22 PORTMAN AVENUE

She closed the door behind her and just stood there. The big house felt empty now. Not like when her late husband passed away, not even like when her two daughters decided they didn’t want anything to do with their own mother any longer.  Tonight was different. The big space without any life other than her own, was colder than ever, darker, and that smell . . . a smell that made her close her eyes to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall once again since that freezing September morning. But she did it anyway. With no difficulty, she opened her right fist, which held tight the handkerchief she received in her post office box at the Geneva main post office building. A little white handkerchief full of wrinkles with her name and phone number written in red ink and dotted with a bunch of dry red spots. Then she thought about Geeze and his decision one more time. 

It was on that cold September morning, not in Geneva, but in a west suburb of another big city, London, when the body of Geeze turned up at 22 Portman Avenue, Mortlake -- his head split in two.  He was wearing an old pair of jeans and his legs were twisted and broken, as if a victim of an attack or a macabre dark cult ritual. His arms and hands turned backwards and his thin light blue sweater, darkened by blood. He was holding something very tightly in his right hand.

The residents on the house at 22 Portman Avenue and everyone else on the entire block, had been awakened by the very loud sound of an impact in their street. Portman Avenue awoke that day earlier than ever. On the road, was the body of a young man.  At first, the neighbors thought the man had been a victim of a hate crime. Could that be possible? In that quiet suburb? Were they getting to close to the ever growing big city now? Why in their neighborhood? Why on their street? Then, they thought, he could have been in a tragic accident. But as time passed by waiting for the police to show up and amid conversations and more speculations, neither of those possible scenarios seemed to add up.

The resident at 22 Portman Avenue decided to call again. The police were taking too long to arrive and more neighbors were congregating in front of her house. She dialed on her cell phone and waited for someone to answer.  A huge plane flew over, nothing unusual for the West London suburb in the landing corridor. But then, the lady at 22 Portman Avenue froze looking at the sky. With a pale countenance now, she couldn’t talk when someone on the phone seemed to have answered her call. Everyone looked at her taking her free hand to her face and covering her wide open mouth. Forgetting about the phone call, she turned her gaze back to the lifeless man in front of her house, then back to the sky, her face now transformed by torturing thoughts. Instinctively, everyone looked at the sky without understanding what was going on. Then, the lady still holding her phone in the air, lost stability and someone helped her to sit by the curb, while the police siren interrupted everyone who was asking her what had just happened. But the police almost immediately confirmed the lady’s suspicion: The young man had just fallen from a plane arriving in London.

When the phone rang in Geneva, Jessica had been waiting to hear from Geeze for four days and that day was Geeze’s birthday. Was he planning on calling her on that day? Was he planning a bigger surprise? To think that way, to daydream, was much better than the dreams of falling dead birds she had been having since her husband had passed away. There was no doubt that early phone call was Geeze calling and she answered with an ear to ear smile.

In London, the police had found her name and phone number written on a little ladies handkerchief, that the man was holding tight in his hand. It was the police phone call she answered that cold September morning. She couldn’t understand what they were talking about at first, but then she knew. Fast flashes of the last times she saw and spoke with Geeze rushed and flooded her mind, blocking her from answering to the police questions about the young guy they had found dead in that London street. Why did he have her name and phone number? Who was he? 

Jessica knew his entire story but was paralyzed, broken inside and unable to talk.

Mental pictures of the handsome Geeze taking care of her flowers blinded her. The memories of this good man who, on that same day, would have celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday. A day they had planned to spend together since she moved to Geneva with her ill husband.

Geeze was her gardener after he left the flooding and the hard life in the mines in Mozambique and moved to South Africa.  It was then they met and never could take their eyes off of each other. Jessica’s husband was already very sick and Geeze was a comfort at first but then, an unstoppable and passionate love was born between them.  Their clandestine affair was only put on standby when the doctors recommended that she take her husband back to Switzerland, because there was nothing else they could do. Her daughters were in Geneva already, waiting for them, so they never knew what was going on with their mother and Geeze in South Africa. 

Jessica and Geeze dreamed of the day they could finally be together, in Europe, to pursue a better life. Once in Switzerland, Jessica managed to send him some money so he could get the papers needed to travel to Europe. Unfortunately, Geeze trusted the wrong man, who disappeared with all his money, without giving him the so needed papers, leaving him penniless.  He decided to go overland from South Africa to Angola were he called Jessica again. But Jessica’s husband had just passed away and her daughters overheard her conversations with Geeze on the phone, the man who was supposed to be their gardener was having an affair with their mother while their father was dying. Then the girls, in agreement with their fathers-side grandma, decided to sue their mom for their inheritance, which immediately froze all family funds. Jessica ran out of money very quickly and with it, the opportunity to help Geeze. She desperately asked him to hang in there, for a while; to get a temporary job in Angola.

