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."I don't know any more than you do.I'll phone you at home when Ihave some news."Jack became fascinated with me after learning I knew someone at Attica.I fended off hisquestions but went back with him to his motel, where I drowned my anxiety in the pleasureof sex.I didn't hear from Greg on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.During that time the crisis at Atticamounted as dozens of notables flocked to the prison, some sincerely trying to ease thetension between administration and prisoners, others bent more on publicity.I kept tryingto find out whether Sam was directly involved, but very few inmates' names appeared in theSan Diego press, and never Sam's.The major news over the weekend was the death of theguard whose skull had been fractured on Thursday.From then on, all the rioting prisonersbecame subject to potential murder charges.They vowed they would never surrendercontrol of the yard unless they were granted amnesty.Governor Rockefeller declared that ifthey did not surrender peacefully by Monday morning, September 13, he would send introops.Over the weekend Malcolm, the owner of Rusty, came back to San Diego and temporarilymoved into my living room.On Monday morning he drove with me when I went to keep myappointments with Los Angeles publishers.188 In the car I fiddled with the radio dials until I found a station broadcasting the news.Troophelicopters were buzzing over the Attica prison compound.We stopped the car at anaddress on La Cienega Boulevard where I was almost late for an interview.Malcolmpromised to listen until I returned.When I came back, it was over.The troops had retaken the yard.At least thirty were dead,possibly more."Well, that's it," I said, staring ahead."He's dead.""Oh, c'mon," Malcolm said."Statistically there's a better than ninety-five percent chancethat he's still alive."Malcolm waited in the car again while I called the UPI office, hoping for names of the dead.They had a few names, all of them guards.I tried Greg again.No answer.Perhaps he knewit was me.We had dinner at the home of friends of Malcolm's, a married couple in Venice with a newbaby.The husband passed around color photos he'd taken of his wife during the delivery.The blood reminded me of the prison yard and turned my stomach.I went to the bedroomand tried Greg.Still no answer.Dinner was interminable: dessert, coffee, the obligatoryjoint.Malcolm and I drove back to San Diego, reaching my apartment after midnight.At 6:00 A.M.the ringing of the telephone in the living room awakened me."He's dead," said Greg's voice.I began to cry and couldn't stop.My sobs woke Malcolm,who looked at me as though he wished he could drop through the floor.Greg had waited until morning to get official confirmation from the prison.He was nowtrying to make arrangements for the body to be shipped to New York.This would take up toa week.An autopsy would have to be performed.As a further complication, Sam's ex-wifehad also claimed the body in the name of Sam's son.Perhaps the death of a lover enforces its own rules like the need for water or sex.I knew Ihad to be with Sam's body.Nothing else would make his death real to me."I want to come east," I said to Greg."That probably wouldn't be smart right now.Things are going to be pretty hot for a while.But I'll get back to you, okay?"I hung up the phone and cried some more."He's dead," I repeated to Malcolm.I calledGrundoon and drove with her to a hill overlooking the ocean.On a manzanita slope where the trilling of larks competed with the sound of traffic below, Ifound the response that felt most authentic: relief.Sam was dead and I was free of him.Ino longer had to worry over how much loyalty I owed him or whether I was betraying himwhen I said, "I love you," to another man.I didn't have to wonder whether he was angry atme and could give up my guilt at having stopped writing to him.I could even surrender thefantasy, less frequent now but still recurring, that when he got out of prison, we would betogether again.I could try to feel grateful that he died in a way he would have chosen, inthe middle of a battle that was as close as he would come to his dream of revolution: athousand of the oppressed against the armed strength of the state.189 And yet and yet I would have liked to say good-bye
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