It Has Come to Our Attention

Warnings: Child abuse

  

~1987~ 

 

He was in AP US History. It was about ten in the morning and he was sitting with his back slightly arched and his arms slightly behind him. It hurt less in this position.

 

“Brian.”

 

Last night had been about as bad as it had ever been. That shithead do-gooder social worker had shown up to talk with them at the house. She had made it clear that she thought his parents were hitting him and she had made sure that they knew what she suspected.

 

Moron.

 

“Brian.”

 

Then she had gone home to what was probably her perfect life and perfect family and left him with the fucking Jack and Joanie show. Yeah, sure, she kept saying that she was there to help him, that she could get him out of there and she didn’t know shit. Any idiot would know not to drop that fucking shoe and then leave. Christ.

 

“Brian.”

 

He looked up, Mr. Bolton was standing right next to him and the other kids were staring. “Are you all right?” He just looked at the teacher. “Would you like to go to the nurse?”

 

“No, I’m fine. Sorry.”

 

“We were discussing the League of Nations, page 278.” That was all he said. Usually he’d ream you if you weren’t paying attention. Looking at Brian with what seemed to be pity he went back to the front of the room and asked Pam Miller some question about Woodrow Wilson.

 

Twenty minutes later the period ended with Brian none the wiser about the defunct League. A few kids threw him glances as the other students left to go to their next classes but no one said anything to him. He sat there, wondering how he was going to stand. His back had stiffened up and he wasn’t sure that he could move. The room was empty except for the two of them. Bolton came over and actually put his hand on Brian’s shoulder. Mr. Bolton was pretty young for a teacher, maybe twenty-four or five. He usually was pretty reasonable.

 

“Hurt your back?”

 

“…Yeah, I think I twisted it at soccer yesterday.”

 

“You look like you’re in some pain.”

 

“It’s OK.”

 

Moving around behind him, the teacher hesitated a moment then lifted the tee shirt up about half way. Brian heard him mutter “Jesus”, then raise it up to his shoulder blades, looking for a long couple of seconds before letting it fall back down. “Who did this to you?”

 

Brian didn’t answer, just stared at the closed history book in front of him. Mr. Bolton came around and sat in the desk to Brian’s left. “I’ll either take you down to the nurse or the hospital, whichever one you prefer. The nurse will see this and call your parents but you could probably get her to believe whatever lie you come up with. The hospital will call the cops and then a social worker will be brought in and your parents will have to explain either why they didn’t know about this or how they let it happen.”

 

“I don’t need a nurse or a hospital. I’m alright. A friend took care of it last night.” He made an effort to stand. “I have to get to math.”

 

“I’ll give you a note.” He almost smiled. “Look, Brian. I’ve been watching you since the beginning of the year. You get smacked around, don’t you?” The boy stared at that book cover again. “I know what it’s like. My father used to hit me when I lived at home. He was a steel worker and the mills started closing. He’d drink and then he’d take it out on us. I’d bet that your story isn’t too different, is it?”

 

Brian glanced at him then back to the book.

 

“It only stopped when I moved out. I was smart; my grades were good enough to get a scholarship to college. After that I only went back when I knew he wouldn’t be there.” The boy said nothing. “It won’t stop, you know that. It’s going to happen again.”

 

Brian nodded. “I know.” It was almost inaudible. Fuck, what was the point in lying? Bolton knew, damn it.

 

“Your father?”

 

Another small nod.

 

“Your mother?”

 

“Usually she leaves the room, but sometimes she watches.” The teacher had lived this himself; he understood what the kid was going through—as much as anyone could, anyway. God, it was the same story.

 

“What sets him off?”

 

A shrug. “When he’s drunk, not much. A look, walking into a room, my eating dinner because he pays for the food, the fact that my mother didn’t abort me.” His voice hitched slightly. “He didn’t want kids but we’re catholic.”

 

“Come with me to the nurse’s office.”

 

“No.”

 

“She’s not there, she takes the early lunch because the food if slightly more edible.”

 

“I’m OK, I don’t need…”

 

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Come on, I think I have a spare in the teacher’s room you can borrow after we get you cleaned up.”

 

Nodding, Brian let the man help him to his feet. A couple of minutes later he was seated in the nurse’s room with that antiseptic smell they all have. Mr. Bolton walked in with a white button down shirt on a wire hanger.