Geeze still didn’t have a job when he made that final phone call four days before his birthday. Jessica then cried for Geeze for the very first time and every day since, when the nights were darker than ever, without having received any more news from him. That’s why she was so happy when she heard the phone finally ring that cold September morning, the same day as Geeze’s birthday.

Finally, Jessica was able to tell the police that Geeze was originally from Mozambique, but that she had heard from him just four days prior from Angola. She didn’t know he was planning to travel as a stowaway.

Planes travel at thirty five thousand feet during international flights as the one from were Geeze fell from over London. Someone told Geeze that, if he could manage to get into the undercarriage at night before departure, so not to be seen, he could find an access door that would give him access to the rest of the aircraft. Without thinking twice, and with the only precaution of taking a couple of crumbled tissues to stick into his ears during departure, he decided to take off. He only wore a pair of tennis shoes, an old pair of jeans and a light blue sweater. He had no idea of what was to come. So confident, Geeze went. It was dark, the plane was already moving when he realized there was no door to be found. But it was too late, to jump out of the moving plane now -- it would be suicidal.

The space inside seemed big enough for him, but he wasn’t sure in which direction the wheels would fold in. The noise, the vibration during take off in total blindness was intense. He panicked, but his only thought was that he had forgotten to call Jessica one more time, to let her know of his plans, while putting the tissue papers into his already deaf ears. Then he saw the wheels coming in and thought they could crush him. He felt horrified with the burning rubber smell and the spinning wheels getting closer and closer. But then, the compartment was completely closed and he believed he felt the wheels stop spinning, perceiving how claustrophobic his entire journey was about to become. He had made it, and now it was time for him to relax a little. The temperature dropped very quickly in the undercarriage, his ears were feeling weird and almost at thirty-five thousand feel in the air, the cold and lack of oxygen rendered him unconscious.

He awoke very confused, not even knowing where he was. A loud new noise was coming in when the wheels compartment finally began to open for landing. He didn’t have time to react and hold onto anything and then, he flew alone over Mortlake. He was still disturbed to grasp reality and he could only think in the moment when he and Jessica would be together again.

The trail to knowing his identity was not easy and maybe could have been impossible, if not for the lady’s little handkerchief with Jessica’s name and phone number on it. The same handkerchief Jessica was holding in her hand now, while trying to contain the tears one more time, for the man who fall on 22 Portman Avenue.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

“The last word my father spoke to me was “faggot”. He was in a rage when forcibly I had to come out of the closet after he heard me in a conversation I was having over the phone. He started screaming, asking me questions without giving me a chance to answer. That he couldn’t believe that his own son would be doing this to him; that he couldn’t believe it he own son was a faggot. Then, he dropped on his knees on the floor, red from screaming but now unable to  pronounce a word. He raised his right hand and held his left shoulder and he would have smashed his face on the kitchen floor if I didn’t hurry up to his aid.”

That is what I heard my son repeat over and over since the incident three months ago. I just lost count of how many times he told the same story to family members, friends . . . That’s the only thing I heard. But despite the fact that I never moved out of his house, I haven’t had the chance to talk to him since. It’s very hard for me. I always wait for the right time but, when I feel I’m ready, it always seems he wants to avoid me. I really tried on numerous occasions, especially every time after he tells the same story again to anyone who comes to visit and hadn’t heard it already. He cries inconsolably in front of me and when I finally find the strength to talk, he prefers to avoid the issue.

Once, he picked up this picture frame we gave him when we sent him to college. The both of us and him on Christmas in the picture. His eyes became shiny, but when I opened my mouth to pronounce the first word, he just touched my face in the picture and said:

- Why dad? Why did it have to be like this? - His voice was breaking and so I thought was my heart - I know I should have told you earlier, but you where dealing with mom, it was really unfair for any of us to talk about it back then. And after that, it seemed that we really never had enough time to talk about anything.

- I know, my son. I know - I responded.

But I couldn’t talk anymore, neither could he. The memories of the times of illness aren't  pleasurable, right? But then, he did something that filled my heart with warm memories and we both got very emotional. He went up to the attic and bought down a box. I think it was from the time when he moved out of our house, judging from the condition of the box and all the dust. But inside, a one single item caught our eyes. It was my only basketball trophy which I give him when he was a kid, hoping one day he could do better than me. Unfortunately, he was never good at sports, so he never did. But for some strange reason, he kept that trophy; so I couldn’t help to ask him why he had kept it after all this years.

