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Sunday Journal: The summer of lessons in love
By Alice Graves, Special to the Times
Published February 24, 2008
It was the summer of 1970, the summer after my freshman year of college, my first summer away from home, and hands down the best summer of my young life. I truly believed I held the world in my pocket.
Michael and I practically lived together. Walking home from the subway station after my office job at MIT, I'd sometimes find him playing Frisbee on the Harvard quad with the guys. I'd wave, and he'd ditch them and walk home with me.
"What did you do today?" I'd ask.
"Played the guitar, watched the soaps, took a walk and joined the Frisbee game. I'm writing a song, but I can't play it for you until I'm done. How was your day?"
"I pushed papers from the in box to the out box. Then from the out box to the in box."
Michael, who seemed to have lots of money and no job, came for long, frequent visits. He would bring his guitar and sing Sisters of Mercy and Bird on the Wire while I and my summer roomie, Doris, created dinners of chopped veggies with brown rice. We baked brownies with a special ingredient Michael had brought from New York and drank Mateus from the bottle.
At night, Michael and I walked the narrow, tree-lined streets surrounding Harvard Yard. Michael was nearly a foot taller than I was, and the golden glow of the streetlamps obscured his face.
When there was a movie worth seeing, we went to Harvard Square, and then next door to Friendly's for ice cream cones. Or we'd browse the used book store until it closed after midnight. We always walked home, even in the rain.
One night we wandered into a coffee house. It was in the basement of a brownstone and so dark I could hardly read the menu. We ordered mint tea with honey and listened to a Joni Mitchell wanna-be sing folk songs. During the break, a woman dressed in silk scarves sewn together and wearing dangly earrings offered to read my palm for $5.
I couldn't afford to throw away $5 on a fortune-teller. I needed all my money for school. I shouldn't even have ordered the tea. But before I could say no, Michael jumped up and reached for his wallet.
She pulled up a chair to our tiny round table, held my hand in hers and showed me my life line and my heart line, both of which stretched across my palm.
"Are you in love?" she asked.
I looked at Michael, unsure of how to answer, when she cut in.
"You will be lucky in love and have a long and happy marriage." She showered me with compliments.
"You look like an artist," she said to me.
"I like to write. I write poetry."
Then she told me I would write many books. I would have lovely, intelligent children and live in a large house.
When she was finished, she added, "You are a beautiful couple."
She had said everything I wanted to hear, and even though I didn't believe a word of it, I wanted more than anything for it to be true.
- - -
Michael and I went to New York the first weekend in August for a Leonard Cohen concert at Forest Hills tennis stadium. This would be the icing on our perfect summer. We both loved Leonard Cohen, and Michael wanted to write songs like him.
We had seats about eight rows from the stage, and Michael and I held on tight to every lyric. After the concert we stood outside his trailer, waiting, hoping, for a few words with Leonard Cohen. Finally the door opened, and Leonard stepped out to greet his fans. Michael promptly introduced himself. Leonard looked from Michael to me and smiled. Mesmerized, I mumbled something incoherent. Michael and Leonard chatted for about five minutes about technical things - chord progressions, minor keys, flats and sharps. They sounded like old friends.
We walked home slowly, to keep the night from ending. It was a night to cherish life. It was also a night for confession.
"You know I really love you, Michael," I said.
"I love you, too, Alice. I love all my friends."
"No, I mean, like a boyfriend."
"I have to tell you something," he started. In a split second, a million things ran through my head: He was in love with another woman, he was moving to California like my last boyfriend, he never wanted to see me again.
"I'm gay."
"Since when?"
"I've always been gay. I was born gay. It's only just become clear to me."
Suddenly a chill was in the air. The sky was crystal clear, the stars so bright it seemed possible to grab one.
"How could you be gay? You've always dated girls."
"I struggled for a long time."
"Are you in love with anyone?" I forced myself to ask. I wanted to be the one in his life.
"I wish I were."
We walked the rest of the way home with his arm around my shoulders. When we got to my house, he kissed me.
- - -
August drew to a close, and I prepared, reluctantly, to go back to school. I had no choice. The girl whose room I had rented would soon return. So I packed the big plaid suitcase my mother got redeeming Green Stamps, and Michael rode with me to the Greyhound station in Boston. Afterward, he would get back on the T and head for Logan, and wait for the next seat on the Eastern shuttle to LaGuardia.
At the bus station, I stood on tiptoe to give Michael a proper hug. He kissed my cheek and said, "I hope you fall in love."
"I hope you do, too," I said. And I wanted more than anything to mean it.
Alice Graves is a writer in St. Petersburg.
[Last modified February 22, 2008, 17:08:53]
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