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Your story makes me think of my "Uncle" Arthur. I don't know if I've written about him here but I know I made him a character in one of the short stories.
Uncle Arthur wasn't really our uncle. He was my mother's first cousin but he was of the age of an uncle. We would get a similar call every few years and my mother would be very excited that Arthur was coming as they had been childhood friends. He didn't come to visit often as his mother died while he was in college and his father when he was a small child. That was one reason he and my mother were so close.
Uncle Arthur lived in Santa Monica, California where he was the city attorney. He told wonderful stories about parties he attended and of playing bridge with Rosemary Clooney and Jose Ferrer who lived across the street. Frederick March was his favorite bridge partner.
We knew nothing about being gay in those years and I wanted desperately for him to bring his "house boy" who was an Indian artist. We also didn't use the term "Native American" in the '50's. He always made an excuse as to why he had to come alone but said I was welcome to visit if my mother would allow it.
I was in my 20's when I realized the situation. Arthur and his Indian (if I ever heard the name I don't remember it) met while they were in college in New York City. They were together over 40 years, They had made an agreement when they first got together that after Arthur retired from his political career they could move anywhere the Indian wanted to go. They bought a ranch outside of Tucson, AZ where they lived for the rest of thier lives. Uncle Arthur died when I was in my early 30's. Mother received a letter from the Indian. I never made it out there to visit.
It was only a few years ago that I realized why they never traveled together. I can't imagine how dangerous that would have been, not only from the standpoint of two men but also of two races in the South. I wish I could have talked to them about this.