Letters

To Derek’s parents:

        I know that you’re going through a terrible time right now, and I wish I could find the words to ease some of your suffering. I can only say that your family is always in my thoughts.

        Unfortunately, I must let you know that recently I had some troubling news. The “friends” Malcolm directed me to in London told me that he has a history of con artistry, and that he’s not to be trusted. Now, I have no idea how true these claims are since his “friends” Michael and Charles do not seem to be the most stable people in the world themselves. Nevertheless, when they heard that Malcolm had “lost his briefcase in London” and “worked for the Queen as a director of military pageants,” they both laughed. They said the “house” which Malcolm “owns” in Scotland and which I saw last summer is actually a property entrusted to Malcolm on the condition he act as its caretaker during its renovation. His “work” for the Queen, according to Michael and Charles, was in a minor, subordinate role like third assistant chef or something. When they heard Malcolm was watching over Derek, they both said “keep an eye on him.”

        Malcolm seems to have genuine feelings for Derek and wants to care for him, and there’s no real crime in exaggerating one’s accomplishments, but that doesn’t mean that Malcolm couldn’t be up to something. I know that one of the reasons Derek is hanging on to his life is his hope of making a life with Malcolm, so this is a delicate situation. I don’t think Malcolm has the power to do anyone much harm as long as no one falls for his tall tales like I did. Besides, I only have it on the words of his “friends” that he’s not telling the truth. I wanted to let you know what I heard so that you’ll be sure to treat him with caution. I know that Malcolm has been diagnosed as HIV+, and he doesn’t seem to be doing very well himself. I don’t believe he’s trying to use your family to get rich or anything so devious. I believe he cares about Derek and doesn’t know how to communicate without lying because that’s what he’s always had to do to survive. Perhaps if he’s confronted, he will open up, or perhaps if he’s denied financial support he’ll show his true colors, whatever those may be.

        I wish I could offer something more concrete, but this is all I’ve learned. I wanted to let you know as soon as I found out because my first concern is for your family in its currently vulnerable situation.

        I want you to know how moved I was by our time together in Florida. It’s sad that it takes such a drastic event to bring people together. Please tell Derek that I send my love. It’s probably best not to let him know about this letter since it would add a lot of stress to his current situation. But I will let you handle the details as you think best. I hope, likewise, that you can find a way to confront Malcolm without telling him it was my letter that “exposed” him. I don’t have any hard feelings towards him, I’m just sad that things had to happen the way they did. He must be very frightened to be sick in a foreign country and in love with someone who is even sicker than he is. He seems to think that he needs to make his past into something of monumental importance when it was probably not as respectable as he would have liked it to be. I cannot imagine what I would do were I in his shoes. Nevertheless, I must first think of my dear friend Derek and his family, whether Malcolm is “innocent” or not, because I cannot take a chance reading his intentions.

        Please call or write if there’s anything more I can do from this end, and please update me on Derek’s condition. I send all my love.

        That’s the kind of letter that I wish in retrospect I could have sent. I had neither the time nor foresight to write it. I don’t remember what exactly I ended up writing (with a ball point pen on a sheet of tissue-thin air mail paper), but it was much shorter, summarizing where it should have explained.

        I called Florida first to be sure Derek’s father understood what was coming. “I’ll take care of it, Don,” he said, unflinching.

        I sent a similar letter to Jeff, Derek’s childhood friend who was attending to Derek along with Malcolm.

        I sent letters to Derek too. I tried to stay cheerful, neutral. I tried thinking of what he needed to hear. There wasn’t anything left to say that meant anything. I tried to be careful, but I wasn’t careful enough.

        I was desperate to get out of Charles’ apartment after my first week. Besides the loud music and cheap drugs, the strung-out kid who’d come home with us on New Year’s Day had moved in, rent-free. I heard him on the telephone at three a.m. one morning, threatening his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend: “I’ll blow ‘yer knees off, ‘yah bah-sted.” I got ready to bail out. At the London Lesbian & Gay Centre’s café, between job leads, I met Jean-Luc, a French refugee with a Franco-Cockney accent and a room to rent.

        The next day, I told Charles I was moving out. He blew up and threatened me with everything from “calling the Queen’s authorities” to physical violence. He held half of my baggage hostage until I could settle a bill he’d dreamed up for £80. I called Jean-Luc from a card phone with half of my luggage in tow; then I crossed London on the Underground from Surrey to the City and from the City to the East End, where I moved in with my new roommate.

        The next day, I went back to buy back my other bag. The punk kid gave me his black cross: “Wan’ life in’t so good, ya’ ju’ kiss ‘er an’ ya’ say, God bless, and it’ll all work out fer da’ be-ah.”

        Once I’d settled into Jean-Luc’s flat, I called Jeff in Florida. Malcolm knew everything and was pissed. Jeff had spilled the beans: “I figured it was best to go to him directly and find out what he had to say for himself.” Derek was mad. Malcolm was threatening to “call his solicitors.” No one understood what he meant by that, but it sounded very British and imposing.

        It was January. London was black. It drizzled for three months. Three months without Dan. Three months without knowing what was happening on the other side of the ocean. Three months without being able to write an open, honest letter to anyone.

        I wrote a couple of get well notes to Derek. Nothing more was possible. I didn’t know what he knew of Malcolm, how bad his pain had become, what his parents were allowing him to be exposed to…

        I diverted my attention to my relationship with Dan. At the end of March, he came to London. We made love. The nostalgic longing, which had pulled us through three months of separation, became flesh and blood. We flew back to New York, packed up our things and moved to San Francisco. We set up our nest on Nob Hill and found jobs.

