The air outside is still hot as we begin our walk. New York is very good at controlling the temperature inside, but once you are outside, you are battling the elements. The mugginess makes me sweat a little bit, which only makes my nerves worse, which then makes me sweat more. “See,” he tells me, “I told you to pack an extra shirt. How many Madonna shirts did you buy?”
“Just one,” I say.
He looks at me with interest. “You made a good choice,” he says. “And it fits you well.”
I don’t know what to say to this. I just smile.
“Come on, let’s get on the subway here,” he says. “He lives too far downtown for us to walk.”
He runs down the steps, so I do too, though I don’t skip the way he does, like he’s running on a trampoline. His jeans fit so well from behind that I find myself staring at him, wishing they would fall down. Maybe I can add sorcery to my list of sins and make that happen.
On the train, he asks, “So what has Judy told you about her uncle?”
“She said he has movie nights,” I say. “And that they are always old movies.”
“Did she say that he was gay?” he asks.
“She did mention that,” I say.
In front of us, a young couple kisses each other aggressively, sucking each other’s bottom lips like sliced oranges they want every last drop of juice from.
“And did she tell you that he has AIDS?” he asks.
“I, uh, she did not say that,” I say, my heart beating. I had gathered from some of what I read that Judy’s uncle wrote those notecards, and I had guessed from what he wrote that he has AIDS. But now I realize that I am about to be in a room with a person who has AIDS. I want to turn around and escape to a safe place. I want to go back to Canada, before I knew about this disease. I close my eyes and imagine that poster of Madonna. HEALTHY.
“I’m not trying to scare you or anything,” he says. “I just think it’s good to be prepared. ’Cause he looks sick, you know. Have you ever met someone with AIDS?”
I shake my head.
“You probably have and don’t know it,” he says. “That’s the thing. Nobody goes to get a test. And people can have HIV for years without knowing it, and then suddenly, they die. But the thing is, it’s not sudden. They’ve had the virus for years. Anyone could have it.”
He isn’t making me feel better. I wish this subway were air-conditioned. Sweat is sticking to me, to my clothes. I feel suffocated.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m just hot,” I say, too quick.
“Hey, you know you can only get AIDS from sex and needles, right? You need semen or blood involved. You won’t even get it from kissing. You’re not gonna get it at a movie night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I said I’m just hot,” I snap back.
“Got it,” he says, an edge to his voice.
We don’t talk after that. We watch the couple across from us kiss so aggressively, I’m sure they are drawing blood from each other and getting AIDS. And what about the hangnail on my finger, which is red from all the times I’ve picked it and is now touching the dirty seat? What if someone else was sitting here before me, and they had a bleeding hangnail in the same exact spot? What about toilet seats—people could bleed on them, or worse, masturbate on them? What about cuts on fingers when we shake people’s hands? What about . . .
I pull my shaking hand up quickly, off the possibly bloody seat, and place it on my lap.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I nod. I wish he would stop looking at me like this, like he can see inside me. I wish he were not sitting next to me. I wish the train weren’t bouncing up and down, forcing my body to shift closer to him with its movement.
Then he takes his own hand and puts it on my lap. “Hey,” he says, with tenderness that only serves to underline my discomfort. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
I don’t say anything. His hand feels so good on my lap, his temperature cooler, his grip stabilizing. Our hands are just inches away from each other, but with each bounce of the train, they shift closer, like magnets drawn to each other, until finally they touch. One of his fingers now rests atop my hand. Just one finger, and yet it ignites my whole body with excitement. His skin is rougher than mine. I don’t dare move. I let our skin touch for the few seconds it takes for the subway doors to open, and for him to declare we have arrived at our stop.
He looks at me as he pulls his hand away, and I can’t take my eyes away from his. Then he smiles, nods, and leaps up. He throws his arm between the doors as they’re about to close. They reopen and I rush out, already wishing I could remain here underground with him forever.
He leads the way to the apartment. I have not been to the East Village yet. It’s like stepping into a music video. It’s colorful, and loud, and smells like hundreds of spices being cooked into one hot stew. He stops me in front of a Korean deli. “Hey,” he says. “Hold up a sec. I need to get something here.”
I realize I was going to bring one of Abbas’s bottles of wine with me as a gift for Judy’s uncle. My mother insisted I bring something. And of course, I forgot it. “Good idea. I forgot a gift. We should get some wine here.”
“Reza, delis don’t sell wine.” He laughs. “And anyway, you look like a kid.”
“You’re right,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t said something so dumb in front of Art. “We can bring something else. Let’s look.”
We go inside, and I hear two men say his name.
“Art!” one says.
“Art?” the other asks.
I turn to face the men. One is a tall black man in a fake fur coat that reaches his feet. The other is a freckled redhead who wears a red knit Christmas sweater, except the Santa Claus on the sweater has lipstick and earrings on. Their faces are gaunt, like skeletons. Skin clings tightly to their bones. Eyeballs seem to pop out of their faces.
It’s movie night, isn’t it?
Has Stephen shown you The Women yet? It’s my absolute favorite.
