Sheville Series

Back to Series

Chapter 16: Purgatory

Matty McEire

Part of a series. Read the rest of the series here.

I stood inside the front dormer window of the third floor apartment in my grandmother's house, absent-mindedly peering down at the street below. I was taking a break from unpacking all the boxes of my accumulated possessions that Lance and I had hauled up there the week before. It was overcast, but not raining – just those heavily-layered, gray stratus clouds that are typical of southeast Pennsylvania. Since it was a little stuffy in the room, I swung the window outward to let in some fresh air. I watched one of the Esposito kids walk past on the sidewalk, probably on the way to Pizzi's Deli down on the corner to pick up some cold cuts or a last-minute quart of milk or loaf of bread for her family's supper. I'd run that errand many times myself as a kid. Every inch of the sidewalk, the street, the neighborhood was completely familiar to me, yet on this day, it also seemed strangely foreign.

I turned away from the window and looked back into the combination living room/bedroom that now contained a mixture of my belongings and the haphazard assortment of furniture that had graced that room for what seemed like forever. I stared at the beige overstuffed chair with the gooseneck floor lamp beside it and remembered a time when, as a teenager visiting from Chicago, I had stayed up all night there contorting my body into every possible position, including upside-down, while reading Gone With the Wind cover-to-cover. I walked past the chair, across the threshold into the tiny hall, and looked to my right down the secret stairway, the one that could only be accessed by turning a skeleton key in a locked door in the second floor hallway, an intriguing off-limits area, but a favorite hiding place, nevertheless, during games of hide-and-seek with my cousins when we were small.

I stepped past the modest bathroom with the ancient, claw-foot tub, and into the kitchen. Seeing the old, white, enamel-topped table sparked a memory of Joseph, one of the many tenants my grandparents had rented the apartment to over the years. He was a student at Villanova who always wore black, plastic-rimmed glasses; a crew cut; and white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up. He was really nice to me and treated me like a little sister. Joseph invited me up for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with him at that same table right before he moved out. I was eleven. He'd been drafted and was going to some place called Vietnam. I never saw him again. My grandmother had a bad habit of reading everything from the newspaper aloud, which my mother detested, and I remembered one night, not too long after that, hearing my grandmother reading Joseph's obituary in the Evening Bulletin .

I started unpacking some of the boxes that were stacked on the kitchen table. The first one I opened was stuffed with old notebooks, letters, and a large, brown envelope full of photographs. I started sifting through the photos. There was one of me and Annie standing at the top of a snow-covered fourteener on a climbing trip in Colorado. The next one was of Gary and Lance loading stuff into Lance's Nova just after I graduated from college and was moving from the dorm into Tim and Ginny's house in Black Mountain. There were a few of Z, Georgia, Red Clover, Boe, and me goofing around on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta. And some of Verlee, Angel, and Janis sitting around a picnic table, heads thrown back roaring with laughter. They were making me homesick for Asheville, so I put them away in a drawer.

I spent the next week trying to get used to the idea that I was living in Philadelphia again. I made the rounds to visit all the relatives. My cousin, Christopher, the only one who knew about me being gay, came over and told me it was great that I was back but that I must be crazy to be living within such close proximity of my family again. My parents and sister lived only two blocks away from my grandmother. The entire neighborhood was crawling with aunts and uncles. He, at least, lived out in Norristown, far enough away that no one would just pop in on him. I gave him an update on everything that had happened in Asheville and how I thought it would be better for me to be living in a larger city again. He was still not convinced, but wished me luck on my new venture anyway.

I was determined to make it work, so I began a new evening ritual. Once my grandmother finished reading most of it aloud, complete with critical commentary in her heavy County Donegal brogue, I checked the newspaper to see what jobs might be available. After I landed a job and saved some money, I could rent my own apartment a little farther away from the old neighborhood. My Uncle Seamus, who was in his late forties and unmarried, still lived with my grandmother. As soon as he and I finished washing and drying the meat and potato pots after supper and I managed to wrest the paper away from my grandmother, Uncle Seamus would go down into the basement to practice his bagpipes. He was a beginner but had just graduated from his practice chanter to the real thing. As he forced air through the blowpipe, inflating the bag, the entire house shook. I still associate the wailing and droning of “Scotland the Brave” with reading the classifieds.

