distinction between the special effects, and something happening physically with his eyesight. The hazy, limited views were too reminiscent of the ‘cloud’ that would creep into the corner of his vision now and then. He’d been doing his best to ignore it, but the tedious repair work he did on watches and jewelry was becoming increasingly difficult. He almost had himself convinced that it wasn’t real, and would go away on its own. It wasn’t worth mentioning to the doctors, or worrying Tracy. The doctors would only prescribe more anxiety drugs, which he rarely bothered to take, anyway. He was on enough meds as it was. That was probably why he was feeling so tired and sick in the stomach tonight. He’d been tempted to stay home, but he and Tracy had been talking about this night for weeks, and he didn’t want to let him down. Besides, if he stopped doing what he normally did, he didn’t think he’d ever have the strength to get going again.

This was not an easy night for him. Even though he hadn’t personally known Brock, he’d cried bitterly when they’d heard of his passing on the evening news. Tracy knew exactly what he had meant when he’d commented that Brock was ‘lucky’—that he hadn’t had to suffer the agony and indignity of dying slowly and enduring the decay of both body and mind. The aneurysm had taken him suddenly. Owen wondered if fate would grant him the same mercy.

He smiled reassuringly at Tracy, who was looking at him with concern, and squeezed his hand. On stage, Kerry Daniels struggled entwined in a sheet of muslin like a grey shroud, while two beautiful boys from the corps de ballet descended from the ceiling on satin draperies for the final pas des trois. In the end, they lifted him skyward, and instead of a fade to black, the piece ended with a retina searing blaze of white. When eyes adjusted and the light dimmed again, there was nothing left on the stage but the gently stirring yards of fabric.

Backstage, celebration was tempered with an air of quiet reverence. The dancers hugged and consoled each other in hushed tones, whispering that ‘he’ would have approved, or was looking down at them with approval right then. More than a few tears were shed. Kerry Daniels disappeared to a private dressing room.

Parrish Alston joined in the consolations and congratulations, then sank to the floor in a quiet corner to rest and gather his thoughts. The final scene had been his big break, when he and Jamie appeared as the ‘Archangels’. It was their chance to make themselves noticed apart from the anonymity of the corps, and possibly break through to being promoted to soloists in the near future. He’d been so nervous, he’d felt like throwing up all day. Jamie actually had thrown up in the restroom backstage before they’d gone on. He hadn’t adjusted to the limelight as well as Parrish had, and stage fright was becoming an issue for him. Parrish had tried everything from rubbing his back and trying to soothe him, to cracking jokes and making light of things, but it only helped a little bit. Mostly, he just tried to shield him from some of the more experienced and less kind members of the company.

This whole thing with Brock had him shaken, too. And it wasn’t just Brock. Rumors abounded. Others had died, too, but it hadn’t made the papers beyond the standard obituary because they hadn’t been famous. One had been a corps boy he’d known by sight but not by name. Another had been a costumer. There were rumors that others were sick as well.

“Holding up all right?”

Parrish’s heart skipped a beat as Patrick Vaughn sat down beside him. Lately, the red-haired soloist had Parrish rethinking his idea of remaining celibate and devoting his life to his art. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he answered. “At least for tonight. I wasn’t sure those wires were going to hold in the final scene.”

“You should be proud of yourself.” His hand slid to Parrish’s thigh. “Brock would be proud of you.”

“Brock could hardly ever remember my name, but I hope you’re right.”

“A lot of people will remember your name after tonight. You were spectacular.”

The overdone praise was making Parrish uncomfortable. Yes, he’d done well, but it was still a small, supporting role, and Kerry was the star of the piece. The lead had been designed specifically for Kerry, playing up all his strengths and making full use of his charisma. Probably the entire piece would be retired after this run, and the role would be his forever.

Patrick’s hand now moved to rest on the back of Parrish’s neck, playing with the damp tendrils at the nape. “You know, I’d like to see you alone sometime,” Patrick said in a low voice. “We don’t always have to go out with all our friends around.”

Parrish was staring at the ground in front of him, paralyzed. He lifted his eyes enough to determine if anyone was staring at them. They weren’t. It was hardly worth noticing, with everyone milling about, and plenty of people of both same and opposite sex hugging and kissing each other. “Sure. We can do that sometime.”

“Jamie,” Patrick said suddenly, as Parrish’s friend appeared and stood looming over them. He withdrew his hand, but slowly and deliberately, without a trace of self consciousness.

Jamie ignored him and addressed Parrish instead. “You ready to get going?” He extended a hand and assisted Parrish to his feet.