 

“I keep a spare just in case. Here, let me help you get your tee off.” Seated on one of those low metal stools, Brian carefully raised his arms enough so that the soft material could be worked up and away.

 

“What did he hit you with?”

 

“The chain of a bike lock.”

 

“Did he break any bones?”

 

“Not this time.”

 

Shit, the kid was only fifteen. “But he has before?”

 

“Ribs, a couple of times. He usually hits me where it doesn’t show.” He saw the expression on Bolton’s face. “Sometimes he forgets or misses.” The teacher just nodded. That explained the black eyes the kid sometimes had. He had a bowl of warm water that he had poured an antiseptic into, some gauze and a roll of medical tape. He began cleaning Brian’s back, wiping the fresh blood and gently applying bandages. They were silent for a few minutes while he worked, the only sounds being the occasional hisses of pain from Brian.

 

“Do your parents know that you’re gay?”

 

The boy’s head shot around, his eyes wide with fear or shock at the question. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“Brian, it’s OK. It’s something else we have in common. Don’t worry about it, I won’t out you. Do they know?”

 

“Why would you ask me something like that?”

 

“Because when my father found out he almost killed me. Literally. He went after me with a tire iron. He broke my arm in three places. If my brother hadn’t pulled him off, he would have smashed in my skull.”

 

He turned back around so that he was facing away from his teacher. “…No, I mean, why do you think I’m gay?”

 

“Just putting two and two together. I noticed you the first week of class. In fact some of the other teachers warned me about you, said that you’re trouble so I kept my eye on you.” He was spreading some antibiotic cream on the wounds, causing them to sting and Brian to gasp at the sudden pain. “Sorry. Anyway, what I saw was a very smart kid who seemed to never get into the usual flirting with the girls. A guy as good looking and as well built as you usually does and they seem plenty interested in you.”

 

“So? That doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“You’re right, it doesn’t. I just assumed that you had a girlfriend and were off the market. Then I noticed that the only kid I ever see you with if that small dark haired one…Novis? Nolan? Something like that.”

 

“Mike Novotny. Yeah, we’re friends.” He caught the smile. “Fuck you. We’re just friends. He’s the only one in this place I can stand.”

 

“I noticed little things. Looks, subtle touches, the way you watch out for him. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.” He saw the look of panic in Brian’s face. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I doubt if anyone else caught any of it.” He put the bowl of water down. “Does he know about your family?” He was opening some gauze pads and the roll of tape, trying to protect the raw cuts and slashes.

 

Fuck. Bolton had him nailed. “Yeah, he knows. I go to his house when I have to get away from my father.”

 

“Is he the one who dressed your back?”

 

“His mother did. She’s OK.”

 

“Good, I’m really glad that you have a safe place to go.” He started cutting the tape. “And then I got intrigued by you so I started paying attention. OK, I admit it, you’re an attractive kid and you’re one of the smartest ones I’ve come across here.”

 

Brian closed his eyes. Shit, the fucker was hitting on him.

 

Bolton seemed to almost hear his thoughts. “Don’t worry. I’m not a chicken hawk. I like my job too much to lose it. You’re virtue is safe with me.” Finished, he held the shirt open so Brian could put it on.  “Look, Brian. If you ever want to talk with no bullshit, I’m there. OK? No strings or anything.”

 

“Yeah—thanks.”

 

“I’ve been there, you know. It’s not easy.”

 

He just nodded, about to answer when Mrs. Hayford, the usual matronly, maternal school nurse walked in on them.

 

“Is something I can help you with, Mr. Bolton? You should have called me if there’s a problem.”

 

“Nothing serious, Gail, thanks. Brian here just scraped his back a little on a locker. I’ve got it.”

 

Brian stood up, pretending there was no pain. “Yeah, Mrs. Hayford, I’m fine, thanks.” They walked out to the hallway as the nurse put her teakettle on to boil.

 

“I’ll write you a note for the class you missed. What was it, Math?”

 

“Yeah, Mr. Fox.”

 

“What have you got next?”

 

“Gym.”

 

Bolton turned to him. “Can you do it? I’ll get you out if you want. I can say I need you to help me with something.”

 

“Ummm…I think I’ll be OK. We’re just doing some dumbass yoga thing now. I should be able to fake my way through that.”

 

Bolton started to laugh. “Wilson is trying to convert you all, huh?”

 

“Yeah. I guess. Mr. Bolton? Thanks.”

