Like a Love Story(28)



Then, finally, the ring of the buzzer. He’s arrived.

The minute it takes for him to take the elevator up is interminable.

When the doorbell rings, Stephen tells Judy to open it. “He’s your guest,” Stephen says as he wipes more sweat from his face. He hasn’t been in the kitchen for a long time now, and the apartment is air-conditioned to a crisp, but the sweat still pours. I’m starting to get worried now, and so is Judy.

“Are you okay, Uncle Stephen?” she asks.

“Of course I’m okay, silly,” he says. “Don’t waste your youth worrying about my hot flashes, please. Every girl goes through menopause at my age.”

Judy opens the door, and Reza stands on the other side. He’s holding the bottle of cider in one hand and a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. He must have gone back to the deli to buy them. “These are for you,” he says to Judy, handing her the flowers.

I can’t see Judy’s face from behind, but I can feel her beaming. I feel my body shake, but I can’t even figure out what emotion is causing it. Anger, maybe. Jealousy. Hurt. Some combination.

“Wow,” Judy says. “That’s so sweet. Thank you. Wow. How did you . . . did you know yellow roses were my favorite?”

“I did,” Reza says. “Art told me.”

Judy looks back to me now and smiles. “Wow,” she says. “Wow.”

I don’t move. I don’t react.

Stephen approaches the door. “Hi, Reza. I’m Judy’s Auntie Mame, but you can call me Uncle Stephen.” Judy looks a little mortified. But Reza doesn’t get the joke. He shakes Stephen’s hand, and then Stephen wipes more sweat from his face. Reza smiles politely, but I can tell he’s afraid. He doesn’t cross into the apartment.

“This is for you,” Reza says, handing Stephen the cider.

“My favorite too,” Stephen says, an obvious lie. Then, playing up the joke, he says. “Did Art tell you that nonalcoholic cider is my favorite?”

“No,” Reza says. He’s totally missed the joke. He doesn’t get Stephen’s humor.

“He’s just teasing you,” Judy says. “That’s what he does.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s something I must say,” Reza says, and that stops me cold. What is he about to say? I feel a bead of sweat on my own brow and wipe it off. Why is everyone sweating tonight? What is he about to say? “I just thought it would be nice to spend some time alone with Judy. I have an allowance, and we could go out, if that’s okay with your uncle.” I breathe a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t reveal my secret. At least he didn’t out me.

Judy turns around. She looks different, like a woman.

“It’s fine with her uncle,” Stephen says, a proud smile on his face.

It’s not fine. It’ll be the first Sunday movie night we’ve skipped since we started. We didn’t skip Sunday movie night the week after José died, or when Judy had the flu. Sunday movie night is sacred. It’s church. And it doesn’t work without the three of us. Without each one of the Ziegfeld Girls.

“Um, well, I guess I’ll see you guys later then,” Judy says.

“Well, let me put those beautiful flowers in water,” Stephen says. “We wouldn’t want them to die.”

That last word seems to linger in the air. Before handing the flowers to Stephen, Judy breaks one in half and places it in her hair. “Just ’cause it matches my outfit,” she says.

Stephen tells them to have fun, then disappears into the kitchen with the bouquet. Reza then waves to me and says, “Goodbye, Art.” Goodbye. Just like that. With finality. Like a send-off. I stand up to say goodbye. I watch them go to the elevator. As they do, Reza places a hand on Judy’s back, protectively, like a boyfriend would.

I stand alone as the door closes, feeling sick to my stomach. When Stephen returns, I turn toward him and see he has placed the flowers in a pink ceramic vase. They look perfect, and I wish they had been mine. I’m filled with envy, and I hate myself for it. “Nice guy,” Stephen says. “I wish my first boyfriend had been that nice.”

I want to say that he’s not her boyfriend, but I don’t. “I’m happy for her,” I say. Can he tell I’m lying?

Stephen goes to the kitchen and brings back a bag of jelly beans. “Two more to add tonight,” he says. “It was a bad day.” He pulls out a red jelly bean. “Pete,” he says. “Such a beautiful dancer.” He drops the jelly bean into his pot. Then he takes out a turquoise jelly bean. “Miss Mia Madre,” he whispers.

I gulp down hard. I remember Miss Mia Madre, a drag queen he loved. She’d always be at the ACT UP meetings, though usually out of drag there. “But she still looked healthy,” I say. “She hadn’t even lost any weight.”

“She was healthy . . . and then she wasn’t,” Stephen says. “AIDS is a little like meteorology. They can predict tomorrow’s weather with some degree of accuracy, but anything further out is pretty much a guess.”

That fills me with panic. I need Stephen here for more than another tomorrow. But I don’t go there. “I think . . . I think I took some pictures of her.”

“I’d love to see them,” Stephen says. “She was born Pedro Martinez, you know. In New Jersey, of all places. Such an ordinary name for an extraordinary soul.” He throws the jelly bean into the pot. “It’s over a hundred now.” He sighs. Then he collapses on the couch. “Maybe it’s for the best those two went out,” he says. “I’m feeling worse than usual tonight. I can’t beat these fevers anymore. My glands feel like golf balls. I wouldn’t have been much of a host.”

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