Jamie was quiet as they walked to their cars, but Parrish assumed it was because of the solemnity of the occasion. “You know, I’m thinking of going out with Patrick sometime,” he said. “Like, on a date,” he added, at Jamie’s silence.

“If that’s what you want,” Jamie shrugged.

Parrish and Jamie stopped in front of Parrish’s white Cabriolet. “I thought you were okay with things. Way to be supportive.”

“I said I was okay with you liking guys. I never said anything about Patrick.”

“What’s your problem with Patrick? He hasn’t been anything but nice to either one of us.”

“I don’t have a problem with him. Except that he’s arrogant, and I don’t trust him.”

“Sounds like you do have a problem, to me,” Parrish said, opening the car door and quickly losing patience. “And I don’t know what it is you don’t trust him with. I’m not going to do anything stupid, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s your life, do what you want,” Jamie muttered, as Parrish got into the car and shut the door with a little more force than was necessary.

Three weeks later

Tracy stood on the front step of his carriage house apartment clutching the morning paper and feeling like his knees were about to buckle underneath him. There on the front page, a familiar black and white photo stared out at him. He’d seen it many times before in the pages of the Sumner’s programs which were handed out before each performance. But now, shock overwhelmed him as he made out the headline:

Local Ballet Star Found Dead, Possible Suicide

Kerry Lynn Daniel, aged 22, was found dead in his home Tuesday, in an apparent suicide, after failing to show for rehearsal for two consecutive days. Daniels had been a member of the Sumner Dance Company for five years, and a principal dancer for the last three…

Tracy skimmed over the chronicles of Daniels’ career triumphs in his brief but brilliant life.

…friends stated that Daniels had been despondent over the recent death of Sumner co-star Brock Rendall, 39, due to complications brought on by the AIDS virus…

Half of the Sumner’s star principal dancers gone from the planet in just a few short weeks, Tracy thought in disbelief. The article hadn’t specific exactly how Daniels had died. Morbid though it was, Tracy couldn’t help speculating, gruesome pictures flashing through his mind. Kerry in the bathtub, pressing a cold steel blade to vulnerable vein; on a chair, wrapping a rope around his throat; putting the barrel of a gun in his beautiful mouth; writhing on his bed in agony after swallowing a handful of pills. He shuddered, and reached for the doorknob, then changed his mind. Instead, he locked the door and rolled up the newspaper, tucking it under his arm, and then left for work. Inside the house, Owen was still sleeping peacefully. He hadn’t asked for the paper in the last few days since the CMV infection began destroying his eyesight. The nurse would be there in a couple hours, and if he asked him for it, it wouldn’t be there, and they would most likely blame the paper carrier for forgetting them.

He wanted to spare Owen the news. He’d had enough to deal with in the last couple weeks, and it would only depress him further. Tracy hoped that the drug treatments would be able to reverse some of the damage to Owen’s vision, and that he’d be able to return to work soon. Even if the watch and jewelry repair was too precise and tedious, he could still work behind the antiques counter. He wished that Owen had said something sooner, instead of waiting until the problem was so severe, that he had no choice but to make a desperate phone call to Tracy to come pick him up from work. It worried him, too, that Owen was becoming so complacent now. He didn’t seem to have the will to do much of anything, but at the same time, not enough to resist a suggestion or have an opinion about something. He wasn’t like he’d been when they’d first met almost eighteen months ago, when he’d been so reassuring and full of hope over the new AZT treatment.

Tracy would be lying if he didn’t admit that sometimes he wondered if he’d made the right decision by getting involved with Owen, when Owen had revealed his condition early in the relationship, and given him ample opportunity to bow out before things became too serious between them. But even by then, Tracy was blinded by love and by Owen’s optimism. Now it felt like he’d placed himself in the path of a tidal wave from which there was no escape.

Today Tracy felt like he was running on autopilot at work, the news of Kerry’s suicide forever at the back of his mind. He tried to tell himself his despair was an overreaction, that he didn’t even know the man, but he knew what he was feeling had to do with more than just what happened to Kerry.

Tracy’s clients at the salon that morning never said a word about Kerry Daniels. He either wasn’t on their radar, or was just a passing bit of gossip not worth mentioning. Part of Tracy ached for the tragedy to be acknowledged, but at the same time he was relieved to not have to discuss it. If he was unusually quiet that day, no one noticed. As long as his clients could pour out their own troubles (sometimes very petty ones, Tracy thought) all he had to do was make a sympathetic noise or two, and keep working, and all would seem to be well.