 

“I meant it. If you want to talk, or if you need anything just ask, OK?” Brian nodded. He’d think about it.

 

*          *          *

 

There had been in a meeting early that morning, before school started. The guidance department was there and the nurse was supposed to be but had missed it because of a flat. Carl Wilson, the boy’s gym teacher, had been asked to attend, too. Wilson hated shit like this. He was supposed to be a teacher, not a wet nurse to a bunch of whining kids.

 

It seemed that the guidance people, especially Betty Minor, suspected the Kinney boy was being abused at home and wanted them to try to keep an eye on him without letting him know. The classic signs were there. The kid kept mostly to himself, often had bruises and sprains, seemed tired, had trouble concentrating, might be depressed. He was often angry. When confronted or asked about his home, he would become defensive. Wilson was asked to see if there were any injuries hidden by his clothes that looked suspicious.

 

He had taken a dislike to the kid from the first day he walked into class, a troublemaker, right from the word go. He was a snotty little punk with an attitude that wouldn’t quit and a real smart mouth. Sure, he was a pretty good soccer player and runner, but he was still a pain in the ass. Wilson occasionally thought that a smack across the face would wipe that smirk off. He could almost see wanting to hit that one.

 

Still, he hadn’t been moving well in class today and that was unusual. He was normally pretty coordinated, but today he was moving like he was stiff, in pain. Something wasn’t right with him. Normally Wilson would put it down to the kid having a hangover of some kind, probably from too much fun last night.

 

Fine, what the Hell, he’d take a look; get the guidance people off his back. Walking through the locker room while the fifth period class was changing back to their street clothes, he looked over to the bank of lockers Kinney was assigned. He was there, with his back to the wall, facing the aisle. His jeans were back on and he was just reaching for his shirt when Wilson caught the edge of a nasty looking bruise coming around his side to end just below his ribs. He caught a glimpse of what looked like bandages on the kid’s back, too. He wasn’t supposed to say anything, but shit, something had happened to the kid. Most likely he had just pissed off the wrong group of jocks or something.

 

He’d talk to Betty about it tomorrow. Oh yeah, it was Friday. OK, he’d talk to her Monday.

 

*          *          *

 

Frank Bolton was walking out to his car about four that afternoon when he saw Kinney sitting on the hood waiting for him.

 

“You need a ride somewhere?”

 

“…If you’re not real busy, yeah.”

 

As he started the engine he glanced over to his passenger. Brian looked like he was about twenty feet below where he’d been after they’d left the nurse’s office. His eyes were red like he’d been crying and he looked depressed enough that Frank was almost afraid that he would ask him to pull a Thelma and Louise off Panther Hollow Bridge.

 

“Where to, Brian?”

 

“Someplace to talk, would that be alright?”

 

Twenty minutes of silence later Frank parked the car at Phipps Conservatory at the bottom of Schenley Park. He’d always liked the place—the big greenhouse and the quiet. Usually no one was there other than a few stragglers and a couple of art students from either C-MU or Pitt quietly sketching. They could talk here without being disturbed.

 

They wandered through the humid rooms banked with plants and flowers on the bricked pathways. Finally Brian found a bench near a small waterfall to sit on. Frank joined him, carefully maintaining a discrete distance.

 

“I’m afraid that he might kill me next time. It’s been getting worse. Lately he comes up with something new almost every time, this time it was the chain. I don’t know what it will be next.” He drew a breath. “And I’ve never seen him as angry as when that social worker left. It’s like now the secret is out.”

 

“You have to leave.” Brian seemed to be studying the frond of some kind of weird palm tree beside them. “Can you go to your friend’s house, stay there?”

 

“I don’t know. I guess. Maybe. I don’t want to make trouble for Mrs. Novotny.”

 

A lot of the teachers at school didn’t seem to get it. These kids looked like adults, at least some of them and they sure tried to convince you they were grownups. They would drink and smoke and curse with the best of them if you let them—at least some would, but the fact was that they were still just kids and usually scared and hoping to God that someone would tell them what to do.

 

“If it would be a problem for her, you can stay with me. I don’t mind.”

 

Brian looked over at him, startled. “I couldn’t—I mean, thanks Mr. Bolton, but you’re a teacher and you could get in trouble for that.”

