RANSVESTIA

tioned my reasons for coming back to the house. At all costs, I had to protect his secrecy, as he had striven to do all his life. I was able to pick up a book on the subject before boarding my plane, and read all across the world. But I was still full of questions. I never once questioned him for so many years, and now, I found that there were much deeper rea- sons to love and admire him. I wanted to help. And so began an ex- change of letters between us. He had never been much for a correspon- dent, but now he bloomed. He could write about his feelings, F P E, his friends. I made many trips back to New York, where he and I met at my oldest son's apartment in Long Island. My son's working hours (he was a bachelor) gave Al and me, hours of being alone together. My son knew we were meeting at his place, but never questioned it. He knew how much I loved his uncle, and that our parents' home gave no privacy to talk. Al was at long last, free to talk. His stories of his friend- ships with you all, lighted up his beautiful eyes with joy, and he brought me joy. He brought me literature, that I consumed. So many answers came my way. I realized his gentle love for all his niece and nephews, he thought with a woman's depth of compassion. He asked me never to be- tray his trust, while he lived, and of course, I never did.

He also gave me a commission. All his things were locked in a trunk, at our parents' home, where he lived. As his physical condition wors- ened, he was unable to dress, or remove these things from the house. My mother happens to be a curious person, and would ask questions if Al carried a package. How he suffered all his life because of this. I offered to supply him with an outlet; that we could keep a locked box at my son's, and Al could use Bud's place. Bud would never question any- thing. But Al preferred not to implicate anyone else, and so he contin- ued on his frustrated way. I agonized with him. The commission was to open the trunk, after his death, and explain to our family. We both knew that my parents would never allow that box to leave unopened. It had been a sort of family joke for years. That Al had it full of money. When Al took so sick in early November, I came home. I hoped perhaps that Al could sign a paper, giving me possession of the trunk, unopened, so our family would never have to know. We talked about it, but he was too sick to arrange a paper, and we both felt our folks would be too hurt to accept Al's giving the trunk to me. It would be sort of "cutting them out". Which would be the lesser hurt?

He sent me back to Arabia for Christmas. My four children are grown. The youngest, 17, and a student in Beirut, Lebanon, and a son attending Boston University, were coming home for the holidays, and Al wanted me to be with them, and my husband. I went, torn between two

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