At lunchtime, he walked down King Street, past the antique store where he’d met Owen, and where Owen was currently technically still employed, and past the cafes where they normally met for lunch. He didn’t have much of an appetite today for anything but the fresh air. When he got back to the salon, he placed a quick phone call home. Sometimes when he called during the day, Owen would be irritable and complain about being checked up on, but today he was pleasant and almost cheerful. He didn’t mention Daniels, so Tracy assumed he hadn’t heard.

“Edwin says there’s a hurricane coming,” Owen said almost gleefully. Edwin was the nurse who came by to hook up Owen’s IV for his medication during the day.

“If it’s bad enough, we’ll have to get out of town,” Tracy said.

“We’ll see,” said Owen.

Tracy knew Owen’s stance on hurricanes, and that talking him into leaving town might prove to be difficult. He was a native Charlestonian, and his response was always to ‘ride it out’, just like the time before. Tracy was a transplant from Indiana. Just the thought of a hurricane terrified him. He’d only been in town a couple years, and hadn’t experienced one yet, and was sure he didn’t want to. But, if Owen insisted on staying, he wouldn’t have much choice. He couldn’t exactly leave him there alone to fend for himself.

Tracy hung up the phone, and went over to the receptionist to check the rest of the day’s appointments. “Your three o’clock cancelled,” she told him, “So I scheduled a replacement.”

He glanced at the name in his appointment book. “Is this a joke?”

The receptionist shook her head, bewildered. “Mrs. Ravenel couldn’t make it, so I scheduled the gentleman who called right after that, instead. He said he had the day off, and didn’t want to wait, if he could possibly get in today.”

It was clear she had no idea who Parrish Alston was. Of course she wouldn’t. If people didn’t know who Kerry Daniels was, why would they know some corps boy? Tracy thought he must be losing his mind. Probably even most of the people who went to the Sumner regularly didn’t know his name. But Tracy did, because Owen thought he was pretty and had impeccable technique, and predicted that he was going to be a big star someday. Tracy tended to agree. After Illuminations, they had taken to calling him ‘Angel Boy’. But maybe it wasn’t even him. The south was full of Alstons. But ‘Parrish’ wasn’t a common name. He’d just have to wait and see.

Three o’clock rolled around, and there was no mistaking that it was indeed him. He looked even younger and smaller offstage, several inches shorter than Tracy, and almost swallowed up by his tan cargo pants and white T shirt. His deep gold hair was shaggy and definitely in need of a trim.

After the shampoo girl was finished with him, he smiled shyly as Tracy beckoned him over.

“What can I do for you today?” Tracy asked, running his hands through Parrish’s damp locks, which held just a hint of a wave. He didn’t know if he should acknowledge that he knew who he was, offer condolences about Daniels, or just pretend he had no idea. Maybe Parrish wouldn’t like the painful subject brought up. Besides, he didn’t want to come across as a slathering fan boy. He felt like one, though, toying with ‘Angel Boy’s’ hair. He wished Owen could see this.

“Just a trim, I guess. A little feathering, like it was. Not too short, though.”

Tracy was glad he didn’t want too much cut off. Just a little shaping would be enough. It had broken his heart to sheer Owen’s once thick, chestnut waves, but it was starting to thin and fall out because of his illness, and was easier to take care of this way. He and Owen both joked about it and pretended it was chic, but deep down, they both knew why they were doing it.

“Have you ever thought about getting some highlights?” he asked, as he snipped away. Parrish’s hair was the perfect shade for coloring, that deep, burnished gold that would lighten so well.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t want it to look too fake”, Parrish answered. “Maybe if you could do something that looked natural.”

“Sure,” Tracy said. “I’d just add some beige tones to play up your natural color a bit. That is, if you decide to come back. Don’t feel like I’m pushing you or anything. I know you probably already have a regular stylist.”

“Actually,” Parrish told him, “I’m here because my stylist moved away, and Savannah’s a little too much of a drive for a haircut.” He smiled ruefully. “So, I think there’s a pretty good chance you’ll be seeing me again.”

Tracy worked in silence for what felt like eons working up the courage to mention to Parrish that he recognized him. Otherwise, Parrish might start wondering why he didn’t make the requisite small talk, which usually started with asking about one’s job, and think he was unfriendly. Sometimes a stylist’s social skills were almost as important as talent when it came to getting and keeping clients. “When I saw your name in my appointment book,” he ventured, “I thought it looked familiar, and then I realized I knew you from the ballet.” Okay, so it wasn’t the exact truth, but it glossed over any possible stalker-ish overtones.

