I call just before leaving my house to be sure Jim is still up for the evening we've planned. My hands are shaking and my head aches. "Hurry up," he says, as excited as I am terrified. When I pull up to his house he's waiting outside for me. He looks at me and says, "White men can't jump, and white women can't dress," then grabs my hand, laughing as he pulls me inside.
I'm taking Jim to his favorite bar. At age 55, I can't remember when I was last in a bar, and I've never been in a gay bar. Jim is HIV positive, and I'm a former coworker and one of several people who clean his house, tend his rabbits, take him to the movies, and cook for him. It's been almost two weeks since I've seen him and his appearance tonight is a shock-140 lbs. on his 6'2" frame, his skin color between dark gray and yellow-black.
Jim unlocks a small door near the back of his house and turns on the overhead light. The windowless room is packed with beautiful gowns, each sealed in clear plastic. Compartments on the heavy plastic bags are filled with matching jewelry, stockings, and shoes. Padded bras and girdles peek out of the wild array of colors. Jim pulls down gowns, tossing them my way, asking my opinion. Finally he selects one and tells me to grab a couple of hat boxes. As he locks the door behind us, his hands are trembling.
We sit in silence, gathering strength; then we clean, tone, buff, wax, pluck, pull, push, tie, tuck, cinch, sew, and laugh our way through three hours and half a bottle of wine. I christen the locked room "the vault of all things wonderful." When we're satisfied with Jim's look, I wheel him out to the car.
As we pull up to the bar, two gorgeous men are waiting at the curb to help us. Music and laughter spill into the street. Jim is wearing a royal blue, spaghetti-strap, sequined Bill Blass gown with matching shoes and a blond Barbra Streisand wig. I'm in a black dress and heels. As I step behind the wheelchair, he looks up at me with a shocked expression: "You don't push!!" he declares. "You're with me." I'm grateful for his protectiveness, until I realize what he really wants is to have one of the attractive valets take him inside.
A cover band plays loud music while people dance, laugh, drink, and smoke. Jim sits in the wheelchair holding my hand while I stand beside him. "Jim, why is everyone staring at me?" I ask. "Honey," he says, "they aren't looking at you. It's me they're interested in." Perhaps Jim's abandon tonight is because of the alcohol and friends, or because he knows he's dying. He's more flamboyant, his laugh deeper and more soulful. I've known him, worked with him, and depended on him for 12 years, but when I lean over and ask him if I'm seeing him for the first time, he says yes. He describes how it felt to be different during all those years at staff parties, weddings, picnics, and ball games. Now as I stand beside him I understand.
Jim is surrounded by friends all evening. When they approach him, he recounts a funny or important moment they shared. He thanks them for bringing love into his life. Many of them cry, as do I-but Jim doesn't, and I'm not brave enough to ask him why. As it gets close to 2 AM, he's so tired that his voice is barely a whisper. We turn to go and a rush of people approach, hugging each of us, thanking me for being a good friend to Jim. What a strange thing to say, I think; he's a friend to me, too.
We've stayed too long at the ball. When we get home, we struggle to get him undressed. By the time I finish cleaning the makeup off his face he's nearly asleep. I gather his dress, wig, and accessories and use his keys to return them to the locked room. I turn out the lights, and write a note for his sister who is coming to stay with him. I walk back to his room and kiss his cheek, resting my lips there for a long time.
As I turn to go he whispers something. I pause, and he speaks again: "I said, please pray for me."
"Yes, I will," I say. I turn and leave. All the way to the front door and then out to my car my breathing is slow, in careful synchronicity with my steps. When I get inside I lock the doors. How silly, since the really frightening thing is inside the car.