Blood Brothers

he rays of the mid-morning sun glimmered off the polished chrome of the white sixty-seven Chevy as it slunk to a halt atop a hill outside of Toronto. Nineteen-year-old Perry Montgomery switched off the radio and leapt out of the driver's seat. He was tall and lean with long, blond hair and bright blue eyes. He wore ragged blue jeans with a multi-coloured tie-dye tee-shirt. Overtop he wore a black leather vest and a red bandanna was tied about his head. Nineteen-year-old Roger Eastman was dressed similarly except his brown eyes were hidden behind mirrored round sunglasses and his long, dark hair was caught back in a loose ponytail.

"Man, will you just look at that view," he said, gazing out over the peaceful countryside. "You don't get this in the city."

"You sure don't," Perry agreed as he lit a cigarette and shook out the match. "Man, could I paint this!" He swung his head. "Cumon, let's do it!"

Roger nodded and the two young men seated themselves on the side of the hill. The tall grass and weeds blew about them.

"I can't believe we're finished high school," Perry said, shaking his head. "Where did the time go?"

"I can't believe you're leaving for New York in the fall," Roger said sombrely. "What am I gonna do without you?"

"Well, I have to go to New York if I'm going to make my dreams come true," Perry reminded him.

"Yeah, you and your dreams!" Roger rolled his eyes.

"Hey!" Perry exclaimed, defensively.

"Just teasing, man, just teasing." Then Roger sobered again. "Did you bring it? Did you bring the knife?"

"Sure did." Perry produced a jack-knife from his pants pocket. He flipped up the blade with his long, slender thumb. "I suppose everybody in New York carries one of these." He turned to face Roger and held out the knife. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah." Roger removed his sunglasses while Perry fastened his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Their eyes locked as Roger held out an unsteady hand. "Hurry up, let's get this over with," he coaxed, grimacing. "I can't believe the things I go through to satisfy your whims."

"Just relax," Perry said and steadied his hand. "I'll do it so quick, you won't even feel it." With those words, he lowered the knife and quickly sliced the tip of Roger's index finger. Then he did the same to his own and dropped the knife on the ground. Lifting his head, he smiled at Roger and held out his narrow hand. Blood dribbled between his fingers. Roger smiled back, pain forgotten, and took his friend's hand. Their blood mingled together and their young faces were serious.

"Blood brothers?" Perry asked.

"Blood brothers," Roger vowed.

Roger stood on the veranda overlooking the busy Toronto street and stared down at the post card in his hand. He wore a navy blue business suit and every hair on his head was combed neatly into place. At age forty-five, his face was slightly more rugged than it once was, his hair greying at the temples. The post card he held depicted the New York skyline at dusk and on the back was written a short note:

Dear Roger:
It's been a long time, hasn't it? Too long, I'd say. It's high time you and I got together. I have some things to tell you that I can't possibly say in a letter. You must have some vacation time coming by now. Please come to New York and visit me. It's an absolute must that I see you. Hope to see you soon.
Sincerely, Perry.

Roger read and re-read Perry's letter, unable to believe his eyes. The last time he had seen Perry was twenty years ago when Perry was best man at his wedding to Maureen. Perry had departed immediately following the reception and, apart from the occasional letter, Roger had not heard from him since. Now, twenty years and two children later, he received this post card.

"Well, hon, are you going to go?" Maureen questioned, having read the post card over his shoulder. "I think you should go."

Roger turned around, taken aback. "You mean, you don't mind if I go? But this vacation, it was supposed to be quality time, just you, me and the kids."

Maureen smiled her eternally warm smile and touched his cheek. "I know, but how often do you hear from an old friend? You go for a couple of weeks and then come home and spend the next two weeks with me and the boys."

Roger brushed back her soft, auburn hair and kissed her tenderly. "God, how I love you, Maureen Eastman."

"And I love you, " she said, looping her arm through his. "Come, I'll help you pack."

Two days later, Roger was walking along a Greenwich Village sidewalk, looking around in awe. In all his life, he had never seen anything like it. Street musicians were out in full force - guitarists, saxophonists, percussionists. There were puppeteers, sculptors and jugglers. The Village had an off-beat atmosphere compared to the hectic pace of the rest of the city. No wonder Perry had decided to settle here.

Deciding he had better ask directions before he became totally lost, Roger stopped in front of a dishevelled folk guitarist on a street corner.

"Perry Montgomery," he queried, "do you know him?"

The guitarist peered at him from beneath shaggy, brown bangs. "Sure, everybody knows Perry. Try the parkette two blocks down."

"Thanks." Roger tossed a half-dollar into the guitarist's open case before giving his suitcase a hoist and hastening his stride.