Meanwhile, my mother would stop over daily to check in on things. Even though Uncle Seamus lived there, she was the one who helped my grandmother with her housekeeping, laundry, grocery shopping, and other errands. Mom and I didn't really have much to talk about when she came over. She only wanted to know how my job search was going, how Lance was doing, and when I was going to start coming to church again. She would give me cheerful updates on what a nice, young man my sister was dating. She also made it clear that she was not thrilled about me spending time with my old friend, Alice, again. She thought I could make much better choices in friends, especially if I started going to the church group for young adults. Mom always thought Alice had been a bad influence on me. She was already beginning to drive me crazy, and I hadn't even been back for two weeks yet!

I didn't see my dad very much. He was working all the time, as usual, at his full-time day job and his part-time evening job. I'd been out of college for well over two years, and my sister, a high school senior, had decided not to go, so I thought he could afford to slow down a little, but once I moved back to Philly, I realized he might have been working so much just to stay out of the house. He had moved into my old room that year, and things seemed to be rapidly deteriorating between him and my mother. Maybe she was driving him a little nuts, too.

I spent as much time with Alice as possible. We had been friends since we were six, and she was the only lesbian I knew in Philly. I had come from a total immersion in the lesbian social scene in Asheville to living among blood relatives again, knowing only two gay people – Alice and Christopher. I was hoping that maybe through Alice I could begin to find the lesbian community. Alice was still living in her parents' house and had a job driving a cab that year. We went out to the bars a few times, but mostly spent our time up in her room smoking Columbian and philosophizing about life, liberty, and the pursuit of being gay. One night I brought the envelope of photos over to show her. As I handed each one to her and described the people in them, I came to the realization that I missed Asheville and my community there more than I had been letting on to myself. I also realized that if I was going to be totally true to myself, there was no way I could live in the same town with my mother and all her narrow-minded, religious, prejudiced, Republican relatives. If I came out in Philly it would kill my mother, and if I didn't come out there, it would kill me. I had to leave.

So less than a month after Lance and I had moved everything I owned to my grandmother's house, I was packing it all up again. I separated the essentials that would fit into the Buick from the non-essentials, which I boxed up to store in my parents' attic. I explained to all concerned that I simply missed Asheville too much and was moving back. Most of my relatives thought I was just a crazy, mixed-up, hippie-kid who couldn't make up her mind what she wanted to be when she grew up – if she ever did. Christopher and Alice were the only ones who completely understood. My mother prayed that I would come to my senses and eventually marry Lance. My father loaned me his Exxon credit card just in case anything happened to the old Buick along the way, and I was gone again, driving west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and then south on interstate 81 toward “home.”

The Exxon card turned out to be a lifesaver. Somewhere in rural Virginia near Purgatory Mountain, which seemed an aptly named place for such an incident to occur, horrible grinding noises started emanating from the vicinity of the right, front wheel. I was not far from the Buchanan exit, so I slowed down but kept driving, holding my breath and hoping the wheel wouldn't fly right off. There were two places of business open at that exit – a Gulf station and, hallelujah, an Exxon station, where I pulled in. I pushed the door open into the grease-stained office and found the sole employee on duty coming out of the service bay, wiping his hands on a rag. The name patch on his blue work shirt said, “Roy.” He looked like he was maybe sixteen. I described the problem, and he said he'd take a look. I gave him the keys, and he pulled the car into the garage. I sat in the office on a ratty couch with ripped, vinyl upholstery and perused the collection of days-old newspapers.

Roy emerged about twenty minutes later and said, “Ball bearings.”

“Ball bearings?” I repeated.

“Yup. Ball bearings.” He was not much of a conversationalist.

“Well, can you fix them?” I asked.

“Nope. Gotta replace ‘em.”

“OK. How long do you think it will take?”

“No idear. Ain't never done it before. You'll have to take it on down to the Gulf station and see if Harold there can do it.”