 

“When we’re not in school, call me Frank.” He saw Brian’s knuckles tighten on the edge of the stone bench, trying for control. “Brian, it’s not a problem. Would you like to stay just for tonight? It could give you some breathing space.” The kid nodded. “OK, you should call them, so they aren’t looking for you. Just tell them you’re at a friend’s house.”

 

Two hours later they were sitting in Frank Bolton’s kitchen, the pizza box empty and a six pack almost gone. Brian had called his home earlier, giving the message to his sister. Evidently his parents had already passed out for the night. “You know, I could get in trouble for giving you booze.” The absurdity made Brian smile just slightly.

 

“Wouldn’t want that.”

 

“I’ll run you a bath. It will help relax your back, make it easier for you to sleep.”

 

Brian nodded. “Thanks. Frank? I mean it—thanks.”

 

“It’s OK. Before you get in, I’ll take the bandages off. It will heal faster if the air gets to it.”

 

He was in the tub well over an hour, one of those great big old claw foot things that held enough water to float the Titanic. Periodically Frank could hear more hot being added, a couple of times he thought he heard crying, but let the kid have his privacy. Finally the door opened and he came out wearing the old plaid flannel pajama bottoms Frank had lent him. He walked over, sitting next to where Frank was lying on the made up pull out bed. The old movie, “Cabaret” was playing on the tube, Liza singing her heart out.

 

“Feel any better?”

 

“Yeah, some.”

 

“Here, lie down, take the strain off of your back.” Brian gave him a look. “Relax, I told you, your virtue is safe with me.” He lay down on his stomach, his torso propped up on a couple of pillows.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“What? Helping you?”

 

“No one gives a shit about me. Even Mikey’s mom is glad to see me leave. I’m too much trouble and she has enough problems. I’m your fucking good deed for the week or something?”

 

“First of all, cut the swearing. It’s cheesy and you’re too smart to need it.”

 

“Does it offend you?” The adolescent sneer was in full force.

 

“No, but you can do better.” He stared the kid down.

 

“OK, sorry.”

 

“No problem. I’ve already told you why. Been there, done that.” Liza was singing about money with Joel Gray. Good number. “Do you get hassled about being gay?”

 

“Not really, not any more. Besides, I’m not as obvious as some are. Last year I broke Jeff Conroy’s hand after he pulled some shit—some stuff. I get left alone now mostly.”

 

“I heard about that but I’d forgotten it was you. Good, he’s an asshole.”

 

“You’re swearing.”

 

“No, I’m accurate.” He had a swallow of Iron City. “Are you a virgin? Don’t bother with the look, I’m just wondering if you’re as precocious as you seem.”

 

“I lost it last year.”

 

“You active regularly?”

 

“Why the fuck—the Hell—the gosh darn do you care?”

 

“You use condoms?”

 

“…Yeah, usually.”

 

“Make sure that you do. I mean it, every time, whatever role you play…I just lost another friend to AIDS last month. Don’t be stupid, OK?” Brian was actually blushing. “You hear me? I getting fucking tired of going to funerals.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“I mean it…”

 

“I said OK.” He was quiet for a few minutes and Frank thought that he had fallen asleep. When he stood to cover him, he saw that his eyes were open and he was silently crying.

 

“I wish I knew why they hate me. I don’t know why. Ever since I was born and I just wish I knew why.”

 

Frank was stopped for an answer.

 

“I mean, I really try to do things that will make them happy. I get good grades; I’m on the varsity. I don’t get in much trouble. I even go to fucking Mass with my mother. But everything I do is shit. My father can’t stand to even look at me. If I’m in a room, he’ll swear at me and leave or tell me to get the fuck out.”

 

“Brian….”

 

“He keeps telling me that I’m a mistake and that he wanted my mother to abort me.”

 

“He says that shit when he’s angry or drunk, Brian. He…”

 

“No. He says it all the time. He tells me that I’m a piece of shit and that I’m a worthless pile of crap. He keeps saying that he should never have had kids and that he only married my mother because she was pregnant with my sister and that I’m only here because the rubber tore.”

 

Frank pulled Brian into his arms, careful of his injuries, holding him while he cried himself out, gently stroking his arm and shoulder, cradling his head.

 

Frank went into the bathroom and handed Brian two pills when he came out again. “Take these, they’ll help you sleep.” Liza was wrapping up the final song, hitting a big home run with it. Frank started turning out lights, pulling a quilt over Brian so he wouldn’t have to move.

