Like a Love Story(55)

We reach the entrance to the cathedral and step inside. Worshippers have gathered, seated quietly in pews, ignoring the sounds of protest outside. The cardinal enters, the mass begins. It all feels mundane and normal until a group of men and women walk to the center aisle and lie down in it, quietly. They just lie there, their arms over their hearts, like corpses, the visual symbolism of what they are doing obvious and powerful. It’s a die-in.

Then I finally see him. Sitting in a pew. Taking photos of the men and women lying down in the nave.

Art. A winter hat on his head.

Art. His fingernails painted black, his camera covering his face.

Art. Taking a photograph of Judy’s uncle, who is one of the men lying down like a corpse, pretending to be dead.

I imagine Art dead, and the thought fills me with dread, but instead of making me want to run away in fear, it just makes me want to make the most out of every second he and I have on this earth together.

The gaze of Art’s camera restlessly darts from one end of the room to another until his lens points right at me.

“Reza?” he seems to whisper like a question, though maybe I imagine this.

I freeze. Art cocks his head, indicating I should join him, and I do. I quietly sit next to him.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hey,” he whispers back. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” I clasp my hands tight on my lap, look up to the ceiling, to the nave, and then to Art, and then to the faces of worshippers and back to him. His lip is still swollen from the fight at school, a hint of a bruise on his cheek. I want to kiss it, to heal it.

“Is Judy with you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I came by myself. I was at breakfast with my sister, and I was walking home, and I . . . walked here instead.”

Art nods. His eyes search mine.

“Does Judy know you’re here?” he asks deliberately, like each word is its own question.

I don’t answer. I feel too guilty about what I did to Judy. And what if Art’s love for Judy overrides any feelings he ever felt for me? What if he hates me when he finds out I hurt her?

The mass continues, the cardinal speaks of God and duty and morality. The people in the pews nod and listen, listen and nod. They will not let their Sunday homily be disturbed by this protest. They go on with their rituals as if nothing unusual is happening, as if right now I did not just make one of the most important decisions of my life.

Art takes pictures. One click after another. And then he tries to change the film in his camera, but his hands are too frozen, and he struggles. He cups his hands in front of his mouth and blows into them.

“Here, let me try,” I say, taking the film and the camera from his lap before realizing I have no idea how to work his fancy camera. “What do I do?”

“Just help warm up my hands,” he says with a sly smile. “It’ll be easier.”

He moves his cupped hands toward me, and we both blow into them. Our cold cheeks press against each other, creating immediate heat. Our breath seems to merge into one gust of steam. I don’t feel cold at all anymore. I feel my temperature rising with each breath. After a few breaths, he pulls his hands away, grabs his camera, and changes the film. But his gaze is on me as he does it. It’s amazing how he doesn’t even have to look at the camera as he changes the film. It’s second nature to him. I want him to love me like that. Like it’s our nature.

I suddenly wish that I was religious. That, like my grandparents, I prayed five times a day. Because I have something to pray for now, something to believe in. I have faith in myself, in love. I would kneel more than five times a day to pledge my faith to whatever this is I’m feeling.

“YOU’RE KILLING US!” a man in the pews screams, standing up.

The church stirs. The activists lying down do not move.

The worshippers do not move.

Art stands up to photograph the screaming man. He pulls his hat off, revealing his hair has been dyed in streaks of pink.

“YOU’RE KILLING US. YOU’RE KILLING US,” the man repeats. “STOP KILLING US.”

Others join him. They scream about the church’s policies on condoms, abortion, and needle exchange. They say the church is causing teenagers to get sick, women to get sick, men to die in shame. The chaos that existed outside the cathedral invades it now, swarming in, the floodgates open. People run, people push, and I hear Art’s camera clicking and clicking, capturing it all from the pew, while at the front the cardinal hangs his head. They are like opposing forces, the cardinal and Art, standing at opposite ends of this space, at war.

“Art, get out of here,” Judy’s uncle says. He’s standing up now. “Get out, go home before they make arrests.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Art screams back.

Judy’s uncle sees me. “Reza?” He speaks my name as a question too, just like Art did, but I don’t feel like a question anymore. I feel like an answer now.

Art keeps taking pictures as the protest gets more heated. When the police swarm in, he looks up at me, takes my hand, and says, “Come on, let’s go.” His hand in mine, I can feel both of our heartbeats in our fingertips.

“Isn’t this incredible?” he asks. “Don’t you feel alive?”

“Art, go home now,” Judy’s uncle yells. “The police are everywhere.”