September 7, 2006 Day 1

This morning at 4:30 a.m. Gary and Bentley drove me to the train station to board the Cascade 20 Amtrak to Washington, DC. I think the hardest part of a trip like this is leaving Gary and Bentley to keep the home fires burning while I traipse across the country one more time.

Gary kissed me through the open window. After all these years together he’s still a little bashful about kissing me in public and no wonder. Gay men and women have died for less. But it’s dark and we’re in an almost deserted parking lot. He doesn’t say much before he drives away, just “Be safe” and “See you soon,” but I know what he’s feeling. Sometimes I think we’ve spent most of our 25 years together saying goodbye.

What we both miss most during these times apart is that last hour of the day when Gary settles up against the pillows (why do gay men insist on so many pillows) and I sit between his legs, lean back against his chest and enjoy the absolute luxury of having him massage the knots in my shoulder while we watch a movie or listen to music and wait to see who nods off first.

As they drive away, Bentley presses his nose against the window. I can see the sadness in his dark brown eyes. We adopted this little black, mixed breed dog from a rescue agency just before he was “put to sleep.” Apparently, the animal control officer found him wandering the streets of Orange County, abandoned or lost by his former owners, starving, sick and crawling with worms. Gary didn’t want me to have a dog because I was gone so much but one day without warning he stopped at an outdoor display of animals up for adoption, pointed at this sick little runt and said, “Mel, if you still want a dog, it has to be that one.”

I’ve never understand Gary’s intuitive powers let alone his timing, but I’ve almost never doubted them. I was stunned. I had given up on having a dog. Then suddenly Gary says, “There’s your dog. Walk him around a little and decide if you want him.” The volunteer placed the sick little animal on a leash and said quietly, “His name is Bentley.” I walked “B” to a nearby grassy knoll in the middle of the mall’s huge parking lot. For a moment I sat on the curb just staring down at this motley little creature. “So you’re Bentley,” I said. “Are you the dog for me?” He didn’t move. He just sat there staring up at me trembling. The moment our eyes met the decision was made. The orphan had found his home.

Bentley and I take long walks almost every day that I’m not traveling. He waits by my desk until about 5:00PM and then puts his paws up on my knees and stares at me until I stop typing. “OK,” I say, “get your leash.” Immediately he runs for the closet where the leash is kept (and looking back over his shoulder to be sure I’m not typing one last sentence or answering one last email) he waits for me to fasten his leash, get a pocket full of treats and a plastic bag or two for emergencies.

Lynchburg has approximately twenty miles of paved walks, pathways and bicycle trails running up and down the James River and its tributaries. We’ve walked those trials together in the blazing heat of summer and in winter’s freezing cold. Gary bought Bentley a faux bomber jacket for our walks in the snow (with aviator sun glasses to block the glare that Bentley in all his wisdom refuses to wear.) When I’m traveling, I think I miss those walks more than he does, but as I watch my dog, his nose pressed against the window watching me, I am certain that he is sad and as anxious for me to end this journey as Gary and I am.

The train was sold out so Ken Siman, my publicist, counselor and tour guide at the Jeremy Thatcher/Penguin Group, bought me a “sleeper” complete with two facing seats that folded flat to make a bed. I seldom ride trains and I found the whole experience rather exciting. As we pulled away from the Lynchburg Station, I lowered the seat about half way, fluffed up the pillows and turned on my ipod to the Turtle Creek Chorale singing Rutter’s Requiem.

As the rolling green hills of northern Virginia sped past, a soprano soloist sang, “Blessed are they who die in the Lord for they rest in peace.” My eyes filled with tears when those words in English and in Latin were echoed by 300 gay and lesbian voices backed by members of the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. “And may light eternal shine upon them. Lux Aeterna. Lux Aeterna. May they rest in peace.”

I complain about the endless travel, but at moments like this I remember all those gay men of faith, my friends and co-workers, who died at the very beginning of their lives who would have given anything to take this journey. Actually, in the train that morning as the choir sang, those men and others were very present, Thomas, Danny, Jonathan, Joe, Lamar and the others who died from this terrible plague, or were murdered or took their own lives. Men Gary and I have known and loved and remember. “May light eternal shine upon them. Lux Aeterna. Lux Aeterna. May they rest in peace.”