“Oh, so you’ve been to see us?” He brightened for a moment, but then his composure cracked away like a mask. “Then you heard what happened, I guess.”

Tracy nodded at him in the mirror and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Now he felt a little guilty about his own sadness, when confronted with someone to whom Kerry Daniels had been more than just a fantasy figure on stage.

“I didn’t know him that well,” Parrish said, “But it was still a big shock. Especially right after Brock. No one knows what to do right now. They sent us all home today. I think they’re just going to close Illumination instead of recasting, and start on something else. I mean, they have understudies and all, but I don’t think anyone would feel right taking Kerry’s place, under the circumstances.”

Parrish’s willingness to open up about the subject made Tracy relax a little. “I saw Illuminations a couple weeks ago. I’m glad I had the chance to see it. I would understand why they’d want to retire it early, though.”

“It’s just too hard. This was the first time I really worked with Kerry, so I can imagine how rough this must be for Alphonse and Silvio. Silvio especially, because they say he’s the one who found Kerry’s body.”

Tracy looked up sharply. Morbid though it might be, he was interested in the details. “Oh, really? Silvio Varro?”

“Mm hmm,” Parrish said, unable to nod lest he ruin Tracy’s work. “Kerry didn’t show up at the studio for two days, so Silvio went to his apartment to check on him. He broke his way in through the bedroom window when he didn’t answer the door, or so they say. So many rumors flying around right now, it’s hard to say.”

“There wasn’t much information in the paper about it,” Tracy said. “It didn’t even mention how he did it.”

“Overdose,” Parrish answered. “Of what, I’m not sure. In fact, some people are saying it was accidental. Maybe we’ll never know.”

Tracy had been prolonging his work trying to make the session as long as possible, making tiny adjustments here and there, but if he didn’t get on with it, he was going to be behind schedule and his next client would be upset at the delay. “The paper said he was distraught over Brock, and sort of implied that might have had something to do with it,” he said, taking out his blow dryer.

“It could very well be. They were close. How close, I don’t really know. Yeah, he really didn’t seem to be handling it well.”

“I don’t think I would, either,” Tracy said, Owen’s condition looming in the back of his mind.

Finishing up, he coaxed Parrish’s hair into a feathery halo, undid the cape, and handed him the mirror to look at the back. Parrish inclined his head with a dancer’s grace, studying the reflection like one who was accustomed to spending a lot of time looking in a mirror with a mixture of criticism and detachment. Finally, Parrish smiled and voiced his approval.

“Remember, if there’s anything you don’t like, come back any time, and I’ll fix it for free,” Tracy offered.

“Oh, I doubt that’ll be necessary,” Parrish said, his hand straying to his hair to make some final adjustments. “I’ll think about those highlights, though. And hopefully next time we’ll have something happier to talk about.”

Later that evening, Tracy came home to find Owen resting on the living room recliner, dressed in sweats, with the lights turned down, and the television murmuring softly in the background. His breathing was raspy and somewhat labored. Tracy assumed he was asleep, and tried to creep in quietly.

“Kerry Daniels is dead.” Owen’s voice floated tonelessly across the room.

Tracy fumbled with his keys, and started to stutter.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” Owen said, cutting him off. “I know you took the paper this morning.”

Tracy sighed, and sank down on the couch. There was no point in keeping up the lie. “How did you hear about it?”

“After I got off the phone with you, I put the news on to find out about the hurricane, and something came on about it.”

“I was going to tell you myself, when I got home tonight,” Tracy said.

“I can handle things,” Owen snapped. “You don’t have to baby me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Tracy’s apology seemed to diffuse Owen’s anger. “I guess I just wasn’t thinking too clearly this morning. I didn’t want to go back in and wake you up, and I didn’t think I should just throw it somewhere for you to read later, without saying anything.”

“I’m not mad…just…” he shook his head. “It’s just too much, that’s all.”

Later that evening as they sat at the dinner table picking at plates full of chicken alfredo that neither of them really wanted, Tracy finally remembered what he wanted to tell him. “You’ll never guess who came into the shop today,” he said.

“Who?” Owen smiled a little, playing along with him. “Madonna? Princess Diana? Queen Elizabeth? Or some other queen?”

“Getting warmer,” said Tracy. “It was Parrish Alston.”

“Angel Boy!” Owen exclaimed, showing more animation that Tracy had seen in a week. “So, how did you pull that off? Someone refer him?”

“Nope. He just called up and got an appointment. It was fate.”

“Well, come on, tell me everything. Is he a real blond? You’re supposed to know that, aren’t you?” Owen teased.