This presented a significant problem. I did not have a Gulf credit card, and I definitely didn't have enough cash to pay for repairs. I explained this to Roy, who said he was real sorry but I'd have to talk to Harold. Then I had an idea. I told Roy that I was sure if he would just call and have Harold talk him through the process over the phone, that he would be able to do it. I was positive that he could. I had faith in him. He'd be saving my life if he'd only try.

Miraculously, one run down to the Gulf station to get the parts, four phone calls, and three hours later, I was back on the road again, and Roy was the new ball bearing replacement specialist in Botetourt County, Virginia.

The drive from Philadelphia to Asheville usually took me about eleven hours, but due to the extra time spent in Purgatory, it was almost midnight when I finally made it to town. I took the Charlotte Street exit off the expressway and pulled up in front of Janis' place. The lights were still on, and through the curtained window, I could see Janis sitting up in the folded-out sofa bed reading a book. I knocked on the door. Janis shrieked and jumped about three feet in the air, her book flying across the room. When she realized it was me standing there on her porch, she opened the door.

“Jesus, Matty! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Philadephia.”

“I'm back,” I shrugged.

“Damn. You scared the shit out of me, but I'm glad to see you. Come on in,” she said, shutting the door behind me and giving me a hug. She motioned to the hide-a-bed, which took up most of the room when it was folded out. “Sit down. Tell me what's going on.” She sat down next to me, pulled the blankets up over her legs, and we both lit cigarettes.

“I can't live in the same town with my mother. I have no idea exactly what I'm going to do now. All I know is that I can't live up there. So here I am. I just drove into town.”

“Does anybody else know you're here?” Janis asked.

“Nope. You're my first stop. I didn't tell anyone I was coming.”

“You didn't? Jeez, Matty. Well, I'm sorry it didn't work out for you, but from all the horror stories you've told me about your mother's religious conservatism, I guess I'm not totally surprised. I just didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But don't get me wrong,” she added, reaching for my hand, “I really am glad to see you. I've missed you.”

“Thanks,” I replied, looking at her with a semi-sheepish and very tired smile.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am. It's been quite a journey.” I told her all about my afternoon with Roy in Virginia.

“Take your shoes off and get comfortable. Let me get you something to drink, and we'll talk a little bit longer. Then you can crash out here with me for the night.”

“Thanks. That'd be great,” I responded, extremely grateful that I had a place to stay, even if only temporarily, and that Janis was not mad enough at me for leaving to tell me to just turn around and hit the road again, which she could easily have done considering the on-again, off-again nature of our relationship before I left. We stayed up for another hour or so and caught each other up on the events of the past weeks.

While I was gone, life certainly went on without me in Asheville. Janis told me that the Women's Center held its big fundraiser day as planned, but instead of holding it at the Blue Ridge Mental Health Center, it took place in the courtyard of the Allen Center, a conglomeration of buildings next to the expressway, which housed office and meeting spaces for various organizations in town. This was a welcome proposition, especially to the lesbian members of the Women's Center, who were beginning to feel that there was a certain stigma attached to always meeting at an outpatient center for the treatment of mental illnesses. Some lesbians who might have been interested in some of the Women's Center activities wouldn't participate just because of the location.

The day of the fundraiser turned out to be perfect for an outdoor event; it was a beautiful, warm and sunny Saturday afternoon with a cloudless, blue sky. The deciduous trees surrounding the Allen Center's courtyard were just beginning to display their fall colors. All of the women's organizations in town had information booths. There was plenty of good food and drink for sale. Several women artisans in the community set up their wares: pottery, stained glass, paintings. Andy's entertainment committee came through, too, with a full slate of speakers and musicians, all of them women, but none of them lesbians. There was a traditional mountain dulcimer player, some local folk singers, and even a woman from Durham who did musical comedy, playing the guitar and singing scathingly left-wing political lyrics to the tunes of well-known songs. Irma enjoyed the stage activities most of all; she was the emcee, and it really brought out the ham in her. Janis told me that it was very much like a mini-women's festival, just without anything openly lesbian. In Asheville in 1977, it was okay to be a feminist in public, but not a dyke.