 

“Hey Frank?” There was a different tone to his voice.  “If things were different, would you want me?”

 

He paused as he picked up the empty beer cans. “Yeah, I would, but they’re not so get some sleep.”

 

*          *          *

 

Brian spent the weekend with Bolton and rode to school with him on Monday. His back, while a long way from healed, had improved enough that they were both confident it wouldn’t hinder him all that much during the day if he popped the Tylenol. On Saturday Brian had called his parents to tell them he was spending the weekend with a friend. His father hung up on him.

 

Carl Wilson forgot to speak to Betty Minor about Brian’s injuries and Betty was busy with some college reps visiting the seniors. Mrs. Hayford took the story about the locker causing Brian’s sore back at face value.

 

Things moved on. With over three thousand students in the school, Brian became yesterday’s news pretty fast. He went home after school on Monday to find that the usual pattern was in place—the harder the beating, the longer the period of quiet that would follow. With any luck he would be able to expect at least a week and a half of relative unconcern. He embraced being ignored and the strained silences at dinner, he smiled when his father went out bowling or his mother attended yet another mass, knowing that he would have peace.

 

Brian spent after school time with Mikey and often ate dinner with him and Debbie. If she saw that he was still not moving quite right, she kept her mouth shut and refilled his plate. She knew the score. The first week passed uneventfully and his back was almost better.

 

On Tuesday of the second week he was upstairs studying for a French test at about ten o’clock when he heard the front door slam and his father loudly swearing that he was gonna fuckin kill the son of a bitch.

 

The calm had ended and the new storm arrived with a vengeance sooner than he thought it would.

 

He would have made it out the window if his foot hadn’t tangled in his chair legs under the desk, sprawling him on the floor. Before he could get free and back up on his feet his door slammed open. Jack was angry about God knew what and he was drunk and he had probably lost at bowling, too.

 

He felt the foot hit his stomach and thought again that he wished his father wouldn’t wear those heavy work shoes, not that sneakers would have made all that much difference.

 

The last thing he actually remembered was the metal desk lamp crashing down and the bulb exploding in about a million shards of glass as it connected with the back of his head.

 

Sometime later he came to. It was dark and he knew that it was another bad one. There was blood on his face and he could hardly catch his breath. He figured that his ribs were cracked again and his head hurt like a bitch. The clock by his bed read 2:30.

 

Shit, that meant that he’d been out for like, what? maybe three or four hours. That wasn’t good.

 

This time he needed help. He knew he did.

 

He stumbled across the hall to Clair’s room, half fell and half sat on her bed, waking her.

 

“What the Hell do you want? I’m sleeping.”

 

“I’m hurt. Drive me to the hospital.”

 

“Fuck off. You woke me up.”

 

“Shit, Clair, I’m fucking bleeding and he broke my ribs again. I need a doctor.”

 

“Get the Hell out of here or I’ll tell them about your stash of pot and condoms.”

 

“Cunt.”

 

“Prick.”

 

He knew he couldn’t make it to Mikey’s. That was six blocks away and he wasn’t sure he could even stand. He half stumbled and half crawled down to the phone in the kitchen.

 

“Frank?”

 

“Yeah? Who the fuck is th…Brian? Are you hurt?”

 

“Can you come get me? I’m home. Please?”

 

“I’m leaving now.”

 

*          *          *

 

Two days later Brian was released from Pittsburgh University Hospital into the temporary foster care of Frank Bolton. After his admission to Emergency he had been assessed and found to be suffering from a number of superficial scalp wounds, a mild concussion, four fractured ribs and internal bleeding which was contained.

 

His parents were informed that they faced charges of child abuse but the complete refusal of their son to in any way cooperate with the various authorities combined with the fact that he would turn sixteen within two weeks, made any prosecution difficult.

 

Not only would Brian not admit that his injuries had been caused by his father while he was in a drunken rage, he insisted, repeatedly and vehemently, that he had hurt himself when tripping down the stairs in the dark.

 

The court, not believing the boy’s story, but with no proof to the contrary, did what it could by allowing him to go to what was believed to be a safe alternative.

 

The parents voiced no objections to the arrangement.

 

Being young and basically healthy, Brian healed fairly quickly. He went to school and studied. His grades were good and his athletics improved, encouraged by his mentor. The two became close friends and it was common to see them around the school walking together, talking or sharing lunch. After what Brian had been through, Frank was given a great deal of the credit for the improvement not only to his injuries, but also to Brian’s attitude. He could still toss out a snotty, cutting remark with the best of them, but he seemed to be tempering the caustic verbal snipes he was capable of. That was the way they finished out the last few months of the school year.