“I’m trying to talk him into highlights. So he can come back for a longer visit, you know.”

“Is he stuck up?”

Tracy shook his head. “No, he was actually pretty down to earth. Quiet at first, but then he was pretty friendly.”

“So what did you guys talk about? Did he say anything about Daniels?”

Tracy repeated everything Parrish had told him.

“I see,” Owen said sadly. “So he was probably in love with Brock. I doubt he killed himself just out of grief, though. I bet he either knew or suspected he was sick, too. And he probably decided on overdosing, because that way, no one else would have to clean up his blood.”

A chill washed over Tracy. “You sound like you’ve thought about that way too much.”

“About what? Suicide? I’m not going to lie to you. Of course I’ve thought about it.”

“And?” Tracy wanted reassurance, not confessions.

“I’m not stashing pills anywhere, and I’m not going to ask you to help do me in, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It wasn’t quite as comforting a response as he wanted, but it would have to do.

September 21-22, 1989
9:00 pm

“Maybe we should turn on the news”, Parrish mumbled, nestled in the warm cocoon of fresh linen next to Patrick, as a steady rain spattered the window panes.

“The worst of it is going to miss us,” Patrick replied sleepily. “Last I heard, landfall was going to be closer to Myrtle Beach.” He slung an arm across Parrish, and pulled him close.

“I still think we should check.” Parrish disentangled himself and switched on the small television on the dresser in Patrick’s bedroom. He wasn’t so sure they had done the right thing by staying in town in the path of the hurricane. His parents were none too pleased about his decision, and would be even less so if they knew exactly what he was doing. He hadn’t lied, not really, by telling them he was staying with a friend, but Patrick had become more than a friend now, and his parents probably suspected it. They were fine with him being gay in theory, but it might be a different story when faced with the reality of him actually sleeping with someone, and having a relationship.

Parrish knew the time was almost right to move out on his own. The plan for the last couple years was to share an apartment with Jamie as soon as they were both of age. He’d been stalling lately whenever Jamie brought it up, because now he wasn’t so sure that’s what he wanted to do. He was hoping instead that Patrick would ask him to come live here. Living with a friend would be nice, but it couldn’t compare to living with a lover. Surely Jamie could understand that, even if he still wasn’t very enamored of Patrick.

“…will make landfall in the Charleston area…sustained winds of one hundred thirty five miles an hour…” Parrish heard the snippets of the news broadcast, distracted by Patrick’s hands caressing him, and his tongue invading his mouth. Before he knew it, Parrish found himself underneath him again. Outside, the rain lashed harder. The television flickered, and suddenly they were plunged into total darkness as the power blinked out.

“Damn it,” Patrick muttered, but he only paused for a moment, when Parrish tensed as if to try to get up. “Stay where you are,” Patrick panted into his ear, pressing him to the bed. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

Parrish relaxed. Patrick was right. It was pitch black, but so what? Patrick already had the condom on. No point in interrupting their lovemaking to look for a flashlight. As it was, he couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or closed. The darkness encompassed him. He was aware of nothing but the sensations in his body and the roar of the storm growing and filling him. Afterwards, they drifted off, despite the maelstrom outside, exhausted, their bodies slick with sweat from the stifling heat of the un-vented room.

Parrish felt like he’d barely closed his eyes when he woke up screaming. Disoriented, he sat up in bed, shielding his face from the cold water and flying glass. The sheet whipped away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. He could hear Patrick cursing again, but this time panic tinged his voice.

He started to climb down from the bed, but wherever he touched, broken glass crunched beneath him. “Don’t move!” Patrick shouted at him above the roar. A flashlight beam illuminated a path across the room, and he picked his way through the debris to Patrick, who guided him to the windowless bathroom, where they shut themselves in. Parrish touched his face again, realizing that some of the wetness wasn’t from the rain.

“I should have boarded up those fucking windows!” Patrick exploded.

No shit, Parrish thought bitterly, but bit back his retort, increasingly alarmed by the blood that was smeared on his hands, and the stinging sensation under his right eye. Yeah, he’d noticed right away that Patrick hadn’t bothered to board the windows, had a passing thought that it was kind of stupid, and then it vanished from his mind as soon as Patrick had gotten their clothes off.

“I’m bleeding,” he said faintly. Patrick pressed some tissues into his hand, and held up the flashlight as Parrish closed his eyes against the glare.

