When it comes time to take communion, we decide to head out.
But I’m not ready to leave. Not when I turn and see the prayer candles waiting to be lit. There’s a suggested donation to light a candle, but I know that God isn’t about money exchanging hands to make wishes come true. And I know that I don’t believe in a God who can grant wishes, but if there’s even a chance that such a God exists, then I have some wishes that I’d like granted. I figure making a wish is like an insurance policy, and so I close my eyes and light a candle.
I want to wish for Reza to come back to me, but that will be next. That can’t be my first wish, not when I’m surrounded by death. Not when Stephen looks so weak. So I wish for Stephen to get better, for a miracle drug to become available before his time is up, for the color to return to his skin and for the weight to return to his body. I light the candle and watch the wick come alive.
And then the next wish. Another candle lit. This wish, for AIDS to be cured entirely. Not just for Stephen to survive, but for every person with AIDS to be cured. And for all the queer kids like me to get to fall in love without fear looming over us like the spires of this cathedral.
And now, another candle. This one is for Reza. I close my eyes as I light the candle, and I imagine him across from me. I’m wishing for you, I tell him in my fantasy. I’m asking a God I don’t even believe in to make you mine. And I think the only reason I’m having these doubts about God’s existence is you. That feeling of connection I had with you, it made me feel, I don’t know . . . that there must be something bigger than us. It made me feel that maybe there is a God. So I’m asking God, and all those angels and saints that I don’t believe in either, to make you love me, and to watch over you, and to make you happy, but most of all to make you mine.
I open my eyes. I feel a presence around me.
Is it Reza? Is it Andy Warhol? Is it God?
Nope, it’s that unbearably chipper woman who greeted us at the door.
“You made a lot of prayers,” she says, as she places five bucks in the donation box and lights a candle herself. As she reaches her arm toward a back candle, the gust from her arm extinguishes one of my candles. Which one was it, the one for Stephen, the one for AIDS, or the one for Reza? I don’t even know. My heart speeds up. Is this God sending me a sign?
The woman’s wick stays lit. “It was a beautiful homily, wasn’t it?” she asks me.
“Sure,” I say, and quickly scurry away.
Outside, Stephen, Jimmy, and the rest wait for me at the corner, already engaged in heated debate about what to do next. Some want this protest to be more peaceful, less in-your-face, because if they offend too many people, their message could get lost. Others want it to be even more aggressive and bold, because their target is so aggressive and bold. “Let’s not argue now,” Stephen says. “These are just ideas. They need to be discussed at the meeting.”
“A word of advice,” the WHAM! woman says. “Whatever you do, don’t become divided. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from the women’s health movement, it’s that you need to build a true coalition. If you show them that you’re divided, creating change will be close to impossible. They’ll just play you against each other.”
Those words echo in my mind as Stephen, Jimmy, and I separate from the group and head toward downtown. It’s a beautiful day, the winter sun shines on us, the air crisp and fresh. I love early winter in the city, before the snow turns to slush, before the cold has been with us so long that we’re collectively frozen into a stupor. Come to think of it, I love the beginning of every season. Everything feels more vital, more exciting, when it’s new.
“Shall we walk downtown?” Stephen asks. “While we still can.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jimmy says. “I’ll probably make it a few blocks before I run out of breath.”
Stephen locks his arm into Jimmy’s. “Come on, strength in numbers. We’re not dead yet.”
Stephen and Jimmy lead the way downtown. I walk behind them, just like Reza walked behind me that night after I gave him the flower. I pull my camera up to my eye and snap a photo of them from behind as they walk.
“Two widows,” Jimmy says. “Who would’ve thought?”
“Maybe José and Walt are watching us right now,” Stephen says.
“I doubt it,” Jimmy says. “If there is an afterlife, Walt is too busy drinking martinis with Bette Davis to be watching over me. He was done with me.”
“Don’t say that—he was not done with you,” Stephen says. Then he adds, “Maybe he’s huddled up with Walt Whitman, commiserating over how they hated the name Walter.”
