Harry Lennon stares as his partner of forty-two years brushes the July heat from his face with the heel of his hand. Sweat collects on Zeke’s palm, and he wipes the sticky residue onto his white chinos.
He watches Zeke compose and recompose his hands in a circular motion on his lap. Harry has brought along a picture album, a celebration of happier times. He flips through Sunday picnics, fishing trips, and holiday gatherings.
“Who are you?” Zeke asks Harry.
In slow, measured breaths, Harry balances the album in one hand, while the other hand clenches the side of the bench, white-knuckled. “It’s me…Harry.” He turns to his partner; Zeke’s haggard face is engraved with sadness. Zeke gazes out into a veil of early morning light.
“I have a class to teach today,” says Zeke. “They won’t wait for me forever.”
Harry reaches over and enfolds Zeke’s shaky hands in his. “Zeke, hon, you don’t teach anymore.”
When Zeke glances over at his partner, Harry notes that Zeke’s face resembles that of a lost child’s, befuddled. “I am a high school English teacher,” Zeke announces, trying to stand. “I need to get to my class.” He grips the arm of the bench and starts to get up.
Harry towers over him and says, “We need to eat lunch. I have to get back to work.”
They settle on a bench outside Saint Keller’s nursing home—Zeke’s permanent residence. “That was the Christmas we spent with both our families,” Zeke says, staring down at photos of past Christmases.
Harry places his hand on Zeke’s leg and notices for the first time the skeletal structure of bone poking out beneath the fabric of Zeke’s baggy pants. “That’s right,” says Harry, his lips pulling outward into a small smile.
“Do you know what I made for Christmas dinner that year?” Zeke asks.
Harry nods. “Your favorite green bean casserole.”
Headshake. “Lasagna.”
Harry studies the photo on his lap. “No, Zeke, look. It’s your green bean casserole.”
Zeke cocks his head into the empty space between them. Five seconds pass. Ten. Then, “Who are you?”
* * * *
Later that afternoon, Harry helps an unsteady Zeke into his room on the second floor. His aide, Samantha, a young, blonde college-aged woman, turns the temperature in the room to a comfortable seventy degrees. She fluffs Zeke’s pillows and turns to Harry, “Anything else, Mr. Lennon?”
Harry shakes his head.
Samantha nods, turns, and walks out of the room.
Harry looks to Zeke. “How do you feel? Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?” He notices Zeke’s lips are flaky and cracked.
“My lesson planner,” Zeke sighs. “I need to get to work.”
“Zeke, sweetie—” Harry is still frightened by his partner’s puzzled expression, though he has seen it many times before.
“Who are you?” Zeke asks again, a reverberating voice in a hollowed tunnel.
“Zeke, it’s me, Harry.”
Zeke shakes his head and turns to the rain-spattered window. He melts into an overstuffed chair and groans, his face frozen in a glare of pain.
Harry notices Zeke’s withdrawn expression in the glass, vacant like their relationship.
He hugs his partner and leaves.
* * * *
Outside, darkness thickens around him as Harry speed-walks to his car to escape the downpour. He sits behind the steering wheel and feels tears swell in the corner of his eyes. He wipes them on his shirtsleeve and his frazzled nerves get the better of him. He tries to unwind so he can drive safely to work, but he is incapable of moving. He listens to the rain on the hood of his red Corvette. It sounds like pebbles against the metal.
Harry stares over at the photo album that lies on the passenger seat. He thumbs through countless pictures of Zeke and him, now distant and decomposed memories for Zeke; but for Harry, they are a commemoration of joyous times.
Harry, hands trembling, finds the opening to the ignition, turns the key, and reaches for the radio dial to mute the relaxing sounds of Mozart. He stares out into a gloomy afternoon and thinks of Zeke. He looks beyond the sheet of rain to the brick structure of Saint Keller’s nursing home and feels his heart pulse hard inside him. He heaves a sigh to find solace. He closes his eyes, feels himself start to cry, recalling a far-off moment many Christmases ago.
* * * *
He had ordered Zeke a catalog item that year—a cobalt-white-striped cotton sweater. They sat in their home on the settee by the window, sipping cocoa. Harry stared into Zeke’s hazel eyes. He was more lucid back then, more affectionate. Harry handed Zeke his gift, wrapped in soft silk cloth, a red bow to commemorate the special occasion. Zeke liked fancy bows, collected them over the years. As Harry placed his mug on a coaster beside Zeke’s he saw euphoria in his partner’s eyes.
