

I remember when Russell came home the first time. A Sunday afternoon.
The occasion was a homecoming for me too—one more of a zillion homecoming - from - the - hospital parties. Pardon me — brunches and openhouses.
This time my hospital stay had been necessitated by an eye infection that went berserk. Every half hour, for six days and seven nights, ceaseless nurses put two different super-potent antibiotic drops in my left eye. It was perfect medical management: the mild madness of sleep depravation kept me from realizing how brutal a hit the rest of my body was taking from the toxicity of the antibiotics. Before I could object, my eye was saved.
Sixteen weeks until I was up and around again. Not what I would call being in the loop.
Back to Russell.
I love every homecoming party I have ever been to. I never counted to find out how many. I have liked them all, first for the obvious reason: my ability to attend. Second: I like the rite of passage the homecomings have become.
I love the flowers everyone brings.
In the weeks following any return from the hospital, my place will be afloat in flowers. Brilliant yellows, hot reds, lavenders, rose whites and leafy greens. Perfume in the air. It’s like Spring is a houseguest.
I love the flowers. I contemplate them, and stay with them as they wilt, and droop, and turn brown, and gather bits of mold. They never really die. Someone else always throws them out and cleans the vases. I can’t bear to.
Back to Russell and the homecoming.
The crisis had passed. The watch was over.
Come to me, all my Watchers, you who were at your posts these six days, seven nights and more, come to me. I felt your vigilance, I felt your readiness to live or die as I did, I felt your prayers like smoke, your restless nights by my bed or in your own. Come to me. Come close. Stand next to me a moment, and together let us observe life slithering along toward better. The watch is ended; the peril past; return to your own ways with my gratitude, which burns like my tears.
Russell was one of the watchers this time.
So was Sam.
So was Ruth.
So was Saint Lillian.
So was Emmie Lou.
Russell was late, of course. He appeared to be in danger of missing the party.
We were the last ones, winding it down, waiting for him. They’d never met him.
Sam. Blonde, tall, skinny, Hamptons chic, with a deep, rich, expressive voice honed from a lifetime of theater. Sam and I lived together for five years. I haven’t gotten over him.
Before I came home, Sam and Saint Lillian stopped by my apartment to clean. Sam did my laundry. Sam is the best folder of clean clothes in the known universe. Even underpants. Even Speedos. Even teeny, silky, sexy, zippered and strapped stuff, the folding challenges.
Folded to perfection. Corners sharp as thorn, like the poet says.
Ruth. Ruth is the Rita Hayworth of Southwestern Unreformed Episcopal University. Drove an Audi Turbo TT at the time. My ex-wife. Chair of the English Department, and therefore my boss. A soul of adamantine brilliance, diamond durable. My shelter and refuge. Long, chestnut red hair this day. Clear lucite spiked heels that cheered me up tremendously.
Emily. Emmie Lou. Emmie. Interchangeable names. Emily was my healer, my acupuncturist. Her mentoring was part of my healing. She was dressed in an amazing floor-length tailored tunic that looked like it had been designed by Calvin Klein. Grey outside. White underneath. “Can’t genius be fascinated by madness without chasing after it?” she asked me when I first talked with her about Russell. Here she was, to be supportive, to see for herself. And she’d never met Saint Lillian before.
Saint Lillian. One of the original LA boon companions. Saw me with Ed back at the 1979 writer’s workshop. Saw me move to LA. Saw my marriage to Ruth. Saw me with Jeff. Saw me leave Ruth and move in with Sam. Saw me break up with Sam. Liked Emily. Now, she was waiting to meet Russell. I confessed to her: I was as close to being in love with him as you can get without actually saying it out loud.
Saint Lillian came to me in the hospital. She hated hospitals. As a kid, she’d watched her family die in hospitals. She warned me, often, that she didn’t visit hospitals anymore. Ever. She came to me despite.
Russell came to me in the hospital also. I don’t know how he made himself do it, he was terrified of all things medical. Russell had AIDS with me, but refused to go to doctors, have blood tests, Take Steps. His cure and his refuge were in crystal meth. The only time Russell needed me to take him to the hospital, he went into hiding, and it was three days before I could bring him in. He wouldn’t get his own meds, but would take anything of mine that I would let him. Or beg him to take.
Anyway.
His timing was perfect.
We’d started to pack the party up, speculating about why he’d failed to show. “He’ll be here sooner than you think,” Emmie said, without revealing her sources.
There came a crash of garden pottery from the patio. He was here. He’d probably been sitting out there for the last fifteen minutes listening to us. Russell could never resist making an informed entrance.
We all turned toward the open porch door, expectant. It was involuntary.
A pause: one beat, then two. Where was he? What was he doing?
Russell swept into the room, arms raised up like a diva taking in adulation, and he wore the Great White Smile.
Russell was an incredible hunk when I met him ten years ago. Six foot one-eighty. Nice chest. Tanned. Dark brown hair. Startling blue eyes. Sky blue, the way it ought to be. Master of charm. Master of the incandescent smile.
He was on the threshold of his thirties then. He was on the threshold of his forties now, and fighting it.
He remained six foot one-eighty, but it hung on him differently. He had a spare tire. The baby fat was gone from his face. Dressing was a serious and protracted matter of inner debate and much soaking in the tub for him. It is why he was always late. But he still looked great naked, which was where it counted, so he was content with that and minimized anything other. Always a charmer. Always a smile.