“Celebrating and singing themselves,” Jimmy says.
“Every atom belonging to him belongs to you,” Stephen says, continuing the Whitman quotes. “He’s still here, a part of you. Just like José is still here in me.”
“Do you wish you had gone first?” Jimmy asks.
Stephen pulls Jimmy closer as they continue to walk slowly. Walking behind them, both with them and apart from them, I catch every single person who stares at them, some with fear, some with pity, some with compassion, some with hatred. I pull my camera up and snap more photos, but this time, I let Stephen and Jimmy be nothing but a blur. I focus on the background, on the pedestrians, on their gazes. I don’t want to run through my film too fast, so I wait until someone stares, and then I snap.
“Sometimes,” Stephen says, “I think it would’ve been easier to go first, but then I think of José here without me. I’d rather be the one in pain.”
“Me too,” Jimmy says. “I don’t know who the lucky one is. Walt, for being spared more of this. Or me, for getting a little more time.”
“Maybe we’re all the lucky ones,” Stephen says. “We had love.”
Jimmy lets out a hearty laugh. “Better to have loved and lost your love to Kaposi’s sarcoma than never to have loved at all.”
If they’re the lucky ones for having had love, then what does that make me? Will I ever have love? Probably not, because I’m a self-pitying narcissist. Look at me. I’m listening to two beautiful, noble, HOLY men who are not only facing death themselves, but also lost the loves of their lives, and what am I thinking about? Myself.
Two men in business suits walk past us. They look at Stephen and Jimmy with sneers that remind me of my father. I press my camera, hear it click, feel it capture the violence of their scrutiny. Stephen and Jimmy should be revered and worshipped, not feared and derided. They are the saints who belong in God’s cathedrals, they are the icons that belong on the posters on our walls. And that’s when I have an idea. A new project. I’ll photograph them and show the world how beautiful they are. I’ll pose them as saints, re-create old religious iconography. No, they’re too good for that. I’ll turn them into Dietrich and Garbo. I’ll light the photographs like the Old Hollywood photos of George Hurrell and Clarence Sinclair Bull, all haze and gauze and smoke and shadow. I’ll make the world see what I see, that these men and women are mythic, larger than life. Maybe I won’t have love, but I’ll have something else. A purpose. Love would just distract me anyway. Rage will be way more productive.
I make a choice. I choose rage.
Judy
I can’t believe I’m in Mr. Chow. I can barely focus as Reza’s stepdad orders food for everyone, imagining all the people who could have sat in this chair before me. Maybe Debbie Harry sat here, or Madonna, or Candy Darling. I don’t see anyone famous right now, except for a model I think I recognize from the pages of Vogue who is literally tearing a dumpling apart with her chopsticks and placing the wisps of lettuce within into her mouth. She’s very tall and very skinny, and I pity her. I want to ask her if it’s worth it, to eat shredded lettuce and champagne for dinner just so you can look like that. I don’t think so. “Judy joon, last chance. Anything special you would like to order? Anything you do not eat?”
I realize Reza’s stepdad is talking to me and focus back on our table. “Oh, I’ll eat anything,” I say.
I think I catch a smirk on Saadi’s face, but I’m not sure. He’s probably thinking some variation of: She looks like she’ll eat anything. Or, She’s already eaten everything. He doesn’t even have to say a word—I can feel the condescension emanating from his lacrosse body, from his beefy arms busting out of his polo shirt, and from his white baseball hat dangling from the back of his chair. Seriously. He wore a white baseball hat to Mr. Chow. He’s taken it off, thank God, at the urging of his dad, but still. I see vintage Halston here, and this season’s Gaultier too. I see bodysuits, palazzo pants, suede blazers, vinyl jackets, and deconstructed clothes that redefine geometry and the shape of the body. And Saadi wore a white baseball hat. But the best outfit in the whole place is the one next to me. Reza looks incredible in his shirt, like a star. Maybe it’s a good thing Madonna isn’t here tonight, ’cause she’d swipe him away from me and put him in her next video. And he’s mine. I have to keep reminding myself of this because it still feels so unreal to me. He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine.