It’s a wonder we’re still together, him being a Joan fan and me being a Bette fan.
It’s so good to see you guys outside of a meeting.
Did you hear? AZT is 20 percent cheaper now.
It’s still 70 percent too expensive, but it’s a step.
Fur and Christmas sweaters are an interesting choice in this heat.
We’re both always freezing these days.
Who’s your cute friend?
Oh, this is Reza. He’s fresh off the boat from Tehran and Toronto.
Did he not want to stop off in Torino?
Art taps my shoulder and I blink my eyes. I say a meek, “Hello, nice to meet you.”
“I’m obsessed with that queen,” the man in the fur says. “Those outfits. The gowns, the hair. Honestly, that homely Queen Elizabeth should take some tips from her.”
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Farah Diba!” he says. “Your queen. The glamour. The opulence. The extravaganza.”
“Farah Diva,” Christmas sweater says.
“Farrah Fawcett has nothing on her,” fur coat says.
“Thank you,” I say, as if he has complimented me. And then, stupidly, I say, “I don’t know her, though.”
The man in the Christmas sweater smiles. “Well, there’s still time. She’s not dead yet. Come on, baby, let’s let the boys be.”
“Wait!” Art says. And when he has their attention, he adds, “Could I take your picture? You just look so fabulous tonight.”
Fabulous? They look like they are going to die.
The men stand in front of the refrigerated section of the deli, which seems ironic since everything inside is fresh. Fur coat is taller than Christmas sweater, and so he rests his head atop Christmas sweater’s head. They smile. Art snaps.
“Glorious,” Art says.
“Make me look like Mahogany,” fur coat says.
The men hug Art before they leave, and I cannot help but
watch as their skin touches his. One of them has a lesion just above his wrist, and it grazes Art’s neck as they hug. I want to push it away, to create a barrier between us and these men.
Art and I head to separate aisles. I find a bottle of nonalcoholic cider and purchase it with the money my mother gave me to take a taxi tonight. Art tells me he will be right out. As I wait outside, a group of people across the street are dancing, a portable stereo at their feet. And then I see a flower under my face. A single pink rose.
“A present,” Art says from behind me.
I turn around and see him smiling. “That’s a nice idea,” I say. “Does her uncle like flowers?”
Art blinks just once, then looks right at me like I’m an idiot.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says, his face reddening. “I just thought . . . It’s nothing.”
And that is when I realize that the rose was meant for me. My heart beats with equal parts excitement and fear. I can’t believe that this beautiful, fearless boy actually has feelings for me. “I understand.”
“Maybe I read the signs wrong,” he says.
Of course he didn’t. I feel frozen.
“But if I didn’t,” he continues haltingly, “then we can only do this on one condition, which is we tell Judy. Because I can’t live lying to her.”
Hearing him say the word “live” reminds me of what he represents. What all men like him represent. Death. I can’t do this. I have to stop him before it goes any further.
“I am sorry,” I say, my heart breaking a little more with each word I utter. “I think you are mistaken.”
“Oh,” he says, clearly hurt. “Okay.”
We stand in silence for a moment. I wish I could disappear.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, shaking his head. “I guess I thought . . . I mean, the other day in the record store . . . and then I held your hand on the subway.”
He wasn’t holding my hand. His finger touched mine, that’s all. Now I worry, and I search his finger for any sign of a hangnail. If his hangnail touched my hangnail, and he has AIDS, which he probably does, then I have AIDS, and I have destroyed my mother’s life.
“I think we should go,” I say. “Can we please go?”
“I’m so confused,” he says. “What’s up with the Madonna thing?”
“I have a crush on her,” I say. “It’s normal. My mother’s first crush was on a French actor.”
He nods. Then he looks at me with anger in his eyes. “Just wipe the word normal out of your vocabulary, okay?” he says. “I hate that word.”
“And I hate being here,” I say, becoming angry myself. “I was supposed to take a taxi with air-conditioning. I was supposed to not arrive sweaty, and not arrive with you.”
“I didn’t make you come with me, you know,” he says. “All you had to say was thanks, but no thanks.”
“I thought you were my friend,” I say.
“I am your friend,” he says unconvincingly. “I guess I was just stupid, or selfish. . . . I just thought we could be more.”
I want to touch him and tell him how I feel. I long to take his rose, put it in water, and tuck it into my copy of The Odyssey when it dies, so it will be forever preserved. But I can’t, not without the fear.
“I wish you hadn’t said anything,” I say.
He looks at me for a long time, as if challenging me. Then he says, “Me too.” After a short silence, he adds, “I’m sorry. I guess I . . . I don’t know what got into me.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say.
And then he says, “Don’t tell Judy about this, okay?”
“I thought you could not lie to her.”
“That was when I thought we might be a thing. But if we’re not a thing, then why would we tell her?” His voice shakes. “To humiliate me more?”
He walks in front of me. I don’t know what else to do but to follow behind him.
