Page 73 of Upstate

“I have health coverage through my job in the village library,” I said, “and I’m vested in the county’s pension fund.”

Andrea leaned forward, jotting down notes. “How about you, Evelyn?”

“I’ll have my Social Security benefit, and I’ve accumulated quite a bit in savings, too, thanks to my royalties.”

“You write your novels under a number of pseudonyms, is that right?”

You nodded. “Yes, but I own all the copyrights.”

“Let’s set up a literary estate while we’re at it. That way we can assign any future royalties to the trust. How about health insurance?”

“I buy coverage through my business association.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Andrea said. “I’ve worked with quite a few gay couples who’ve been bankrupted by health care costs since AIDS. It’s far less common for lesbians to be infected, of course, but no one’s immune.”

I glanced at you nervously. “I’ve only ever been with Evelyn.”

You smiled reassuringly. “And I’ve only been with Hazel since the day we met.”

“Really?” I had no reason to doubt you, but there was a time, early on, when I worried about what you got up to on your trips to the city. I’d never voiced my doubts before. The question hung over our heads like a cartoon speech bubble.

“Of course, silly,” you said.

“You two are ridiculously charming.” Andrea smiled. “Did you bring all the statements and deeds and account information on the list my secretary sent you?”

You pulled a fat folder from your overnight bag and placed it on Andrea’s desk. “Here’s everything you asked for.”

“Great. I’ll need some time to go through all this and draw up the trust agreement. You’re staying in the city for the weekend?”

“We are, yes,” I said. “We’re going to revisit some of Evelyn’s old haunts in the Village.”

“I should have a draft document we can review together by Monday afternoon. Let’s say two o’clock?” Andrea picked up her phone and spoke with her secretary, then stood to walk us out. “Are you going to the parade tomorrow?”

You nodded and took my hand. “That’s why we chose this weekend.”

There was a time you’d led me through the streets of New York with a swagger. Now we were both nervous making our way from Prospect Park to Washington Square. We didn’t exactly fit the profile of old ladies whose purses got snatched—you were sixty-one then, I was only fifty-five—but the city was still in rough shape after those desperate times when President Ford told it to drop dead. After dragging our overnight bags up from the subway, we checked into the hotel and ordered room service for supper, saving our energy for the following day.

Oh, Evelyn, do you remember the feeling we had as we watched the Liberation Day parade come down Fifth Avenue? It was more than pride. It was wholeness, the hidden parts of ourselves taking their rightful place alongside the public face we presented to our friends and neighbors. Witnessing the men and women who filled the street singing and chanting and waving signs was like being transported into an alternate universe where no one lived in silence and shame.

You raised your arm to point at a beautifully decorated float. “Look, it’s Wren!”

“Our Wren?” I scanned the crowd. There he was, wearing high-top sneakers and satin shorts with angel’s wings strapped to his bare back.

“He looks healthy, don’t you think?” you asked anxiously.

I turned to say yes, he looked good, only to find tears streaming down your face. “Evelyn, what’s wrong?”

“I was so worried about him after he left Schuywich,” you sobbed. “So many boys have died. I was afraid we’d never see him again.”

Wren’s float had passed us but was still in sight. I tugged at your arm. “Let’s go say hello.”

“No,” you said, though you did let me lead you into the street. “He doesn’t want a couple of old maids from his hometown embarrassing him in front of his friends.”

I didn’t agree with you, but I didn’t press. Wren had always been more your protégé than mine. We fell into step with a group of lesbian nurses demanding more funding for AIDS research. In Schuywich, it always felt like the two of us against the world. Here, surrounded by thousands of our brothers and sisters, for this hour, on this street, in this city, we had come home.

Saturday evening, after the parade, we managed to get a tiny table at an Italian place on Christopher Street where we held hands in plain sight, not under the table. Afterward, we walked back through Washington Square to our hotel, arms around each other as we gawked at the Empire State Building all lit up in lavender. We spent Sunday being tourists, riding the ferry out to Staten Island and back for the glimpse it gave us of the Statue of Liberty, then wandering through the crooked streets of the Village, rainbow flags flapping from storefronts, the pavement sparkling with cast-off glitter.

You were still tangled in the sheets of our hotel room bed, exhausted from all the activity of the last forty-eight hours, when I called down for room service on Monday morning. I let the aroma of coffee wake you up. After you’d taken a sip, I asked the question that had kept me up most of the night.