“Judy joon,” Reza’s mother says. “it is so nice to finally meet you.”
“Oh, you too,” I say, a little too brightly. “All of you.”
“We’ve already met,” Saadi says. “We go to school together, remember?”
I nod and force a smile. “Of course I do.” How could I forget all the times his buddies called Art a faggot in front of me, all the times Saadi just stood there as Darryl Lorde spewed hate. Saadi never said a word to stop Darryl, which makes him an accessory to the crime.
Accessories. So many insanely fabulous accessories in this room, none more gorgeous than the brooch on Reza’s mom’s shirt. It’s a gold bird, with bright jewels filling in its features. It glimmers in the light and complements her silk shirt perfectly. The woman is stunning.
“Mrs. Hashemi,” I say, “I’m a little obsessed with your look.”
“Please, call us Mina and Abbas. We are not formal people.” They both smile. She’s wearing silk, and he’s wearing a suit that looks like it was custom-made in Rome, but they’re not formal people.
“Okay, Mina . . . that brooch is, like, so magnificent.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m so glad you noticed. This is one of the few things I took with me from Tehran.”
“I can see why it was a top priority,” I say.
“Well, after my children,” she says. “They came first, and this brooch was a close second.”
I laugh a little too loud, grateful for her humor. Women this beautiful usually aren’t very funny. My theory is that they never develop a sense of humor because their beauty gets them through life too easily. I think the best-case scenario is to be born really ugly and remain ugly for most of your childhood, so that you’re forced to develop humor, intellect, and thick skin, and then blossom into a supermodel when you’re a grown-up. I wonder if handsome men have this issue too. Probably, but I haven’t given it as much thought. Anyway, I bet Reza’s mom didn’t look this good when she was my age. She seems too cool for that.
“So tell us, Judy, how did you become interested in fashion?” Mina asks. “And before you answer, can I say that I very much like what you’ve done with my son.” She places a hand on Reza’s cheek, and he blushes. “He looks like a new person, like a handsome man. My baby boy is gone.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Reza says, embarrassed. I love that he still calls her Mommy, pronounced in an accent that makes it sound more exotic than infantile.
“There is a lot of money in fashion these days,” Abbas says. “Do you know the current valuation of LVMH?”
“Um, I don’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“You can make billions these days. The important thing is building a strong brand name. Because then you are not just selling clothes. You are selling a lifestyle. And when you are selling a lifestyle, you can sell anything. Perfume. Linens. Candles.”
“Oh wow,” I say, laughing. “You think really big.”
“So do you,” Saadi says, with a smile. “Obviously.”
I flinch a little. Asshole. I know it’s a crack about my weight.
Don’t take the bait, Judy.
“I’m glad you noticed,” I say, shooting him daggers with my eyes.
“Calvin Klein is a perfect example,” Abbas says. “He makes most of his money from underwear and perfume now, and how much work does it take to design underwear?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve, um, never designed underwear.”
“Maybe you should,” Saadi says. “Reza could be your model.”
Reza blushes. This dinner is getting weird fast.
“Of course you should,” Abbas says. “If you want to be a billionaire.”
“My dad’s all about the money,” Saadi says. “If you can’t tell.”
“It is just exciting to see a young person who knows what she wants to do,” Abbas says, with a stern look toward his son that speaks volumes. “Perhaps it’s time you started thinking about what interests you professionally.”
“I have a little time,” Saadi replies, his mouth full.
“The operative word there is little,” Abbas says. “We all have a little time, and we should do our best with it.”
“I think the decor of this restaurant is so exciting,” Mina says, her attempt at changing the subject both obvious and awkward.
