Chapter Four
The old farmhouse on Quinns Way looked smaller, more worn-out than the one in the childhood photos Tom had shown him. Ezekiel examined the neglected structure, unsure of what made the place appear so different. Was it the absence of the sepia colored fields that had surrounded the house in Tom’s photographs? Or was it the newer houses behind the Hubbard house, with their fences, trees, manicured shrubbery and smooth driveways, which made the old place, situated high on a rise of land, look more like a relic than a livable house? Either way, the peeling, white-painted, two-story building with the strange yet formal portico that jutted out of the front appeared much smaller than Ezekiel had expected. Smaller, anyway, than the youthful exaggerations Tom had shared with him over intimate dinners or casual, long Sunday afternoon walks.
Studying the rundown farmhouse now, in the dismal, gray daylight, Ezekiel felt even more distant from his partner than during the funeral or the burial. Looking at the old place through the rain-spotted windshield of the rented car produced a hollow feeling in him, a feeling that resembled a loss of faith, or hope, or even dreams. It was a feeling that Ezekiel, at forty-five years old, thought he was far too young to experience.
He watched as other mourners parked and then walked up the long, circular driveway.
On the passenger’s seat, Ezekiel had placed a small knapsack full of memorabilia, photographs that he hoped to share with Tom’s family. He reached for the bag and pulled out a picture of Tom and himself standing arm in arm, wearing funky Hawaiian shirts on a beach in Puerto Rico—their first trip together. Right beneath was another photo Ezekiel had taken the morning before Tom last reported for active duty. There was Tom, handsome and trim in his desert fatigues, still blonde at thirty-seven, unshaven and mocking the camera, his square jaw protruding as he stood in their kitchen holding a frying pan as if it were an assault rifle. The next photo featured Tom and Ezekiel on the front lawn of their small house in Arlington, Virginia. It was taken shortly after they had purchased the place. Tom jokingly cradled the “For Sale” sign like a baby in his arms.
Using his index finger, Ezekiel traced Tom’s image over the clear plastic sleeve that protected the photograph. He was a beautiful man. Tom had meant the world to him.
Tears filled his eyes as the long black limousine that carried Tom’s family rolled by and turned up the curve of the driveway. People who had waited outside for the family’s arrival now stepped back, creating an aisle that led under the portico to the front door. The rise of the unkempt lawn and the standing crowd obstructed his view somewhat, but Ezekiel, even from where his car was parked on the road’s shoulder, could still see well enough. The tears flowed harder as he waited for his partner’s family to step out of the limousine. He had never even met them.
Earlier in the day, when the family was leaving the church, Ezekiel had struggled with the emotional burden that went along with honoring Tom’s decision to keep their relationship a secret from his family. From a distance, Ezekiel had watched the family descend the church steps. Mrs. Hubbard was in the middle, Elizabeth in the forefront, Jon a step behind with an umbrella. They appeared to be supporting Mrs. Hubbard, holding her up by the arms. As he watched, questions plagued Ezekiel: Shouldn’t I be helping her? Wasn’t I the closest to her son? Wasn’t it my job as her son’s partner to be next to her in that procession?
Then, as the television cameras receded and the hearse pulled away from the church with the family’s limousine following closely behind, Ezekiel’s feelings shifted and he felt the weight of guilt. Am I responsible for Mrs. Hubbard losing her son? After all, wasn’t I the one who had kissed Tom goodbye the morning he reported for active duty? Shouldn’t I have tried harder to influence Tom to refuse to go? Convince him to go AWOL? Become a Conscientious Objector?
Later, at the gravesite, instead of asking himself fruitless questions, Ezekiel yearned for the family’s acceptance. During the burial ceremony he admired his should-be mother-in-law. She stood stolidly in black—the proud, grieving mother of a fallen hero. Taps played, and tucked under her arm was the triangle of the folded American flag from her son’s coffin. Ezekiel wished he could stand next to her and be included in her thoughts and feelings, as she was in his.
Now, after the ride from the gravesite to the Hubbard Farmhouse, parked in his rented car across the street, Ezekiel watched Elizabeth and Jon as they stood beside the limousine under the portico by the front door of the house. They turned to greet the visitors. And although Ezekiel could only see them from their shoulders up—Elizabeth’s black hair and manicured features, and Jon’s dark hair and the shadow of his heavy eyebrows—Ezekiel was struck by how similar the scene appeared to a photo Tom had shown him of his sister’s wedding seven years earlier. Even though it had been impossible for them to invite Ezekiel—because Tom had never even told them that he existed—he was the one, not Tom, who had bought the newlyweds the set of fancy carving knives and then had the knife handles engraved with their wedding date. Tom had only delivered the gift. And over the years it was he, not Tom, who sent the congratulation cards and flowers upon the births of Elizabeth and Jon’s children. It was also he, not Tom, who entered the children’s birthdates into a date book every year and faithfully got Tom to sign and mail a card along with a small gift. And it was he, not Tom, who proudly hung Elizabeth and Jon’s family holiday photo on the refrigerator each year, and lovingly mailed one of Tom in return.
When Mrs. Hubbard emerged from the limousine, Ezekiel’s eyes grew wide and he had to gulp down a tear. He had not noticed it before; maybe she hadn’t worn it earlier? Mrs. Hubbard had wrapped a black shawl around her shoulders and covered her head with it like a hood. Ezekiel could clearly see the shawl’s distinct and familiar gold fringe. He had picked out that shawl himself, paid for it and brought it home for Tom to send to his mother. At the time, Tom was tense, distracted, preoccupied with the pressure of returning to the war. Ezekiel remembered their argument about the gift and how Tom had told him to butt out of his family matters, that his mother didn’t need another shawl. Ezekiel, however, was determined that he knew better. In the end, Ezekiel got his way, and, as usual, Tom signed his name on the card.
The day before Tom left for the war, Ezekiel wrapped the shawl and shipped it in time for Mrs. Hubbard’s last birthday.
Now, seeing the shawl wrapped around Mrs. Hubbard’s shoulders, Ezekiel grew angry at having agreed with Tom to keep their partnership a secret from this family. He cared about these people, yet they remained clueless to his very existence. Now, with Tom gone, he longed for their acceptance and support. It isn’t fair. I was the one, not Tom, who had kept contact with this family. Why should I be forced to be so alone today?
He watched as Mrs. Hubbard held on to Elizabeth and Jon’s hands as they guided her through the small crowd and into the farmhouse.
Hidden in his car, Ezekiel felt like some big, black, gay freak who loved this little white family