Bill. I met him in early spring of 1981 when I was in law school. I’d come to Sioux City once in a while, looking for something I didn’t think I could find in small-town South Dakota.
There was a spark the second his sharp brown eyes met mine. His smile made me melt. And he looked good in those tight Jordache jeans.
”Want to have a beer?” I said, and he told me about the cold taps at Casa del Rey. We went there andtalked for hours like old friends. And then we spent the night together. It was the first time I’d ever done that even though I was 24 years old.
I waited more than a week for Bill to call, and he never did so I called him. He was living at his sister’s house. When she answered, I made up this ridiculous story about being “Bill’s buddy” and leaving my gloves in his car. She sent him out to check, and I thought, Damn, he won’t even get on the phone. But then there it was—that deep, dark voice. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. Even though he didn’t find my gloves, he agreed to meet me at the Jockey Club for another beer. He walked in wearing a striped polo shirt and those same Jordache jeans. Bill.
Over the next year and a half, we spent almost every weekend together in every Motel 6 and Super 8 between here and Omaha. In those hotel rooms, we were free from the prying eyes of his family and my classmates. Risky, yes. But it was just us. Me and Bill.
A year later, I graduated and we moved to Kansas City, into our first apartment together. When our families would visit, they’d sleep in “Bill’s room.” We’d try to hide our smiles when we told them that Bill would just have to bunk with me for the night.
It was the 1980’s. AIDS was an epidemic. The closet was the safest place for us to be. The risk of coming out was just too great. We could lose our families. We could lose the people we loved most. We could disappoint the people we loved most.
We stopped hiding 15 years later because we wanted to start a family, and two guys having a baby just didn’t pass the roommate test anymore! It’s something we’d talked about the first night we met. We made it through the arduous, expensive agency adoption process, and planned a trip to Romania, because no American agency would allow infant adoption by a gay couple.
But then my 16-year-old niece got pregnant and asked us to adopt her baby. Suddenly, we had everything that mattered. Each other. Our families. Our home. And now a wonderful baby girl. The risks had paid off.
A few years later, my legal career took us to Denver. We built a beautiful home in the foothills, and life was good. Well, I guess it was good for me, anyway. Bill wanted to do real estate—flips and rentals—but the Denver market was too hot for us to finance that. So Bill became a stay at-home-dad. He said it was what he wanted. He seemed happy, making friends with neighbors and hosting playdates for our daughter. But his decision to stay home meant that I was the provider, and he depended on me.
If either of us resented this arrangement, we tried not to show it. I was skiing with a neighbor one day and he told me that all the straight couples in our cul de sac joked that Bill and I were the most happy, normal family in the whole subdivision.
And our family was about to get bigger. Our son came along when a beautiful young friend of Bill’s family asked us to adopt her baby when he was born. We were among the first in the country to co-adopt. Our kids’ birth certificates actually show both of us as fathers. Could we be more blessed? I felt like God wanted us to be exactly where we were, doing exactly what we were doing.
Then came a big career move to Columbus, Ohio, where we found—what was for me—a dream home, in a progressive, dynamic city. We made lots of good friends and loved life there. Or at least, I did.
But it didn’t last. My job fell apart. I could tell Bill was unhappy. We fought more than we laughed. It was time for a change. More risk. Maybe we would move to Minneapolis where my family lived. Or Des Moines. I had great job offers in both places. Or we could take the plunge, give up the comfortable life my corporate law career provided and move back to Bill’s hometown, a place where he might be happy. The biggest risk I ever took was making that decision to move back to Sioux City. For Bill.
We bought a big house in the Heights. On our first night there, before the moving vans came with our stuff, I made a pillow fort so we could all camp out in our new home. But Bill came upstairs and said he was taking our kids to his sister’s house for the night. I slept on the floor, alone, in that big empty house. Had I risked too much this time, Bill?
We planned on flipping houses and buying rental property, but we didn’t have enough money to get into it big-time. I had to find a job to pay the bills, and I resented it. Bill didn’t like my attitude. Maybe another change could fix us. A new house in Morningside. A cabin at the lake. A boat. Nothing seemed to help. I suggested weekend getaways, just us. Me and Bill. He wasn’t interested. I couldn’t even get him to go out for lunch.
Then, in 2005, a legal rights group asked us to be plaintiffs in the case to legalize same-sex marriage in Iowa. I was so excited. So honored. Bill didn’t want the publicity. So, we watched as other couples fought for our right and won our right to get married.
The kids, the dog, the house and our families kept us together for the next eight years. Then, I decided to propose to Bill. A boat couldn’t turn things around but maybe marriage could. I told the kids what I was planning, and I called Bill’s sister—I guess to get her blessing.
I baked Bill’s favorite chocolate chip oatmeal cake for his 55th birthday. I topped it with a mirror, reflecting the rings we’d bought years ago but no longer wore. After cooking dinner, I lit thecandles and called the kids to sing our traditional “Happy Birthday” song. I told him, “I love you, Bill. I always have. I want us to get married.”
I waited for his dark brown eyes to meet mine, for his warm smile to melt my heart, for him to say one word that would make or break us. Bill barely looked at me when he said, “No.”
Over the next few years, we slowly tortured each other to the point where there was nothing left to do but walk away. Well, I guess for him to walk away from me. After 33 years together, my heart was still there… is still there.
Four years later, I’m still alone. I don’t want to take any more risks. I don’t want to feel that kind of pain again, even with the joys we had along the way. I hope he’s happy. I hope he’s doing well. I hope he’s found all the things that he always wanted. I really do. Bill.
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Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It’s produced by Siouxland Public Media.
The next show is 7 p.m. Friday, April 6 at The Marquee, 1225 Fourth St. The theme is “Just Keep Going,” inspired by this year’s One Book One Siouxland selection, “Hidden Figures.”
Tickets are $10 in advance; $15 day of show.