Mercifully, some food arrives, and it smells so delicious and fragrant. I watch as plates of noodles, dumplings, chicken skewers, and Chinese broccoli are placed in front of us. I think of all those times I’ve been out to restaurants with Art, and how annoying it is that he won’t eat meat or anything that touches it, and how, as always, I need to modulate what I want for him. Mina insists I serve myself first, and I do, filling my plate up with food. Soon, we’re all eating, and the conversation turns to a variety of subjects, from the Central Park Five to what my favorite classes at school are to how I feel about wearing a uniform when I’m so into fashion to Iranian politics. Reza barely speaks. I mean, he says a few words here and there. A yes or a no or a that’s delicious, but he doesn’t contribute many complete sentences. I wonder if he’s always this quiet around his family or if it’s just tonight.
In the middle of the meal, two men enter and sit at the table next to us. One of them is skin and bones. There’s a dark lesion on his upper neck. He nods toward our table as he sits, almost in apology, like he’s sorry for subjecting us to his illness in the middle of an otherwise pleasant dinner. Abbas and Mina smile politely, but in a glacial and forced way. Saadi almost sneers. Reza just looks scared. Which reminds me of how, in the two months since we started dating, he hasn’t come over to Uncle Stephen’s once. I’ve invited him to Sunday movie night multiple times, and each time he has some excuse about why he can’t come. He has some plan with his family, or he’s behind on homework, or he’s got a stomachache. I’m pretty sure the real reason is that he doesn’t want to hang out with someone who has AIDS, but I haven’t pressed him on that point yet. I guess I don’t want the answer. Because if he tells me that’s the reason, it might make me fall a little out of love with him.
When the two men sit down, I smile extra big at them, trying to compensate for anyone making them feel unwelcome or shut out. But even my smile probably bugs them. I’m still giving them special attention, treating them like they’re somehow different, singling them out, and I immediately feel bad about that. That’s when I feel something on my knee. Reza’s hand. I hook my fingers into his, and he clasps onto me under the table, giving my hand a squeeze. I don’t know what the squeeze means, but I think he knows what I was thinking when this man walked in. I turn toward Reza and smile, and that’s when he whispers, “You have some food in your teeth.”
“Oh God, gross.” I run my tongue around my teeth, then smile at him.
“Still there,” he says.
I put my napkin on the table. “I’ll be right back,” I say, trying hard to keep my mouth closed as I speak.
On my way to the bathroom, I
smile at the man with AIDS again. Stop it, Judy. But then I realize it’s not just him I’m smiling at. I’m smiling at everybody. I smile at the woman speaking rapid French to her girlfriends. I smile at the man with the Tom Selleck mustache, who may actually be Tom Selleck, come to think of it. When I get to the bathroom, one of them is out of order. I turn the doorknob of the functional bathroom and it’s locked. A female voice from inside calls out, “Yeah, I’m in here.”
“Sorry,” I call out. And then, I add, “Um, take your time.”
As if that isn’t awkward enough, when I turn back, I run right into Saadi. “Personally, I think pooping in public bathrooms is rude,” he says, smirking.
“Um, you’re gross,” I say.
“What do you think people do in bathrooms?” he asks. “Design underwear?”
I don’t even respond to that. We stand against the hallway wall for a few seconds, and then he says, “Wow, that person is really taking their time. I hope they light a match when they’re done.”
“You know we don’t need to talk,” I say.
“So what’s the deal with you and the little prince?” he asks.
“Who’s the little prince?”
Why are you not ignoring him, Judy? Ignore him.
“My stepbrother,” he says. And then, with a smirk, he adds, “Your boy toy.”
“He’s the same age as you,” I say.
Saadi smiles, like I’ve set him up for a perfect response. “I know,” he says. “But he’s so small and cute.”
I just shake my head. I don’t want to talk to him. I just want to pick the food out of my teeth and go back to the table.
“So what’s with him and Madonna?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What’s with you and your white hat?”
Stop engaging, Judy.
“I look cute in it,” he says, his overconfidence anything but cute. “Have you seen his room? There’s a new picture of Madonna every day. Two posters was weird enough. Now it’s like a shrine or something.”
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