Mark Dunn - American Decameron

Ari stopped first at the directory at the west end of the wall. The directory contained the names of the nearly 58,000 dead and missing servicemen and their location on the 144 panels. He quickly located “Bradley Patterson, Panel 25W, Row 81.” He walked to the designated panel and then counted down the rows to number 81. There, flanked by a Marvin E. Park and a Washington Pauley, was Bradley Patterson. All three men shared the same death date: May 12, 1969. There were others who’d died on this day as well.

With his fingers, Ari traced the straight lines and the curved contours of the etched letters. Several panels to his left a woman was making a pencil rubbing of one of the names. Ari had no desire to do this. He had other, more meaningful totems by which to remember Brad — snapshots, his high school annuals, the Cream album ( Disraeli Gears ) that Brad had bought when Ari dared him to take a sabbatical from country music and get himself something halfway hip, and which he had ended up gifting to Ari after tripping out one night and ever thereafter swearing off both psychoactive drugs and psychedelic rock.

Ari allowed his fingertips to linger there for a moment longer and then he pulled his hands away. He stepped back. The ground right in front of the monument was covered in flowers and dog tags, teddy bears and toys. Ari was reminded that most of the American men who had died in the war were hardly men at all, so many of them mere teenage boys with mothers and fathers who had many years of life left to mourn their fallen children.

Ari had seen the name he had come to see. He didn’t feel like looking at the names of the other men — many of whom, had they lived, would be close to his own age: thirty-five. The number of the dead — his contemporaries — whose names had been forever carved into that wall overwhelmed him. He turned, and in doing so came face to face with a young man who looked to be in his early twenties. The man bore a very strong resemblance to Brad. In fact, the resemblance was so striking that Ari was taken aback. It was as if Brad had been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder for the last several minutes.

The mystery was quickly solved. The young man said, “Are you here to see my brother — to see my brother there on the wall? I noticed you were touching his name. You weren’t touching any of the other names.”

“Is your brother Bradley Patterson?”

The man nodded. He had long ash-blond hair that he brushed away from his eyes. They were Brad’s eyes — the same emerald brown, the same smiling creases in the corners.

“You’re Randy, aren’t you?”

The young man nodded. “And you’re Ari.”

“You were, what — six or seven when he died? In my mind I don’t think I ever let you grow up.”

Randy Patterson shrugged and half-grinned. “But since my name isn’t Peter Pan, I didn’t have much choice.”

“What are the odds that we’d both wind up here on the same day at the same time?” asked Ari.

“Not so bad. This being Brad’s birthday and all. I wanted to come early because I have to get back to New York. I go to Columbia.”

“What are you studying — no, let me guess. Pre-law like your brother?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made a declaration. Right now I’m spending most of my time working for Gay Men’s Health Crisis. Have you heard of it?”

Ari nodded.

Randy elaborated: “AIDS is already an epidemic, but they’re predicting it’s going to get a lot worse before the guys in the lab coats can get a handle on it.”

Ari, noticing the close proximity of several of the other visitors, said, “Are we done here?”

Randy nodded. The two men started to walk away from the wall, and toward the lake.

Ari pointed. “Last year they put a memorial on that island. It’s dedicated to all the signers of the Declaration of Independence. I thought I’d check it out.”

“I remember somebody saying you studied colonial history at William and Mary.”

“I did, but who would have told you — Brad? You were a little kid at the time.”

“One of my parents, I guess. Later. Maybe years later, I don’t know.”

“So there was mention of me after Brad died.”

“You were my brother’s best friend, weren’t you? The two of you used to do everything together. Dad said he always knew you were gay, the way you ran after Brad like a frisky little puppy.”

Ari stopped. “I didn’t come out to anybody until I was almost thirty. Your dad must have had some finely tuned antenna when it comes to this sort of thing.”

Randy nodded. He smiled. “Hey, he figured me out before I was twelve. I think it was the way I threw the ball during all those Dad-mandated t-ball games. Brad was dead and I was his surviving son, and talk about one father’s lousy luck. The dead son was a Vietnam War hero and the live one’s a ‘fucking fruit salad.’ Direct quote. And I didn’t come out quietly, either. The shame of it was enough to make him resign as president of the Rotary Club.”

The statement had bite. And relevance. Brad’s kid brother didn’t hold back. His frankness was a little startling, but also refreshing, especially given that so much of Ari’s interaction with the world had been so guarded, and far from indicative of who he really was.

“You have to catch a train?” he asked.

“I’ll catch a later train. You hungry? Can you look at your 1776 memorial some other time?”

Ari nodded. “A friend of mine recommended the cafeteria at the National Gallery. Don’t laugh, but they’re supposed to have this really great Southern menu.”

Randy grinned. “Do the cooks charm the husk right off of the corn?”

“Yes, Mame. I understand that they do.”

The two men had an early lunch of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and cornbread.

Randy remarked that he felt like he was back visiting his grandmother in Oklahoma.

Ari remarked that he had been in love with Randy’s brother since the two boys met in the seventh grade.

“What do you think he would have done if he’d known?” asked Ari.

“Probably knocked your block off. From what I heard — and remember that I didn’t have the pleasure of getting to know my brother all that well — he probably wasn’t, in truth, the paragon of sensitivity and tolerance that you wanted him to be.”

“He was good to me. We were pals.”

“But he didn’t know the real you. I’m not saying he was an asshole underneath whatever it was he put out to you; I’m just saying he was probably just like every other straight guy who grew into red-blooded American manhood back in the sixties. The whole idea of homosexuality was a real brain-fuck to them. Same as today, maybe even worse now. You know what they’re saying about gay men these days — that we brought this disease on ourselves. I’ll grant you the promiscuity in the gay community is something that’s a little hard to defend. But speaking as a bona fide fruit salad, we don’t deserve to be marginalized, or worse, demonized . Reagan hasn’t said a word about the AIDS crisis, and I don’t think he’s going to. The only time he’s opened his mouth about gay people was to remind voters during the election that he doesn’t condone their ‘lifestyle.’ And my mother wonders why I’m an activist.”

Ari stood up. “I’m getting more coffee. Do you want anything?’

“No thanks.”

Struck by a sudden thought, Ari sat back down. “You think I’m a little nutty, the way I’ve carried a torch for your brother all these years?”

Randy shook his head. “I know you loved Brad, even if in my lowly opinion there might not have been enough there to sing a torch song over. Don’t get me wrong. He was a good man. I loved him too. He was my brother. But he wasn’t out to change the world. He wanted to get his degree, get himself hired by some big corporate-ass-kissing law firm, snag himself a blond trophy wife, and sire his two and three-quarters children, just like society expected him to. You fell in love with him — if I can be so bold — because he was one hell of a looker. God, was my brother gorgeous. I don’t blame you. But be careful how you lionize him or whatever. He was a guy who — I’m trying not to oversimplify this, but I can’t help myself — a guy who just happened to be blessed with very good looks. As you can probably tell, it runs in the family.”