Like a Love Story(29)

I sit next to him. I say nothing. He sits up and holds my hand. His is so clammy that it slips a little in mine.

“Hey,” he says. “Let me tell you a story.”

I nod. I love his stories.

“My sister and I used to be best friends. We did everything together. We were partners in crime. We spoke at least once a day, we reported every detail of our lives to each other. Remind you of anyone?”

I can feel him trying to make eye contact, but I evade his gaze.

“She met Ryan before I met José. And when she did, things changed. She didn’t call me every day anymore. Some days she forgot. And then two days would pass, or three. Eventually, we spoke once a week. And when we did, she wouldn’t report every detail of their lives to me. I pressed, but she didn’t feel right. She didn’t want to tell me everything about their intimate life because their intimate life trumped ours.”

“It’s a really sad story,” I say. He thinks I’m melancholy because I’m losing Judy, and I guess it’s true, but only partly. The other part I’ll never tell a soul about, even Stephen.

“You haven’t heard the ending yet. I, of course, being the demanding bitch that I am, was very upset with her. I wouldn’t take her once-a-week calls. I withheld information from her about my life, just for revenge. We still spoke, but it wasn’t the same.”

“Is that the happy ending?”

“Eventually, I met José. I fell in love. And then I understood what had happened. Because what happened between us, the intimate moments, the love and the sex and the fights and the negotiations, they were our secret world. And to tell anyone all of it, even my sister, would have been betraying him.”

“Is that the end?” I ask.

“I suppose,” he says. “The moral is, the dynamic of friendship changes when one friend finds romance. But change doesn’t mean it’s over.”

I could ask Stephen if he thought Reza seemed gay. I could tell him about all the little fleeting moments that passed between us. I could tell him that I think I love him too. But ours will never be a love story. And what’s love, anyway? I don’t have time for love—I’m too angry to have time for love.

“So when’s the next action?” I ask, desperate for something to take my mind off things. “I want to be involved.”

“Art,” he says, “you can’t be a part of every single one.”

I give him a gaze of steel.

“We’re in the early stages of planning something against the church. In December. We figure the closer to Christmas, the better. Show them exactly how lacking in Christmas spirit they really are.”

“I’m in,” I say decisively. “What can I burn down?”

Stephen laughs. Then he picks up his apron again and wipes himself. He’s really soaked. “Don’t say the word burn to me right now. I feel like my head’s in an oven.”

“Can I do something to help?”

“Pay attention in science class,” he says. “Then cure AIDS.”

I want to cry. “I suck at science,” I say. I think about studying biology with Saadi, about Reza next door to us. “I can sit here and watch a movie with you. Keep you company.” I’m the one who needs company.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

We watch Ziegfeld Girl as planned. I eat arroz con tofu. It’s not very good, but his cooking never is. I don’t care. It reminds me of the days when Stephen was strong, José was alive, and Judy was my uncomplicated best friend. Stephen doesn’t touch his plate, just slowly sips bright-orange Gatorade from a wineglass. He has no appetite, and the more he eats, the more diarrhea he has. And since Judy Garland is framed above his toilet, he tries to minimize his diarrhea out of respect.

I don’t like the movie as much this time. I realize that Judy, Lana, and Hedy all go their separate ways in the end. Their sisterhood has an expiration date, like a carton of eggs.





Judy


The air is warm and muggy. I love these summer nights, when you can almost feel a hint of autumn coming but summer just won’t say goodbye. The yellow rose tugs at my hair. No one has ever given me flowers before, let alone yellow roses. When I declared them my favorite, I never thought anyone would. As we step out into the evening, Reza says, “I don’t know this neighborhood very well.”

“I can lead the way,” I say.

“To be honest, I don’t know this city at all,” he says.

I smile. “I don’t mind being your tour guide.”

“Okay,” he says. “I would like that.”

Wow, Judy. Have you seriously found a guy who likes you being bossy?

I lead him to Saint Mark’s Place. It’s my happy place. It’s where punk shops and comic book stores and wig shops coexist. It’s where hippies, drag queens, and musicians unite. It’s where I get pretty much all my ideas. As we walk, I feel a pang of worry. Uncle Stephen seemed so ill tonight. The sweating, it wouldn’t stop. He’s had fevers and flus before, but this one looked awful. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him. I have this constant fear that each time I see him will be the last, and that I won’t tell him all the things I need to tell him. That I won’t get to say goodbye.

“The neighborhoods are so different in this city,” Reza says. “This is nothing like the Upper East Side.”