He stood there in my blooming living-room-slash-office, arms extended, wearing my favorite silk print shirt. Ruth had given it to me six years ago at Christmas. I lived with Sam at the time. Creamy white with huge black inky brushstrokes and smaller dabs of red. Raised eyebrows, both Ruth and Sam. Emmie Lou giggled and covered her mouth with her hand.
It was the shirt I had intended to wear myself for the homecoming. I was sporting a black eyepatch from the hospital that would have been perfect with it, but when I couldn’t find the shirt in my closet, I figured it was at the cleaners or something, and would surface later.
Russell looked fabulous. (I would have looked better, but I had the eyepatch, so it wasn’t really a competition, even if he filled it out more. “That shirt needs meat in it,” he told me later. “You didn’t need it. You looked way better in what you wore.” I’d worn jeans and a Nino Cerruti double-breasted dark grey pinstriped blazer with no shirt underneath. Eyepatch added, and I was a heartbreaker again.)
Saint Lillian, who was clueless but puzzled, was the first one to speak and break the ice. “Hey, Russell, great shirt. I’m Saint Lillian—Captain’s told me a lot about you, I’m glad to finally meet you.” She held out her hand for a hearty shake. “Doesn’t the Captain have a shirt that looks like that?”
It was an unusual life moment.
Introductions all around. Jokes about making entrances. Russell ducked out to the porch to retrieve his backpack. He hadn’t brought any flowers, nor had I expected he would. Russell was always broke. For that matter, I was always broke.
He’d brought something, though. He clutched the shadowy green and black backpack to his chest and made his way purposefully to the kitchen, where he opened the tool drawer, pulled out a screwdriver, and then ran into the bathroom, shutting the door quickly behind him.
Well.
There are only so many times you can make a first impression.
He stayed in the bathroom for quite a while. We cleaned up. Ruth washed dishes and packed trash to be taken out. Saint Lillian wrapped leftovers in aluminum foil and put them in the fridge. Sam 409-ed every surface he could find. Emily burnt a little sage at my personal alters for Raven and Gwan Yin, restocked my supplies with fresh smudge sticks and a bag of votaries from her purse, She threw out the empty teacandle shells. I watched. Everyone lingered, waiting to find out what Russell was doing in the bathroom.
We heard him move to the hallway and start rousting around in the linen cabinets, opening the doors and slamming them shut.
Conversation ceased. We sat down and waited.
Silence in the hall.
The sound of one linen cabinet door shutting. Then another.
More silence.
Russell reappeared in the hallway entrance. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, and several curls of hair were slick and flat on his forehead. Superman in brown tones, but my judgment is colored.
He smiled at the group.
His blue gaze found me, and he turned the wattage way up on his smile.
He took three big steps through the dining room into the living room, grabbed my hand, pulled me out of my chair and led me to the bathroom, where I saw what he did.
Russ had replaced every one of my drab, old, wooden, paint-stuck cabinet handles with the most beautiful cabinet knobs I had ever seen.
They were pewter spheres, burnished so that every shade of grey you might ever imagine, light to black, was reflected on their surfaces. They had corners—or, more correctly, each sphere had one corner in its lower left or lower right quadrant (depending on which way the cabinet door opened). But the corners made the spheres subtly, irresistibly, somehow magically art deco in style. You could feel the weight and sway of them in your fingers by just swinging the doors on their hinges, and you could tell they weren’t merely cabinet knobs, they were butlers and major domos and house sergeants, the close-mouthed custodians of vast troves of treasure.
That was the moment. That was when I knew—right then. I was certain. He was home. I kissed him hard. Russell kissed me back harder.
We returned to the living room a little dazed. Russell hadn’t wanted to depart the bathroom, and while I liked that notion in principle, I couldn’t go to the floor while my best friends sat waiting down the hall. We wouldn’t have been quiet, either.
We showed off the new pewter in the bathroom and on the linen cabinets. The others seemed puzzled, but impressed nonetheless. Emily tapped one of the globes with a finger as if she were testing to see if it was hot. Her finger rested on the sphere, and she looked at me and pursed her lips.
They departed. Finally.
“I thought you liked that shirt,” Ruth said to me on the way out. “What did you give it to him for?”
“He’s borrowing it,” I said. “Like sisters.”
“Oh,” said Ruth, frowning. Then a smile, and a kiss on the cheek, a furtive glance over my shoulder to make sure Russell wasn’t close by, and she was gone.
We had no trouble picking up where we had left off, and the dishes were already washed, the garbage already taken out. We lit the candles everywhere, and turned out the lights. “Lighting a candle is invoking the presence of god,” Russell used to say. I glanced around expectant every time he said it.
In the night, before the morning, after we had finished our kissing and were lying together in wonder, night’s candles still burning, I began sobbing uncontrollably.
It’s a thing that happens every first or second night home from the hospital. Fear, horror, rage, desperation, panic, misery and pain, the monsters I suppress in order to function as the head of my own medical enterprise—they all come rushing home too, there on the shore of sleep, stealing along the passages of dream, and I am undone, and must wash away their tracings with tears.
Also, I’m very emotional about sex. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve ever burst into tears in bed.
Russell held me, and rocked me, and it was enough. I didn’t know if he understood my weeping, but I know he wept with me, and I know it was because he never wanted to lose me. I was his pearl. I was his Captain. In zen terms, his fear of losing me had finally overcome his fear of losing me.
Maybe not zen.