At that moment, a strange man came into the house. A man I have never seen before, bringing a manila envelope and shaking it on the air.

- Here they are.

- Finally! - My son’s answer was to that.

What? Finally what? Who’s this guy? But my son then said:

- I kept this trophy all these years waiting for a day to prove I could win one too. Not in basketball of course, or in any other sport for that matter, but in something I’m very passionate about.

- Well - the guy said - that day has arrived.

- What? - I asked - What is he talking about? Did you win anything? Doing what? A passion? I didn’t even know you had a passion for anything. I don’t know, you were always so reserved, so quiet about your life . . .

- Lets go to the house so I can show you - My son replied.

The house? My house? I realized I have a house I haven’t been in since the incident. I hadn’t been anywhere but here since the incident, trying to talk to my son. Inside my son’s house all this time trying to have a conversation with him for more than three months . . . But, it was really three months? Time felt so strange and fast since the incident I couldn’t tell. And i really don’t remember anything during this time except trying to talk to my son unsuccessfully.

So I went along. My son driving, the strange man in the passenger side and me, his father, for the very first time since I taught him to drive, in the back seat. Now his father was sitting in the back seat, the old fart just relegated to be cargo, no more the company for my own son; that place was taken by this strange man, and i was in the back.

But since time was imperceptible to me, we got home as soon as we got into the car. And how we got into that small car I couldn’t tell. How did I manage to get in and out of that capricious model with only two doors my son loved so much I don’t know.

My poor house looked abandoned. The grass was dead. Piles of mail dropping from the mailbox.

- Oh son, how did we let this happen? - I couldn’t contain myself to say.

- Sorry this looks so bad now; but after what happened, I didn’t want to come back here.

My son responded. And before I could say anything else, the strange man took over again.

- No problem, man. I can put this place back in shape in no time.

Oh, I see. My son is bringing some help to fix the mess, that’s what it is. But why without consulting me. That is one of the things that always upsets me about him. I have to learn about everything after the fact. But I preferred not to say anything about it this time, I guess he was just trying to help.

He dropped most of the mail on the floor trying to open the front door.

- Remember, it always sticks on the top - I said. But it was too late. The bounce forced him to back up and loose his grip of the correspondence in the move.

- Don’t worry man, I’ll help you - The strange guy interrupted again.

It seemed to me they were so much faster to react and respond to everything, they are so young.

Then, I realized I didn’t even have the key to my own house with me. Oh, that’s odd, what’s happening with my memory since the incident? I have been so forgetful lately. And these clothes I’m wearing: When was the last time that, in my right mind, I would have chosen these clothes on a hot December afternoon?

We got in and everyone but me complained about the smell in the house. I couldn’t smell a thing.

- What’s wrong with the smell of my house? 

But without an answer, they went to the kitchen and I followed them, not without noticing the dust that had accumulated all over the furniture, the books, the records -- even the pictures seem blurry behind so much dust.

- How did we let things get this bad? - I asked. But the guys were already at the kitchen entrance, staring inside.

- It was here - My son said.

Oh no, there we go again with the story I thought.   Of course I never saw this stranger before so I guess he doesn’t know it yet. But not again, please.

Maybe my son read my thoughts? Because he just stayed quiet and stood there, at the entrance of the kitchen without moving. When they finally did, I saw the place were the incident occurred again for the first time since that day.

- Do you really think you are going to be OK here? - my son asked.

- Of course - I said - It’s my own house; isn’t it?

- It’s a very nice place - The strange man said.

- Thank you - I responded. Gee! Finally he spoke to me. What’s wrong with people these days? Such poor communication skills.

Then, my son opened the refrigerator and discover my secret.

- Oh dad, come on!

- Ops!

- I can’t believe I'd find all this beer hiding inside the fridge! The Dr. clearly said no alcohol! What the heck!

- Well, that was before the incident. One beer once in a while won’t do any harm.

- Won’t do any good neither. Stop lying to yourself - And I knew that voice. I heard my 

wife saying that every time I was trying to cheat on my diet.

Then my son was suddenly sitting by the small kitchen table, crisscrossing his fingers over each red and with square of the table cloth as he used to do when he was a kid, looking all over the place, getting pale, he seemed lost.

- Son, are you OK? - I asked.

- Have you really seen this kitchen? I looks like a 1950’s movie set. Everything in such a 

  good shape.