 

He had virtually no contact with his family.

 

Things would have likely continued as they were if the unpleasantness hadn’t happened about three weeks after school ended for the summer.

 

Brian had gotten himself a job working at the multiplex in the evenings to supplement his day job stocking shelves at the Giant Eagle supermarket. He was working when it happened. He wasn’t there.

 

It had been a hot Saturday night and some of the high school toughs from Irwin and Braddock had decided to hit Liberty Avenue to bait some fags. Insults were tossed, fists were thrown, the police were called and arrests were made.

 

Names made the papers.

 

In the fall Frank Bolton was no longer teaching—anywhere. Outted as a practicing homosexual, he would no longer could be trusted working with young people. The parents wouldn’t hear of it. Untenured, he was quietly let go.

 

Feeling he had little choice and few options, he chose to take a job offered by an old college friend in Colorado at one of the resort towns. He would wait tables for the wealthy customers at night and ski during the day. It was a change and it was different and no one would know that he had been forced to quit his last job.

 

Brian had gone through several reactions as the scenario played itself out over two months. He felt proud that Frank had stood up to the thugs, fury that he was arrested for defending his friends, outrage at the charges levied at him and the others—that of making a lewd public spectacle and brawling—relief when the charges were dropped and disbelief when innocence wasn’t reason enough for him to be able to put it behind him and pick up his life where it had been interrupted.

 

Brian wanted him to stay in Pittsburgh and to find another job in the area. He had asked, pleaded, begged, cajoled, ranted, cried, shouted, insulted, told Frank that he loved him and had trusted him to stay and protect him and finally realized that nothing would change Frank’s mind or alter his decision to go.

 

Weeks later, when they had packed up the apartment together, Brian never once allowed Frank to see how desperately destroyed and distraught he was by what had happened. He never allowed Frank to blame himself for Brian’s move back to the Kinney home. Somehow they both knew that this time Jack would leave his son alone, more or less. He was taller than his father now and his time away had given him the perspective to understand that he could leave if he wanted. Legally, there was no way for his parents to keep him there since he had turned sixteen over the summer. Joanie was too worried about what the parishioners at St. Carmel’s would say to allow him to live anywhere else, she would make some effort to keep Jack away.

 

The weekend before Labor Day, Frank left.

 

In all the months they had shared the apartment they’d not had a single disagreement or argument. Frank took Brian on as a little brother, caring for him, teaching him. He allowed Brian to make the occasional mistake so that he could learn. He told him that he should get a job to help with the food and utilities. He taught him that he could take care of himself.

 

They were friends.

 

They never had sex, Frank insisting that sex would ruin their friendship. Brian believed him and it would be years before he would sleep with someone he would allow into the small circle he counted as friends.

 

They stayed in touch for years. Brian wrote from high school, telling how it sucked without him there and that he has received a scholarship. He wrote from college, telling him of his major and that he graduated Magna. He called when he landed his first real job with Ryder and when Gus was born. He told him all about Justin.

 

When he called again, after letting the contact slip for about six months, to tell Frank that he’d made partner he was told that Frank had moved out of the apartment he’d had for over a decade. The man he roomed with said that he had gone to Florida and wasn’t sure what the new phone number was. He would give him the message that Brian had called when he heard from him. He was sick, though—didn’t Brian know? Oh, yes, he had been positive for years but it had finally gone full blown and he had been pretty sick. He wanted to get out of the cold, so he had gone to the Keys. He had always talked about them.

 

Making a few calls, Brian found that he had checked into a care center for AIDS patients on Key West. He asked that all bills be forwarded to him for payment.

 

He called Frank and they spoke for almost an hour. Brian called at least three times a week from then on.

 

When Justin had pouted and whined that he wanted them to spend Christmas together, he had just said that he didn’t do Christmas. He wouldn’t explain and Justin assumed that he would be off tricking.

 

Frank died just before the holiday. Brian was with him when it happened, having told Vance that he would be gone for several weeks visiting family.

 

When he returned, a large donation was made anonymously to the local chapter of ACT UP in Frank Bolton’s name, earmarked to community awareness and support for gay high school kids needing help.

 

He never told anyone.

 

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