“You’re a little scratched up,” Patrick said. “That one looks pretty deep,” he added, inspecting the cut under his eye. “Maybe even bad enough for stitches. I hope it doesn’t leave a scar. You’re lucky it just missed your eye, though.” He got up and retrieved some peroxide, cotton balls, and Band-aids from the medicine cabinet. He had a few cuts himself, mostly on his feet from walking through the debris in the dark. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and started cleaning the wounds, while Parrish cleaned his as best he could in the dim light of the flashlight, in front of the mirror.

“My apartment is going to be ruined,” Patrick said.

“And we’re trapped in the bathroom, naked,” Parrish added. Well, maybe that part wasn’t so bad, but now he was starting to feel chilled from the rain despite being hot earlier.

“I’ll go out and try to find our clothes,” Patrick volunteered, “and maybe see if I can get that window blocked. You stay in here.”

“I don’t know if you should go out there, either,” Parrish started to say, but Patrick ignored him, and cracked the door.

A sizeable tree branch flew through the window and cracked against the dresser. “Screw it,” Patrick said, slamming the door. “We better wait.”

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” Parrish said. He could only guess what the rest of the apartment looked like, and he wondered how his own home was holding up. Probably better than this, since it had withstood over a hundred and fifty years worth of natural disasters. And, his father had boarded it up and hurricane proofed it properly.

Patrick sighed, and opened the linen closet. “For now, we I guess we have our choice of dirty clothes out of the hamper or fresh towels. What will it be?”

Parrish spied Patrick’s terry cloth bath robe, and asked for that instead, while Patrick pulled on a worn pair sweatpants from the laundry. They huddled together on the bathroom rug, wrapped in some spare blankets. “Not too comfortable, huh?” Patrick said.

“At least we’re safe.” Or so he hoped. He wasn’t that uncomfortable now, in Patrick’s arms with his head against his shoulder.

Patrick touched his cheek. “Let me see if I can close up that cut.” He had some butterfly type Band-aids he’d bought when he’d cut himself with a kitchen knife, but didn’t want to bother going for stitches. Maybe one of those would hold the wound together enough so that it wouldn’t scar. Parrish held out his hand to take the Band-aid from him, but Patrick insisted on putting it on him himself, since he could see what he was doing better.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, resting but unable to sleep.

“I think it’s quieting down,” Patrick said finally. “We must be in the eye of the storm now.”

They ventured out into the bedroom in the eerie silence. Leaves, broken glass, clothes, and bed linen were scattered all over the room. “Be careful,” Patrick warned. He picked up a sneaker, and shook out the debris, but decided it was too wet and might still have some broken glass in it. “I’ll find us some shoes, and then we’ll see about boarding up the window.”

He found some reasonably dry clothes and shoes in the closet, and they dressed quickly. Patrick’s shoes were a little too big for Parrish, and the shorts a bit baggy, but they would do. He scrounged his own wet clothes from around the room and tossed them in the bathroom, wondering what on earth Patrick thought he was going to board the window with.

“That’s the only window that’s broken,” Patrick announced, emerging from the living area with a small tool box. “Help me get the bedroom door off, and we’ll use that to board the window.”

“Do you think we should cover the other windows, too?” Parrish asked, holding the flashlight while Patrick worked.

“I don’t know if we’ll have enough time or enough doors.” They decided not to nail it, but instead propped it up against the broken window, and pushed the heavy walnut bed against it to hold it in place. “If that doesn’t hold, we’re really in trouble.” Patrick commented. “Let’s try to get the closet door off and use it to cover the living room window.”

They barely had time to get it in front of the window and push the couch over it when they heard the roaring starting to come back. Parrish estimated that maybe half an hour to forty minutes had gone by. They raced around grabbing some cushions from the couch, another flashlight, a battery operated radio, and Patrick’s watch from the bedroom floor (waterproof and still ticking, fortunately) before barricading themselves in the bathroom again, not wanting to risk staying in the living room since some of the windows were still uncovered.

Parrish looked at the watch. Almost one o’clock in the morning. “Long night,” he commented. He was exhausted, but adrenalin kept him awake. “What’s wrong with the radio? Batteries dead?”

“It’s not the batteries.” Patrick pushed it away in frustration. “Dead air. All the local stations are down.”

“Try the a.m. stations?”

Eventually, they tuned into one from Atlanta which kept them updated on the situation, and made them feel less alone. They were more comfortable now on their makeshift bed of cushions and blankets, drier, and more secure, but outside the storm escalated to even worse than before, the sound like an infernal freight train bearing down on them.

