the shelves on the bookcases are bowed, one paperback away from snappingunder the weight. Teetering stalagmites of books sprout up in clusters from the thinning carpet, forming a narrow path to the sofa.
“Shirt off,” Erik says, plugging his stethoscope into his ears.
Benton bats his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“Careful,” I warn, covering my ears, “children are present.”
Erik starts his examination, listening to Benton’s concave chest and asking him to breathe in and out. Having accompanied Erik on similar trips, I prep the blood pressure cuff in the medical bag, knowing he’ll need it next. From inside the bag, I take out a small picture frame and hand it to Benton. On the glass, I’ve painted the Madison state capitol building at night, in the Cubist style of Picasso. Benton grins.
“You’ve really got a talent, Evan,” he says, holding the picture at arm’s length.
“It’s to celebrate,” I tell him. “Erik says your T-cell count is high.”
“Go T cells!” Benton yells, making a fist with his free hand.
I don’t really understand what that means. I know it has something to do with HIV and AIDS and low T cells means bad and high T cells means good. Sometimes,Erik launches into deep discussions about his work and what he wants to do at the research facility in San Diego. I’ve never had the heart to tell him it’s all going over my head. I imagine it’s how Davis feels whenever I start talking about art.
“So, as I was saying,” Benton says with faux haughtiness, “before Nurse Ratched showed up and broke my concentration, I was doing a bit of writing.”
“Good for you,” Erik says, tightening the Velcro strap on the blood pressure cuff around Benton’s upper arm. “You gonna try to get it published?”
Benton cocks his head, his gray eyes dancing. “Actually, I’ve been thinking. If my health keeps up, I might just try resurrecting White Satyr.”
Erik’s raised eyebrows tell me he’s impressed. “Pretty ambitious. Not to rain on your parade, but I’d be more confident in your ability to stay healthy if you did things like, oh, kept your appointments with Dr. Friese.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” Benton mutters as Erik continues to poke and prod.
“What’s ‘White Satyr’?” I ask.
“My pride and joy.” Benton beams, pointing to a nearby bookcase. Every book on the shelves—easily more than two hundred—bears a bright white spine with thin red lettering. At the bottom of each spine is a horned black triangle and the words “White Satyr Press.”
“Mr. Benton founded the Midwest’s first gay literary press back in the Seventies,” Erik reports.
Benton steps away from Erik’s exam and plucks a small, tattered scrapbook from his desk. He hands it to me. I’ve seen this before, at Mr. Benton’s bedside the few times I’ve visited him in the hospital. He always has it with him. The first page has a black-and-white photo of eight smiling men with their arms around one another, sitting on the lawn at Bascom Hill on the UW campus. They’re wearing bell bottoms and big glasses and everyone’s got wild, long hair. I laugh when I spot Mr. Benton on the end, sporting a bushy mustache, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his hairy chest.
“These were my friends back then. Artists, poets, playwrights, actors. We called ourselves the White Satyr Collective. Things were changing for gays across the country and we wanted to be a part of that. We were all struggling to get our work recognized in venues that weren’t comfortable with gay themes. One day, I said if no one else will publish the work of these brilliant people, I’d do it myself. So the Collective became White Satyr Press. We published poetry chap books, literary novels, plays, and photography books. We made gay history.”
Gay history. It makes me think of Sable. But not in a creepy way. When Mr. Benton says it, it sounds noble.
Benton takes the scrapbook back as Erik continues
“Shirt off,” Erik says, plugging his stethoscope into his ears.
Benton bats his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“Careful,” I warn, covering my ears, “children are present.”
Erik starts his examination, listening to Benton’s concave chest and asking him to breathe in and out. Having accompanied Erik on similar trips, I prep the blood pressure cuff in the medical bag, knowing he’ll need it next. From inside the bag, I take out a small picture frame and hand it to Benton. On the glass, I’ve painted the Madison state capitol building at night, in the Cubist style of Picasso. Benton grins.
“You’ve really got a talent, Evan,” he says, holding the picture at arm’s length.
“It’s to celebrate,” I tell him. “Erik says your T-cell count is high.”
“Go T cells!” Benton yells, making a fist with his free hand.
I don’t really understand what that means. I know it has something to do with HIV and AIDS and low T cells means bad and high T cells means good. Sometimes,Erik launches into deep discussions about his work and what he wants to do at the research facility in San Diego. I’ve never had the heart to tell him it’s all going over my head. I imagine it’s how Davis feels whenever I start talking about art.
“So, as I was saying,” Benton says with faux haughtiness, “before Nurse Ratched showed up and broke my concentration, I was doing a bit of writing.”
“Good for you,” Erik says, tightening the Velcro strap on the blood pressure cuff around Benton’s upper arm. “You gonna try to get it published?”
Benton cocks his head, his gray eyes dancing. “Actually, I’ve been thinking. If my health keeps up, I might just try resurrecting White Satyr.”
Erik’s raised eyebrows tell me he’s impressed. “Pretty ambitious. Not to rain on your parade, but I’d be more confident in your ability to stay healthy if you did things like, oh, kept your appointments with Dr. Friese.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” Benton mutters as Erik continues to poke and prod.
“What’s ‘White Satyr’?” I ask.
“My pride and joy.” Benton beams, pointing to a nearby bookcase. Every book on the shelves—easily more than two hundred—bears a bright white spine with thin red lettering. At the bottom of each spine is a horned black triangle and the words “White Satyr Press.”
“Mr. Benton founded the Midwest’s first gay literary press back in the Seventies,” Erik reports.
Benton steps away from Erik’s exam and plucks a small, tattered scrapbook from his desk. He hands it to me. I’ve seen this before, at Mr. Benton’s bedside the few times I’ve visited him in the hospital. He always has it with him. The first page has a black-and-white photo of eight smiling men with their arms around one another, sitting on the lawn at Bascom Hill on the UW campus. They’re wearing bell bottoms and big glasses and everyone’s got wild, long hair. I laugh when I spot Mr. Benton on the end, sporting a bushy mustache, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his hairy chest.
“These were my friends back then. Artists, poets, playwrights, actors. We called ourselves the White Satyr Collective. Things were changing for gays across the country and we wanted to be a part of that. We were all struggling to get our work recognized in venues that weren’t comfortable with gay themes. One day, I said if no one else will publish the work of these brilliant people, I’d do it myself. So the Collective became White Satyr Press. We published poetry chap books, literary novels, plays, and photography books. We made gay history.”
Gay history. It makes me think of Sable. But not in a creepy way. When Mr. Benton says it, it sounds noble.
Benton takes the scrapbook back as Erik continues
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