now, almost defiantly.
“Are you allowing him to stay?” Mrs. Hankins asked.
The damage was done. There was no use trying to hide the truth from Morgan any longer. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hankins. He can stay here.”
“Anne tires easily,” Mrs. Hankins warned. “I’ll be in the kitchen, Anne.”
“I want to know what’s wrong with you,” Morgan insisted gently once he and Anne were alone. “Please tell me. Maybe I can help.”
She gestured to one of the lesions. “This is Kaposi’s sarcoma. A type of skin cancer.”
His gaze barely brushed over the ugly lesions. “Skin cancer is the reason you left so suddenly last summer? I want to know why you went without even saying good-bye to me.”
“You should have phoned. We could have discussed it over the phone.”
“Too impersonal.”
“You should have told me you were coming.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”
“You would have been right.” She sighed and nervously brushed her hand through her wispy hair. If only she could look pretty again.
“You’ve changed the subject,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She hated to, feared the look of revulsion that would cross his face. “I have AIDS.” She stared straight at him, waiting for him to bolt toward the door.
He felt as if he’d been slammed on the ground from the back of a bucking horse. He didn’t know a lot about AIDS, but he knew it was fatal. “Is that what you’ve been afraid to tell me?”
“Aren’t
you
afraid?” She couldn’t believe he was enlightened enough not to be fearful.
Morgan shook his head. “I’m one person who isn’t afraid.”
It was her turn to be surprised. “Do you know someone with AIDS? Do you have AIDS?”
No.
“Then why—”
He folded his hands together and silenced her with an anguished look. Quietly, he asked, “Have you ever heard of the disease Huntington’s chorea?”
Seventeen
“H UNTINGTON’S CHOREA?” A NNE searched her memory for the meaning of the name. “No, I haven’t. Tell me about it.”
“It’s a genetic disorder. It gets passed along through families. The word ‘chorea’ comes from a word that means dance.” Morgan gave a bitter chuckle. “It’s a dance, all right. A victim has no control over his movements. For no reason, he jerks spasmodically. He gets worse and worse until he can’t walk. Then his muscles get stiff and rigid. All the while, the mind is affected too, and the victim turns paranoid. Eventually, the person becomes totally disabled, no more than a living vegetable. And finally—sometimes after years of suffering—he dies of choking to death, or from pneumonia, or heart failure or a blood clot. The folk singer Woody Guthrie died of it.”
Anne blinked, feeling the anguish of Morgan’s description. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Do you remember when I told you that my father was dead?” Anne nodded. “That’s not true,” he said. “He’s in an institution in St. Louis that specializes in caring for people with Huntington’s.”
“Oh, Morgan …” Anne felt tears well in her eyes.
“It’s simpler to say he’s dead.… I mean, he may as well be. He’s totally disabled and out of it. I was eight when his symptoms first started, but I still remember what it was like—what he turned into. Up till then, my daddy was a big, fun-loving cowboy. One day, his body started making weird twitching motions. He started falling down while walking. At first, the doctor thought he’d had a seizure, so he put him on medicine. It didn’t help.
“Then, gradually, Dad turned mean and crazy. He chased Mom with a butcher knife one time. Another time, he drove the car right through the side of the house. Finally, after five years of living with this wild, spastic lunatic, Mom and Aunt Maggie decided to lock him away. That’s when another group of doctors realized he had Huntington’s disease.”
“Is that why your mom left?”
“When the diagnosis finally came in,
“Are you allowing him to stay?” Mrs. Hankins asked.
The damage was done. There was no use trying to hide the truth from Morgan any longer. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hankins. He can stay here.”
“Anne tires easily,” Mrs. Hankins warned. “I’ll be in the kitchen, Anne.”
“I want to know what’s wrong with you,” Morgan insisted gently once he and Anne were alone. “Please tell me. Maybe I can help.”
She gestured to one of the lesions. “This is Kaposi’s sarcoma. A type of skin cancer.”
His gaze barely brushed over the ugly lesions. “Skin cancer is the reason you left so suddenly last summer? I want to know why you went without even saying good-bye to me.”
“You should have phoned. We could have discussed it over the phone.”
“Too impersonal.”
“You should have told me you were coming.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”
“You would have been right.” She sighed and nervously brushed her hand through her wispy hair. If only she could look pretty again.
“You’ve changed the subject,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She hated to, feared the look of revulsion that would cross his face. “I have AIDS.” She stared straight at him, waiting for him to bolt toward the door.
He felt as if he’d been slammed on the ground from the back of a bucking horse. He didn’t know a lot about AIDS, but he knew it was fatal. “Is that what you’ve been afraid to tell me?”
“Aren’t
you
afraid?” She couldn’t believe he was enlightened enough not to be fearful.
Morgan shook his head. “I’m one person who isn’t afraid.”
It was her turn to be surprised. “Do you know someone with AIDS? Do you have AIDS?”
No.
“Then why—”
He folded his hands together and silenced her with an anguished look. Quietly, he asked, “Have you ever heard of the disease Huntington’s chorea?”
Seventeen
“H UNTINGTON’S CHOREA?” A NNE searched her memory for the meaning of the name. “No, I haven’t. Tell me about it.”
“It’s a genetic disorder. It gets passed along through families. The word ‘chorea’ comes from a word that means dance.” Morgan gave a bitter chuckle. “It’s a dance, all right. A victim has no control over his movements. For no reason, he jerks spasmodically. He gets worse and worse until he can’t walk. Then his muscles get stiff and rigid. All the while, the mind is affected too, and the victim turns paranoid. Eventually, the person becomes totally disabled, no more than a living vegetable. And finally—sometimes after years of suffering—he dies of choking to death, or from pneumonia, or heart failure or a blood clot. The folk singer Woody Guthrie died of it.”
Anne blinked, feeling the anguish of Morgan’s description. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Do you remember when I told you that my father was dead?” Anne nodded. “That’s not true,” he said. “He’s in an institution in St. Louis that specializes in caring for people with Huntington’s.”
“Oh, Morgan …” Anne felt tears well in her eyes.
“It’s simpler to say he’s dead.… I mean, he may as well be. He’s totally disabled and out of it. I was eight when his symptoms first started, but I still remember what it was like—what he turned into. Up till then, my daddy was a big, fun-loving cowboy. One day, his body started making weird twitching motions. He started falling down while walking. At first, the doctor thought he’d had a seizure, so he put him on medicine. It didn’t help.
“Then, gradually, Dad turned mean and crazy. He chased Mom with a butcher knife one time. Another time, he drove the car right through the side of the house. Finally, after five years of living with this wild, spastic lunatic, Mom and Aunt Maggie decided to lock him away. That’s when another group of doctors realized he had Huntington’s disease.”
“Is that why your mom left?”
“When the diagnosis finally came in,
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