“I wonder how all our friends at the Sumner are doing,” Parrish said. “I don’t think I could take it if anyone else got hurt.” Especially Jamie. The director had opened the studio as a shelter for the dancers and their families, but they were probably being hit as hard as everyone else. At least they were farther away from any flood zones. Still, he had a horrible mental image of one of those ancient oaks smashed through the roof of the former plantation.

“They’re probably all smarter than us and got the hell out of Dodge,” said Patrick. “How about we try to conserve these batteries and get some sleep?” He turned off the flashlight and radio, and they settled in for the night, drifting in and out of a troubled slumber.

*****

Owen reacted just the way Tracy had predicted. There was no way he could be convinced to leave and miss the spectacle. But instead of ‘we’ll make it through’, his comments were more ominous: “This could be my last one, so I want to see it,” and “What do I have to lose, anyway?” He even encouraged Tracy to leave on his own, but Tracy wouldn’t even consider it. Even if Owen had been perfectly healthy, he wouldn’t have left town without him. As it was, someone was going to have to make sure he took his medication, and it was unlikely the nurse was going to able to get to him tomorrow, maybe even longer. Edwin had shown Tracy how to administer the ganciclovir IV, and left him a detailed set of instructions, but he was still nervous about having to do it. Owen insisted that he’d been through the procedure enough times that he could do it himself, but Tracy didn’t want to leave it up to him.

The two of them were renting a carriage house behind the elegant three storey Charleston single house owned by Tracy’s boss, salon owner Roderick, and his longtime partner George, a retired English professor. Unfortunately, the two older men were just as stubborn as Owen, and also refused to consider evacuating. Instead, a compromise was made, and the four of them planned to ride out the storm together in the main house. Together, Tracy and Roderick boarded up the windows on both houses, and made sure they were stocked up on batteries, flashlights, fresh water and emergency supplies. Earlier in the day, before the rain became steady, Tracy transferred all of Owen’s medical supplies to the main house.

“Do you mind if I go on over awhile?” Owen asked, as Tracy packed their overnight bag full of last minute items they might need.

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a couple minutes,” Tracy answered, rummaging through the dresser drawers in search of a particular nightshirt. He inventoried everything again. Nightclothes, clean clothes for the next day, slippers, toiletries, flashlights. He double checked that he’d gotten all of Owen’s meds and supplies, and the instructions for the IV. Windows were secure, everything was turned off, and appliances were unplugged. Everything seemed to be in order. He’d almost forgotten the bottle of port he’d bought to thank Rod and George for their hospitality. Maybe they would even open it that night, although Tracy wasn’t sure it was a good idea to be tipsy in the midst of a natural disaster. Rod and George seemed to be treating it more like a party, however.

When he was certain he had everything in hand, he opened the closet and reached for his raincoat-- but there were two raincoats instead. “Owen?” he called out, but the house was quiet. Afraid that Owen had passed out somewhere, Tracy made a quick search of the place. No, he had definitely gone, probably thinking the short walk across the courtyard wasn’t worth the trouble of putting on the coat, although the rain was coming down stronger by the minute. Either that, or he’d just forgotten. He’d seemed a little absent minded lately, which Tracy hoped wasn’t a sign of something more ominous. He knew that what Owen feared most was dementia, and Tracy didn’t think he could cope with seeing him decline that way, either. He would probably need full time care, and Tracy wouldn’t be able to stay home with him constantly. Nurse visits twice a day wouldn’t be nearly enough. There was hospice…Tracy pushed the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t go down that path right now. There was a more immediate crisis at hand.

He put on his coat, and grabbed Owen’s along with the overnight satchel. Pulling the hood over his head, he dashed through the gusty, rain soaked garden to the back door of the Ford-Whitney House. Inside, warm golden light glowed invitingly. “Getting pretty wild out there,” Roderick remarked, ushering Tracy in the door. “Owen better hurry up before it gets any worse.”

“He’s not here?” Tracy froze, his raincoat half unbuttoned. Roderick shook his head.

Heart pounding, Tracy ran back out into the garden. The rain was lashing him mercilessly now, the sky darkening. He had to remain calm. The garden was small, and it was a straight walk to the house. There was not much ground to cover if he didn’t allow himself to panic. Owen must have collapsed somewhere in the immediate area, maybe behind some shrubbery or hidden by one of the dense magnolia trees.

Now Roderick and George were outside as well, and Tracy near tears with desperation. He pleaded with them to go back inside, not wanting to let them put themselves in danger, too. He considered the possibility that Owen had gone back to the carriage house, and by some bizarre coincidence they’d missed each other, but it was unlikely. The house was still dark, and he hadn’t thought to check if Owen had taken his keys.

