Like a Love Story(91)

How can this happen? I’m not prepared to make these calls. I don’t know how to tell a person that another person they love is dying. But I do it. Because he asks me to, and because if this is it, I want him to have as much love around him as possible. I get them each on the phone. And through tears, I somehow get the words out.

When I return to his side, he says, “Judy, you will have everything you dream of, and more. And I’ll be watching.”

I don’t know what to say. I wish I could see into the future, see if I’ll make him proud. Because that’s all I want right now. To guarantee that I will. To live a life that’s worthy of him.

“If you ever meet Madonna, if you ever make clothes for her, will you ask her a question?” This is how his mind works these days, going from one thought to another without explanation.

“Um, of course,” I say.

“Can you ask her why Joe DiMaggio is in her ‘Vogue’ rap?”

I shake my head. Laugh a little. “Seriously, Uncle Stephen?”

“He doesn’t fit. Greta Garbo. Marilyn. Dietrich. Brando. Jimmy Dean. Jean Harlow. And then, DiMaggio? He’s an athlete. He struck balls, not poses. It makes no sense. I know it rhymes, but couldn’t she have worked a little harder to find a rhyme for, I don’t know, Joan Crawford or Barbara Stanwyck or Ava Gardner or poor, sweet Judy?”

“Uncle Stephen,” I say, with all the conviction I can muster, “I promise you that if I ever meet her, I’ll ask her that question. I promise.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “I’m glad I stuck around long enough to hear that song. It makes me happy that kids today will know who Rita Hayworth is.”

“They weren’t all lucky enough to have Sunday movie nights with their amazing uncle,” I say.

“I’m the lucky one,” he says, smiling at me with love. “I got to watch you grow into the beautiful woman you are.”

I feel a sharp ache. I’m not done growing up, and I don’t know how to keep growing up without him.

My mom turns her wet eyes to me. “My beautiful daughter,” she says, wiping her eyes like she’s trying to see me more clearly. Then, turning to Stephen, she adds, “And my beautiful big brother.”

Jimmy arrives first. He sits on the floor next to me and clutches Stephen’s hand. Stephen smiles when he sees him. They nod in solidarity. “Is there anything you want me to tell Walt?” Stephen asks.

Jimmy shakes his head. He can’t get a word out, but eventually he croaks, “Just tell the fool I miss him.”

“Jimmy,” Stephen says, “thank you.”

“Shut up,” Jimmy says. “I didn’t do anything except keep you company, and you kept me company. And now . . .”

“Don’t let go,” Stephen says. “Fight it harder than I did. Finish that novel before you go.”

Jimmy nods. “I’ll try.”

My dad arrives next. He doesn’t say much, my father of few words. But he’s here, with us, and that’s all that matters.

Art and Reza arrive together. Art doesn’t have his camera around his neck. Maybe he forgot it in the rush. Or maybe this is a moment he doesn’t want to document, a moment he wants to experience without the remove of a lens. Reza looks apprehensive, unprepared to be here. And yet, I think, he’s the one with the most direct experience with loss and with death. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe experiencing death once doesn’t prepare you for experiencing it again. Death isn’t something you can practice.

Art and Reza sit next to me and Jimmy, the four of us on the floor, my mom on the couch. Stephen is enveloped in tenderness. He looks around at all of us. “Judy, Art, Reza.” Stephen says our names slowly, methodically, and then, even more slowly, he says, “Don’t forget me.”

“Are you kidding? No one who ever met you could forget you,” Art says, tears running down his face.

“Not just me,” Stephen says, looking to Jimmy. “Us. All of us. What we did. What we fought for. Our history. Who we are. They won’t teach it in schools. They don’t want us to have a history. They don’t see us. They don’t know we are another country, with invisible borders, that we are a people. You have to make them see.” Stephen takes a strained breath. “You have to remember it. And to share it. Please. Time passes, and people forget. Don’t let them.”

“We won’t,” Art says, and I can feel just how much he means it.

Stephen closes his eyes. “We took care of each other, didn’t we?” he asks. “This community. Gay people will make the best parents. Someday. Just look how we took care of each other. When no one else would.”

“We’re family,” Jimmy says.

Stephen pulls out the final two jelly beans from the pot. He turns to Jimmy. “This one is Walt,” he says. “And this one is José. Our great loves.”

“Reduced to jelly beans,” Jimmy says with a sad smile.

Stephen looks at each of us now, his gaze moving from Jimmy to Art to Reza to me, and finally resting on my mom, his sister, who has never known a world without him. Neither have I.

He closes his eyes.

And then he’s gone.

I can hear the sobs of my friends around me, or are they my own? My mom places a hand on his forehead and speaks before anyone else. “He was loved,” she says.