The key arrived today. It was taped to a yellowed index card and mailed in a manila envelope stuffed with official looking documents and a letter from D.
The envelope cost $5.84 to mail. Five dollars and 84 cents worth of 1, 3, 5, 8, 22, and 44-cent stamps, each commemorating an author or environmentalist D admired. They marched across the right hand side of the envelope in neat, orderly rows, each stamp aligned with its neighbors. I ran my fingers over the colorful images, reading each name aloud: Audubon, John Muir, Chief Joseph, Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Rachel Carlson. I imagined him bent over his desk, his smudged bifocals sliding down his bony nose as he flipped through the pages of his collection and chose the stamps he knew I’d love.
I put the envelope on the kitchen counter and opened the package carefully, sliding the edge of a paring knife beneath the flap and drawing it across the top. Inside I found a sheaf of legal documents, the index card with the key, and another letter-sized envelope with my name scrawled in D’s nearly illegible handwriting across the front. I set the legal documents and the key aside and opened the letter. Inside was a handwritten letter with a Polaroid clipped to the top.
In the photo, taken the day they adopted Bentley (a flop-eared, 90 lb shepherd mix), D and Richard are standing in front of the entrance to the animal shelter with their arms around each another. Richard - a stocky, 5’9” Creole-Native American mix with wavy black hair worn to his waist - is wearing a relaxed and goofy smile. He leans shirtless and tan beneath his clay-spotted overalls into D’s side. Beside him D, always more reserved and formal, is standing straight and tall, looking directly into the camera. He’s dressed in the summer version of his “academic uniform,” a white, short-sleeved dress shirt, pressed slacks, and tasseled leather loafers. They both look absurdly pleased with themselves and Bentley, who is so excited he can’t stop spinning in circles. I’m behind the camera, trying to get him to sit still long enough to press the shutter.
The date (08/12/85), written in D’s spidery scrawl in the bottom right corner, is two days after Richard’s diagnosis and just a few weeks before the specter of full-blown AIDS would overtake their lives.
I set the photo carefully aside and opened the letter.
Hey Kiddo,
Remember this photo? It’s hard to believe so much time has passed
I’m writing to you down by the boat dock with Bentley curled at my bare feet. His younger self would have had the zoomies, splashing through the shallows, plunging his muzzle beneath the surface trying to catch the minnows darting past. He always looked surprised when all he got was a snout full of water. He’d lift his head, snort, sneeze, and bark with frustration. Then he’d be at it again. I swear I could hear the frogs in the nearby cattails laughing.
These days he is content to observe the unfolding drama from a distance, only lifting his head when a particularly noisy bullfrog bellows his passion. As I write, I run my toes up and down his rough-coated spine. When I find an especially good spot he groans and wags his tail. It’s a pleasant way to spend the afternoon as daylight fades to dusk.
All this descriptive prose is just procrastination. There are some things I want/need to say to you. Though I won’t be around to experience your pain, it still bothers me to cause it. Enough said. Here goes.
You are receiving this envelope because I croaked. Put more colorfully, I gave up the ghost, bit the big one, kicked the bucket, and am now dead as a door nail. Were I religiously inclined I might add that I’ve gone to meet my maker, but you and I both know that would be a laughable lie. I much prefer Mary Oliver’s take on the whole thing:
“As for death,
I can’t wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?”
How I love that poem. Richard and I used to take turns reading it aloud to one another on the boat ride to the house. One would row, the other read. I hope you will carry on the tradition and look for me amongst the scarlet flowers.
Which brings me to the next and more pressing topic - The Key. As the tag implies it opens the padlock on the gate at the Light House, which now belongs to you. Before you do that thing you do - recoiling in horror (cue eye roll) and running for the nearest exit whenever anyone tries to give you something (a compliment, concert tickets, a book of poetry) you should know that this is a done deal. The amount of time and trouble involved in ridding yourself of this gift would be both monumental and wasteful. Also unnecessary. If the idea of spending time at the Light House truly offends or upsets you, then do nothing. The property will be maintained and all tax obligations met for five years. If, at the end of that time, you still haven’t accepted ownership, the property will become a nature preserve run by the state. Either way, all expenses will be covered by the R&D Trust I set up (see the enclosed documents). It’s up to you - truly.
Now let’s talk about our little project. My abrupt departure has no doubt thrown a monkey wrench into the whole thing, but I believe you have enough to not only finish but expand on the idea as well. As much as I’ve enjoyed being your test case, and so the focus of your attention over the past few years, I am acutely aware that my own story is just a fragment of the larger narrative. To date, 40.4 million versions of this story have been lived. Another 45.7 million are still unfolding. I hope that the story of how I lived and loved - what got me out of bed in the mornings and kept me going even in the face of THE diagnosis will embolden others to do the same.
To that end, I’ve left some small gifts for you. They are tucked into the nooks and crannies of my life at the Light House and should delight the story-sleuth in you. My solicitor, Oscar Feldman (name and number at the top of the legal docs), has a complete list, though not the locations. That’s all for now dear Maddy. Please know that the choice to leave was not an easy one and that you were and always will be in my heart.
Be well,
D
P.S. If you can find it in your heart to look in on Casey occasionally, I would be grateful. He’s such a great kid and could use a friend who “gets” him. Take him to the Light House, show him the critters, teach him to love the trees and himself.
I laughed and ugly cried my way through the letter two more times before sliding it back into the envelope with the legal documents and shoving the whole package into the bottom drawer of my desk. “Out of sight, out of mind,” I said to myself. Yeah right.
Copyright 2023 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
NOTES
This is Part I of the story of a man who lived with HIV. It was originally conceived and built in 2009 in the virtual world of Second Life where it was possible to invite visitors into the character’s world - to allow they to learn about him by interacting with elements from his life. For example, they could walk into his home, read his journals, play with his dog, explore the land and critters around his house, etc. In this way they were able to collect and piece together his story while coming to understand and care about him as a person rather than just a diagnosis.
Stigma, stereotypes, and fear continue to be huge problems when it comes to the diagnosis and treatment of HIV, despite the availability of life saving drugs. My goal in recreating this project (both in virtual space and here on Substack) is to share information and the touching stories of those who lived and are now living with HIV.
I will be taking and sharing both photos and videos of the the build, so those who do not want to go into virtual space can get a real sense of what it’s like. Down the road, I will be offering projects that will allow you to take part in and contribute to the the project. This is going to be fun :-) Please spread the word.
I also cheerfully accept one-time donations. Just click on the donate button below to be taken to my PayPal page. Thank you!
Copyright 2023 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
You reach out, Jenna, your touch is firm and gentle, bringing curiosity, adventure. Thankyou. Peace, Maurice
I don't use PayPal. Any other way to donate?