He made his way onto the deserted sidewalk, where palmetto trees swayed and bent, and traffic lights were whipped about like toys. Eyes adjusting to the diminishing light, he peered down the street in the direction of the battery, where one feeble form staggered in the distance, against the force of the gale. There was no doubt in his mind that it was Owen.

He sprinted down the street fueled on fear and adrenalin, gasping and choking on the rain, his lungs burning in protest. He caught up with the figure, and grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. “What are you doing? What are you doing?” he shouted, shaking him as if to wake him from a nightmare.

When Owen turned around, instead of the blankness and confusion Tracy expected to see, there was a hardness and determination in his eyes. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t resist when Tracy took off his own coat and wrapped it around him, and nearly crushed him in his arms. He felt Tracy’s body shaking, wracked with soundless sobbing. Then he allowed himself to be led back to the house, without protest.

Their friends were overcome with relief to see them safe, but Tracy was unable, and Owen unwilling to give an explanation, so they didn’t force the issue. They gave them some bath towels, and directed them to one of the spare bedrooms to get changed, and left them alone to work things out.

“You need to get dry,” Tracy said, holding out the towel. Owen stared back at him, unresponsive. Now Tracy was beginning to doubt the lucidity he was sure he saw in his eyes earlier. He undressed him and dried him himself, and helped him into some warm, comfortable clothes.

“I’m tired,” Owen said, and curled up on one of the antique chairs while Tracy changed clothes.

“Are you going to tell me what you were doing out there?”

“Don’t be mad.” He closed his eyes and turned away wearily.

“I’m not mad. I just want to know why…why you got lost.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

“So you’re saying you went out there on purpose? You were halfway to the Battery wall!”

“Look, I’m sorry I scared you. Let’s just not talk about it anymore. Can I just go to sleep for awhile?”

“I’d prefer it if you’d come out in the living room with us. You can take a nap there, if you want.”

“You don’t have to watch me every second, you know. I’m not crazy,” Owen protested, but he still complied.

Tracy wasn’t sure it mattered at the moment whether Owen had known what he was doing, or not. He still wanted him within sight. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and was in danger of escalating to a fight, so he would drop it for now. But would it be worth it to try to get him to promise it would never happen again? Even if he did, and meant it, it wouldn’t guarantee things wouldn’t change in the future. So either he’d honestly gotten confused and was now covering up—after all, he’d tried to hide it from Tracy that he was losing his eyesight-- or he’d purposely gone out towards the seawall for reasons Tracy didn’t even want to contemplate. Part of him was just angry that Owen had shown so little regard for his feelings by disappearing like that.

Out in the living room, they tried to affect some semblance of normalcy around their friends, turning their attention back to the weather reports on television, after Tracy hooked Owen up to his evening IV. After awhile, Owen fell asleep in the recliner, and George tenderly covered him with an afghan. The weather situation looked brighter for awhile, but then the storm turned its fury back on them. By ten thirty, the power cut off, and the camping lanterns were switched on. Tracy, Rod, and George opened the bottle of port, played euchre by the dim light and listened to the radio turned down low, while Owen dozed in the same room. At times, they were startled by loud crashes from falling trees and flying debris, but there was nothing they could do but wait, as long as the sturdy old house stayed in one piece. When the eye arrived, three of them, minus Owen, ventured out into the garden to survey the damage. They couldn’t get very far because of the downed tree limbs, and the danger of live power lines on the ground, but as far as they could tell, the house hadn’t sustained any major structural damage, although some roof shingles littered the ground. They couldn’t see all the way to the carriage house in the pitch dark, but could make out its vague outline enough to see it was still standing, and no trees had crashed through the roof.

Roderick and George decided to turn in for the night and see if they could catch any sleep before the fury started up again. Tracy decided he would camp out in the living room instead of the spare bedroom, so he wouldn’t have to wake up Owen or leave him there alone. If Owen woke up later, and wanted to move to the bedroom, they would.

In the morning, they realized how lucky they’d been that all they would have to deal with was minor repairs and a lot of landscaping work. Many of the city streets were impassable, and entire houses were destroyed. Several people lost their lives, and Tracy tried not to think about how close Owen had come to being one of them. Tracy had never seen destruction like this, and Rod and George declared it was worse than Hurricane Gracie in nineteen fifty nine.

There was no way of knowing when the power would come back on. Probably not for several days, maybe even a week or more, so there wasn’t much to do besides start cleaning up. It would be a long time before things returned to normal. One storm was behind them, but Tracy knew that the worst was yet to come.

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