Then I saw her. My high school sweetheart, radiant, beautiful as always next to him. She was always a wonderful wife, even when she was sick, not complaining about  the pain with anyone. She always cooked amazing dishes while I was drinking my beer, enjoying watching her move like a gazelle between dishes, pots and pans. I don’t remember if I ever had food as delicious as hers after she died. I don’t even remember eating at all during these last months, let alone having a beer.

- What am I going to do with all my mom’s kitchen stuff?

- What do you mean? Your mother would want to keep her stuff - I said.

- I guess I will keep it in a storage for now.

- Come again? Since when do you decide what to do with my stuff?

- It’s not our stuff anymore honey - My wife again. She had this way of intervening when my son and I had a discussion or an argument and always in his favor, not mine.

- But that is “your” stuff - I said loudly.

I don’t know if they thought I was talking to my son or not, but everybody stayed quiet.

- And where is that thing that you want to show so proudly champ? - The strange guy 

said.

- Oh, right. It’s in the garage. I didn’t even want to go inside the house but it was delivered to my father so, I had to receive it here. It was too late to change the address. Actually, that was the opportunity I was waiting for to talk to him.

- OK, its enough - I screamed - Until when you think you can ignore me and act like I’m 

not here. I’m you father.

- Its OK honey. Let it go. - My wife again, was getting more persistent than ever trying to 

avoid another fight with my son. But what is she doing here anyway? how come I can see her and clearly hear all that she tells me?

But then, once again in one of those weird transitions without time, we were inside the garage and I saw it.

It was so beautiful I had no words. I stared at my son’s work of art in front of me with disbelief, transported by the bright giant bronze. How they fit it inside the garage I have no idea, but it was not the moment for frivolous questions. There it was. A magnificent bronze statue of a basketball player. His hand on high trying to make a score. His veins inflated with excitement. His sweat revealing each inch of his muscles under his wet shirt.

- Aren’t his shorts a little too below the waist line? - I didn’t need an answer to that. His huge legs were keeping him high and ready. Even his tennis shoes; are those real tennis shoes? No, they are not. Oh my God, that is my boy’s artistry?

- When in the world did you learn  to make something so beautiful? - I asked.

- Never told you - Said my son - Never told anybody until the award was announced. That day I received a phone call from my boyfriend here, at my parent's house. He wanted to know if I had spoken with him already. We wanted to get married. We couldn’t do it without the old man even knowing his son was gay. But it was before i could say anything that my father heard the conversation and he got furious. He wouldn’t let me talk.

- It was not your fault, you know - The strange man said.

- Of course it was not your fault son. I just . . . - And I was interrupted again, this time by my son.

- When my father died that day the last opportunity I had to show him that I’m somebody, to show him who I really am.

- Nothing died then; I’m still here. I think this piece is beautiful, I think  . . .

- Honey - Once again, my wife - please let it go.

- Can you shut up woman? Why do you keep interrupting me when I’m trying to have a conversation with my son here?

- Honey; he can’t hear you - I think she said. But then, inside the kitchen again; things 

were moving so much faster. And I heard what was really going on between that strange man and my son, and I didn’t like it.

- Here is the power of attorney and the lease agreement you asked me to pick up from your lawyers office then. I don’t know why I carried it all the way here. I guess it was the excitement to move into my future home - And that man finally gave my son that envelope.

- OK. Just give me until the end of the month to clear the place and it is all yours. Here is your key.

- Don’t worry about the cleaning. We will do it with my wife after painting.

- Great.

And then they shook hands and the man left. my wife looked at me with her Mona Lisa smile, the one she always used when she’s right and I’m not, and I finally got it.

We are all upstairs now, in my boy’s old bedroom, looking at old pictures, smiling together, in silence.

Now I know why I can’t figure out time, moments move between each other ruffly and without transitions, just sequences.

Now we are in our bedroom. My boy opens the closet, gets a travel suitcase and starts packing it with my clothes.

- It’s time to go honey - My wife insists, as she always does - Now is the time to go.

For a moment, I think, I saw the statue again. Then my son is in front of me and picks up my only portrait from when I used to be a player, one that my wife insisted on keeping. With tears in his eyes, my son said:

- I only wanted you to be proud of me.

I don’t know how I managed to dissolve the apparent nut in my throat, but after looking at my wife’s Mona Lisa’s smile, I said as loud as I could:

- I’m very proud of you my son and I love you.

And after kissing him softly on his forehead, I reached for my wife’s hand and we left the room forever.