Sure enough, after two blocks, he encountered a corner parkette. Cobblestone walkways wound about fragrant lilac bushes and small rock gardens. The parkette was crowded with tourists and Roger soon discovered the reason why. Displayed on wooden easels throughout the parkette were several pastel paintings. Roger instantly recognized Perry's unique, psychedelic style. He rounded a lilac bush and halted abruptly in his tracks. Standing there, paint brush in hand, was his old friend. His appearance was striking. Perry had changed so much. He still had his shoulder-length blond hair but his blue eyes were duller than Roger remembered. He wore a pale yellow suit that seemed to hang on his skeletal form. His face was pale, his nose and cheekbones prominent. For a lingering moment, Roger stood in shock and then he gave himself a shake. It had been twenty years after all; he shouldn't have expected to see the same robust, young man Perry once was.

Stepping out from behind the bushes, Roger walked up to Perry and regarded the nearest painting. It was a black and white portrait of the Manhattan skyline towering threateningly over Central Park.

"I like it," he commented casually. "Nice use of colour, the city in black, the park in white. Man versus nature. Brilliant!"

Perry whirled about, an expression of surprise on his face. "Roger!" he cried. "Roger Eastman! You made it!"

"You bet I made it. I never turn down an invitation from an old friend."

The two men stared at one another for a moment and then fell into each other's arms. Roger could not believe how bony and frail Perry had become. When they parted, Perry swept a stray tear away from his eye and shook his head. "I can't believe it's you," he said in awe, "after twenty years."

"It has been a long time," Roger agreed.

"Well, help me pack up this stuff," Perry said, dropping his paint brush into a plastic bag. "We have some major catching up to do. My apartment isn't far from here."

Talking and excitedly reminiscing, the two men gathered up Perry's art display. Then Roger followed his old friend one block to his apartment, watching him closely. Perry's every step seemed more laboured than the one before. By the time they reached the steep set of black iron stairs leading upwards, Perry was panting and perspiring heavily.

"Are you all right?" Roger asked, concerned, for it was not that warm of a day.

Perry nodded. "I'm fine. Getting old, I guess. Come on up. I'll fix us some tea."

Roger followed him upstairs, an expression of worry on his face. Perry seemed to struggle for every step. When they reached the landing, Perry broke into spastic coughing.

"Lord, I'm out of shape," he mumbled as he turned his key in the lock. Once inside, he headed directly to the walk-in kitchen, poured himself a glass of water and downed it all before plugging in the kettle. "Welcome to my humble abode," he called over his shoulder as he brought two mugs down from the cupboard over the sink.

Roger set down his suitcase and looked around. The apartment consisted of one room which served as a combination living room-kitchen. Artwork in various stages sat about on easels and bookshelves. Stacks of boxes were piled everywhere.

"Are you moving?" he asked Perry, motioning to the boxes.

"Uh, yeah," Perry said without looking up from the teakettle. "I'm, uh, going on a trip."

Roger settled onto a faded second-hand sofa. "This is quite a place," he remarked. "It looks like an art studio."

"That's what it is, mainly, I guess. The only other thing I do is sleep here." Perry came into the living room carrying a silver tray containing two cups of steaming tea and a platter of Digestive Biscuits. His hands trembled slightly as he set the tray on a nearby coffee table. Then he collapsed into an armchair across from Roger and loosened his narrow yellow tie. "You'll have to excuse the mess. I've been feeling a bit under the weather lately," he said, swiping the perspiration from his brow.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Roger asked him again.

"I guess so." Perry took a sip of his tea.

"Maybe you should go see a doctor," Roger suggested.

"I've already been to the doctor," Perry said, somewhat sharply, as he lit a cigarette. He looked up and for the first time Roger noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

Fear struck Roger's heart. "Perry," he pursued, "what's wrong with you?"

Perry's face clouded over as he nervously puffed his cigarette. His hand quaked even more. "There's a reason I called you to New York," he explained, his voice sounding strange. "I wanted to see you to tell you good-bye."

"Tell me good-bye? What do you mean?"

Perry's expression cheered momentarily. "I'm going to Paris," he said with a hint of excitement in his voice. "It's something I've always dreamed of doing. Maybe I can sell some of my work there."

"I don't understand," Roger said. "Why do you have to say good-bye? You're not leaving forever, are you?"

Perry regarded him, his eyes growing sad. Slowly, he nodded.

"But why?" Roger asked, confused. "Why?"

Perry drew in a deep, shuddering breath and then said quietly, "Roger, I have AIDS."

Roger's heart leapt to his throat. Tears of shock threatened to escape from his eyes. "AIDS?" he finally managed and shook his head. "There must be some mistake. You can't possibly have AIDS."

"Yes, I can."

"But how? How?" Roger was nearly frantic. This explained why his friend looked so sickly and pale. AIDS killed people. His best friend was dying!

Perry slowly stood and crossed the room. Bending over, he painstakingly pulled a painting out of one of the boxes. He returned to his armchair and handed the painting to Roger. Roger eyed him curiously for a moment before carefully turning the painting over. It was another black and white, this time of a young man. He was a handsome man with fine, sculptured features and gentle eyes. His face was surrounded by billowing white clouds.

"I don't understand," Roger said. "Who is this?"