When I woke up the next morning, Janis was gathering up her books, including the one she had jettisoned across the room when I startled her the night before, and getting ready to leave for a morning philosophy class at UNCA. I sat up and stretched.

“Matty, there's some coffee ready for you in the kitchen. There's not any half and half. Sorry. I've started drinking it black. But there's some milk and some cereal, too. Help yourself.”

“Thanks, Janis,” I yawned.

“What are you going to do today?” she asked.

“I'm not sure yet,” I replied, heading straight for the coffee.

Janis looked at me with sort of a confused expression on her face and said, “You know you can stay here a few nights until you figure out what you're doing, but this place is too small for you to live here.”

“I know, Janis. Don't worry. I'll figure out something. If I'm not here when you get back, I'll call you, okay?”

“Okay. See you later. I really am glad you're back, Matty, honest. Don't be mad at me about not being able to stay here.”

“I'm not. Don't worry about it. You better get going so you won't be late for class.”

Janis smiled and walked out the door with her armload of books. As I poured my cup of coffee with skimmed milk, I heard Janis lurch off in her Pontiac-tank. She still hadn't gotten those valves fixed.

I figured I'd take a shower and head over to Oakley where both Angel and Verlee lived. Then I thought maybe I'd better call first so I didn't terrify anyone else with my sudden appearance. I called Verlee and got a recording that her phone had been disconnected. That was not a good sign. When I'd left town, she still hadn't found another job after being laid off from the post office, but she was getting unemployment checks which should have covered her phone bill. I hoped she wasn't still drinking too much. She was a dear, but between the beer and the marijuana, she sure could pull some lengthy benders. I'd just have to drop in on her and take my chances.

Then I called Angel. I never knew what time of day or night was a good time to call her because she worked different shifts all the time. She might be first shift in Hickory one day and third shift in Bryson City the next. I hated to wake her up if she'd just gotten to sleep after a third shift, but I called anyway. She picked up right away and sounded awake, so I was in luck.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Angel. It's me, Matty.”

“Matty! Hi, how are you? It's great to hear from you. How are things going up there in Philadelphia?” She sounded really happy that I called.

“Well, Angel,” I said, “I'm not exactly in Philadelphia anymore.”

“You're not? What do you mean? Where are you?”

“Uh,” I hesitated. How was I going to explain this one? “I'm actually about five miles away from your house.”

“What?” she exclaimed. Even through the telephone wire, I could envision her face screwing up with a look of total confusion.

“It didn't work out up there. I came back.”

“Wow. What a surprise this is. Well, Matty, why don't you come on over here and tell me what's going on. I'm off today. I don't have anything planned, so come on over. Have you eaten anything yet this morning?” She was already trying to feed me again.

“No, I'm just drinking some coffee.”

“Okay. Your breakfast will be ready when you get here.”

“Okay. I'm on my way. See you soon.”

Of course when I arrived, the table was set, the bacon and eggs were ready, and the toast was just popping out of the toaster. Like magic, I was sitting in front of a hot breakfast complete with coffee – with half and half – and talking to Angel, Angel without Z. It was kind of like a flashback or a déjà vu.

We sat there and talked for hours, interrupted only by Amigo the cat's insistence on sitting in my lap, kneading and purring. I told Angel everything that happened - or didn't happen - during my stay in Philly. She filled me in on who had been doing what in Asheville. Z was still in Chapel Hill. She'd been home the previous weekend, so wouldn't be back again for a couple weeks. Angel was very lonely, and the house felt awfully empty without Z there. So, any fool can see what's coming next, right? Angel is lonely. I need a place to stay. Angel needs somebody to take care of. I am homeless, jobless, and can't cook for shit. But I have a great sense of humor and a guitar.

Angel helped me carry my stuff into the house. I moved back into my old room. It was a temporary situation. It would be fine. And it actually was fine. We got along great and filled each other's needs – except for one. This time when I moved back into my old room, I stayed there. Angel was with Z, and there would be no funny stuff happening between Angel and me. And there wasn't. My unmet need ended up being met elsewhere when I finally got down to Verlee's trailer the next day and she introduced me to a woman from Mitchell County who called herself “Spunk.”