        Only then did I call Florida again. Derek could talk now. He was out of the hospital and back in his apartment in a wheelchair. Jeff, who’d become Derek’s personal nurse, told me something about Malcolm rolling Derek into leather bars where he fist-fucked guys while still seated in his chair. I tried not to visualize that.

        Derek asked me to plead Malcolm’s case to his family. I told him I didn’t have an opinion about Malcolm, that I’d only repeated what I’d heard, that I wasn’t going to retract my doubts since I still had them.

        He told me it was only the drugs keeping him alive now. The morphine, but also the XTC, LSD,… Having tried LSD twice myself, I couldn’t imagine existing on the stuff. What must have been his perception of “reality” at that point?

        He said he didn’t give a fuck about the guy he’d killed in the car crash: “I have no morals. I don’t give a damn about that guy or his family. Just tell my parents you’re sorry about what you said about Malcolm. They’ll listen to you ’cause they trust you. It’s been hard, Don. They won’t give Malcolm anything, and he can’t work here …”

        “But if he’s so honest, Derek, why does he need to threaten me? Why doesn’t he get all his fabulous contacts in London to testify? I only told your parents what I heard from his friends.”

        “He showed me the pictures of him riding with the Queen, Don, so I know he’s not lying.”

        “Well let him show the pictures to your parents and leave me out of it.”

        I could throw in the cliché about Derek being dead to me at that point. The Derek I knew had died long ago. Blah blah. Truly, it was impossible for me to connect the dry, drugged voice on the other end of that long cable to an image of someone that had something to do with my life or even with life in general. Could I believe that this whole story was being played out in my life with people I had once made love to? Could Derek really be rolling around leather bars with a urine sack tied on the side of his metal chair, his broken body propped up by the same pair of pale British hands that had touched me years ago in Scotland?

        Derek’s declaration of amorality did nothing to repulse me. It was just the final, predictable line of dialogue in that tired play that was his short life. He would die the Devil, erasing all blame from his family, from society, from the systems of education, religion and belief that had created him. Good caring parents. Bad drugged-out homo friends.

        There was no one to blame. The events had just fallen into place: Derek’s parents made money. They gave some of it to their son. Their son liked men’s bodies better than girls’ bodies. They tried to forget about that. They drank to forget about him and the other disappointments life had dealt them. Derek felt bad they were drinking. He felt he was the reason. They drank some more. They gave him more money because they didn’t know what else to give. He spent the money and danced for their attention. They gave him more money. He was a bad boy. The worse he was, the more they drank, and the less they communicated. The more everyone drank, the more they spent, the more they all drank, the more he blew in crashed cars and drugs, the more they drank, the less they talked about taking drugs to avoid talking about desires which made them all take drugs and trash the stuff they bought…

        In the mail one day, I received a large envelope with no return address. Inside were two sealed envelopes: one from Derek, one from Malcolm.

Dear Don,

        Just a quick line to give you the current scoop. It looks like ten years of probation with a plea of no contest is going to be the end result of my trial. A while after that I’m thinking of moving to Atlanta. I understand that by writing that letter about Malcolm to my parents you thought it was for my best interests. But I don’t think you realize the utter, fucking hell that that letter has caused my life and Malcolm’s life. You should’ve known from past experience with my parents that it would not only be Malcolm who suffered, but me as well. Now they are more ignorant and possessive than ever and will not listen to reason. With both me and Malcolm being HIV+, it has taken its toll on us both mentally and physically in a tremendous way. Gary thinks Malcolm is a bum and so does everyone else in my family and while I’m trying to build a new life with him, I have to deal with him not being allowed in my own home!, not getting any money from Gary except for food and bills which he pays for directly, and constantly having my intelligence insulted by a bunch of idiots who think they know what’s best for me. I don’t think you, personally, are an idiot, Don. But, I do feel you’ve made some idiotic choices in things that are none of your business in the first place and that has hurt a friend of yours in a very big way! So I am angry, yes, and want to make sure that you don’t stick your nose into matters without the proper facts first…not by way of rumors from a bunch of fags in a gay bar. If you are a true friend of mine, you’ll write to my parents and apologize, admit you were wrong because this is fucking killing us. If you don’t care to make good for someone who is a friend than I can’t say that any legal action against you isn’t well deserved. In anticipation of your understanding and cooperation.

        I thank you,

        Derek

Dear Mr. Bapst,

        I write in refrence to the letters you sent to Mr. & Mrs. Graves and various other people in regard to myself.

        I am disgusted with the content of these letters and that you had the auducity to mail them out. In doing so, you have made yourself liable for a law suit for slander.

        I have to advise you that unless I recive a written apoligy within twenty-eight days from the date of this letter, I will take the appropriate action. Further more, you should write a letter of apoligy to Mr. & Mrs. Graves and those parties that you wrote in reference to myself making slanderous remarks.

        The damage you have done demonstrates your naiveness and stupity. Those people in London to whom you spoke to are being delt with appropriately.

        I look forward to reciving you correspondance.

Yours Faithfully,

Malcolm

        It was summer, a few years later. I was visiting New York during the 25th anniversary of Stonewall. My mom left a message at Tim’s apartment in the Village: “Call me at once, I’ve got some bad news.” I called between dinner and an ACT UP meeting. She’d received a one a.m. call from Jeff who hadn’t made an effort to contact me in well over a year. Derek had died. She was too sleepy to ask the right questions, but she’d pushed him a little further: The funeral was already over. It had taken place down South (in Alabama?) and had been closed to anyone outside the family if she had understood right. Jeff had been in tears; he just wanted to talk to someone. I never called Jeff back.