Art
What the fuck? No, honestly . . . WHAT THE FUCK? I know I read the signs right. MADONNA! The posters, the T-shirts. Then I second-guess myself. Maybe straight men can like Madonna. I do some quick math in my head. Like a Virgin was the first album by a woman to sell five million copies in the United States alone, and is close to ten million now. How many people live in this country anyway? Could all ten million people be queens and women? Maybe, or maybe not. And I know he was flirting with me. It couldn’t have been a coincidence he was outside the stock exchange. And he let me put my hand on his. Well, okay, it was just a finger, but I know he felt the electricity. He didn’t pull away like a straight dude would. But maybe men from other countries are different. Stephen told me once that in Cuba, men hold hands all the time. The irony of José’s life in Cuba was that all the straight men would hold hands with each other, and the gay men were too afraid to. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
He’s walking behind me. I thought he’d run away. But he’s still walking behind me. He’s so proper and polite. I’ve figured it out. He wasn’t flirting with me. He was just being POLITE!
I turn around just before we get to the apartment. “Why don’t we go in separately?” I say. “It’ll be less weird.”
“Oh, okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
“So I’ll go in first, and you wait a few minutes.”
“But it is rude to be late,” he says.
“Judy and her uncle aren’t like that,” I say. “I’ll see you in there.”
I want to go in first. I don’t know why, but I just need to be in Stephen’s apartment. It’s my favorite place in the city. I love everything about it. I love all the pictures of him and José. They give me hope that someday I’ll find someone to fall in love with. And yeah, maybe that person will die, or maybe I’ll die, but isn’t that better than never loving? I love the black-and-white living room, his colorful collection of jelly beans that represent all the friends he’s lost, the framed pictures of old movie stars, and the record collection.
It’s Judy who opens the door, and the minute I see her face, I want to punish myself somehow. I don’t deserve her. She looks fabulous. She’s in a sunflower-yellow outfit I’ve never seen before, and then I remember her buying that fabric. We were together. She said something about how it was too special for her life, and I said something about how she could make a cute dress for our daughter out of it. I hate that joke now. I hate that we acted like our getting married and having children was a thing. Why did we think being each other’s consolation prizes was okay? I deserve more. She deserves more. She certainly deserves a much better best friend than me. And maybe she deserves Reza.
“Hey,” she says. “Where’s Reza?”
“What do you mean?” I ask evasively. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”
I go inside. I can smell something Stephen is cooking in the kitchen. He calls out, “Hello, my beloved Art. Just you wait till you see what I’m making.”
“I thought you two were coming over together,” Judy says.
I sit on the couch. “Um, no, Frances,” I say. “Why would we come together?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have called her Frances. She knows I only do that when I’ve royally messed something up.
“Um, because I called his place,” she says. “And his mom said you stopped by to pick him up.”
Double shit.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I actually just went to pick something up, not pick him up.” But I did try to pick him up, as in hit on him. I’m an asswipe. I’m a traitor to my best friend. I’ve inherited my father’s complete disregard for others.
“Right,” she says. “A backpack.”
We make eye contact. She seems to know too much. What else does she know?
“I left it there when I was studying with his stepbrother,” I say. “You know Saadi won’t even sit next to me when we’re studying, even when we’re both looking at the same notebook. It’s like he thinks I’m a leper or something.”
“Oh,” I say. I try to think fast. What do I say? “Yeah, he was getting ready.”
“Did he seem excited?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say. But what do I know? I thought that I could see colors and auras around people and that Reza was emitting a beautiful pink glow. That’s why I got him a pink rose. I was dead wrong.
Stephen enters the living room. He’s wearing a red apron and his face is flushed. “Tonight, we celebrate. The price of that goddamn drug has come down.”
Yes, there are things to celebrate. Things much more important than one dumb rejection. “It’s such good news,” I say, trying hard to sound excited about it.
“I can’t believe it happened so fast,” Judy adds.
“The world can change,” Stephen says. “If you fight hard enough for that change. Don’t forget that.”
The world has changed. It all feels so different now. Something between me and Judy feels broken, and I want to repair it. But how? And does she even feel it?
“The price is still ridiculously high,” Stephen says. “But it’s a step. And we have some plans to keep the pressure on.”
“He’s making arroz con pollo,” Judy says. That was José’s favorite dish. Stephen only makes it when he wants to summon José’s spirit, when he wants him in the room with us.
“He deserves to be here tonight,” Stephen says. “He would have loved this moment. And don’t worry, Art, my dear. For you, I have also made arroz con tofu.” Stephen takes the apron off and wipes his face with it. That’s when I notice he’s drenched. He’s always sweating, but tonight it’s more extreme. I tell myself it’s because he’s been cooking. Everyone sweats when they’re in the kitchen. Stoves and ovens are hot. It’s normal. Reza was sweating too, and that didn’t mean he was dying. I tell myself to stop worrying about Stephen. He hates concern. “Before the guest of honor arrives . . . ,” Stephen says, and he sits next to me and leans in close to me conspiratorially, “tell me everything I need to know.”
“He’s just a guy,” Judy says.
Like a Love Story Page 8