"That's Matthew," Perry said, his voice choked and when Roger looked up, he saw tears in his eyes. "He died of AIDS one year ago. Matthew, he lived here with me for two years. He was a talented painter and sculptor. Roger, Matthew was my lover." Two tears escaped from his eyes and trickled down his pale cheeks.

Roger laughed and shook his head. "No," he said. "No way!" He threw back his head and laughed harder. "You have to be joking!" he exclaimed, pointing to the portrait. "You can't possibly be gay!"

"But I am."

"You can't be," Roger repeated. "What about high school? You had a different girl on your arm every week! How could you change just like that?"

"I've always been gay," Perry said. "I just didn't realize it until I moved here to New York. I tried. I mean, I was brought up to believe you married a girl and had babies, just like you have done, but whenever I was with a woman, it just didn't feel right. I can't explain it. Then I met Matt and we shared a bond and understanding I've never experienced with a woman."

Blood raced to Roger's cheeks and he jumped to his feet. Tossing the painting onto the floor, he grabbed his jacket. "You're really sick, Perry, really sick! I can't believe you called me all the way to New York to tell me this! What kind of jerk are you, anyway? God, if you've got AIDS, you asked for it in my opinion! I'm outta here!" Picking up his suitcase, he turned on his heel and started out the door.

"Fine!" Perry called after him. "You go on home to your wife and your two sons and your ritzy little townhouse in Toronto! Turn your back on your best friend! But you're dead wrong, Roger Eastman, dead wrong!"

Shaking his head in disgust, Roger dashed down the steps onto the street. His face burned as he ran along the sidewalk. Why did Perry choose now to tell him the truth? What kind of friend was he, anyway?

Roger stopped running when he reached the parkette on the corner. Dropping onto a green park bench, he bowed his head into his hands in despair. Perry couldn't possibly be gay! What about all those Friday nights during high school when they went cruising for chicks? What about their passionate double dates at the drive-in? Perry had been living a lie, a complete and utter lie! Close to exploding with the fury he felt, Roger clenched his hands into fists and then suddenly stopped. Lifting his head, he opened his hands and looked down at his fingers. His gaze settled on the index finger of his left hand. There, along the tip, was a shallow ridge left behind from the day when he and Perry had vowed their eternal friendship to one another.

"My God!" he whispered, running his fingers over the scar. "I'm such a fool!" A cold chill passed over him. His best friend was dying and he had turned his back on him. How could he do that? How? "Perry," he whispered and rose from the park bench.

Breaking into a run, he rushed down the Greenwich Village sidewalk, tears moistening his cheeks, memories spinning in his mind. All of his fondest memories included Perry. He reached the black iron steps leading to Perry's apartment and took them two at a time.

"Perry, I..." he said and froze. "Oh my God - Perry!"

His best friend lay unconscious on the hardwood floor.

At New York's Roosevelt Hospital, Roger paced the waiting room floor, oblivious to the curious stares about him. Finally, a physician exited Perry's room and Roger rushed up to him.

"Doctor?" he asked anxiously. "How is he?"

"He's stabilized," the doctor said, looking tired, "but he's extremely ill. He has pneumonia as a result of his HIV infection. We're doing all we can for him but only time will tell if he pulls through or not."

"Thank you, sir. Can I see him?"

"Yes, but please don't stay too long."

Roger nodded and entered Perry's room. Perry lay on a hospital bed, an oxygen tube running to his nostrils. He looked so small and helpless, so pale he seemed to blend in with the starched white bed-sheets. His eyes were open and brightened when he sighted Roger.

"I'm so sorry," Roger apologized, sitting down on a nearby chair. "I hope you know how sorry I am."

Perry nodded slowly and attempted a smile. His breathing was laboured as he tried to speak. "It's all right," he whispered breathlessly. "I understand."

"I don't deserve your understanding," Roger said vehemently. "I'm an ignorant fool. I don't deserve your forgiveness, either."

"Well, you've got it, anyway...and I want you to forgive yourself."

"I'll try."

"What changed your mind?" Perry asked, struggling for his every word. "Why did you come back?"

"This," Roger said and held up his hand. He indicated the scar on his index finger.

"Hey, I've got one, too," Perry said, weakly lifting his hand.

"The only thing that matters," Roger said, "is that you and I remain friends, best friends. Friends love and respect one another, regardless. And I want you to know, Perry, that I do love you. You are like a brother to me."

Tears shimmered in Perry's bloodshot eyes. "I love you, Roger."

"And another thing," Roger said. "Once you are back on your feet again, I am taking an extended vacation from work and I'm coming to Paris with you."

"You don't have to do that," Perry said hoarsely.

"But I want to," Roger said, "and you're not stopping me, so don't even try!" He flashed a devilish smile.

"Okay." Perry mustered a weak smile in return and held out his finger with the scar on it. Roger held out his hand and brushed his scarred finger over Perry's.

"Blood brothers?" he asked solemnly.

Perry continued to smile through his tears. "Blood brothers."

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