Page 33 of Like a Love Story
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess I’m a little nervous. Like what if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m some unsophisticated American girl?”
“What?” I say. “Who would think that?”
“I would think that,” she says, revealing an insecurity I hadn’t known was there. “I do think that.”
“Judy,” I say softly. “You don’t think that. I know you don’t. You are... beautiful, and so cool, and so good.”
The capitalized words from Mrs. Bowman’s book cover seem to float above me and Judy like clouds, the word GOOD above Judy’s head, and the word BAD above mine. Maybe I do know who I am. Maybe I have found myself, as Americans like to say. I am BAD. I lie with every kiss. I lie with every touch and every gaze.
“Thanks for saying that,” Judy says.
“I’m not just saying it. I mean it.” I wish she understood how much I mean it, that despite all my lies to her, the most important truth is that I think she’s incredible, like sunshine in a dark world. And I wish she knew that her ability to even utter all these doubts out loud means she thinks highly enough of herself to respect the emotions inside her. I would never let my doubts leave the prison of my brain.
She takes my hand. “Hey,” she says. “Thanks for checking in.”
I have checked into her life, like a hotel room. I only wish that I could truly inhabit this room, untouched by my desires.
Art
We’re standing outside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, one of Andy Warhol’s favorite places in the city, and it’s as opulent, ornate, and glamorous as Warhol himself. It’s also a place of judgment and repression, and because of that, it makes no sense to me that Warhol loved it. It mystifies me that only two years ago, a memorial mass was held for him here, that its pews were filled not with gay haters and pro-lifers, but with Yoko Ono, Grace Jones, and Halston, with the freaks and goddesses from his Factory. Maybe this was Warhol’s personal fuck-you to the church, his way of telling them that he was so big and so powerful that his circus could invade their halls at will. Stephen was there for Warhol’s mass, not inside, but outside. He saw them all walk in, the fabulous people in their downtown twist on Sunday church couture. He thinks that despite his queerness and his celebration of those cast aside, what Andy wanted more than anythingwas acceptance by the God he still worshipped.
“Shall we go become one with God?” Stephen asks. Next to him are five activists, including many I recognize from the meetings and two I recognize from the New York Stock Exchange protest.
“Remember not to make a scene today,” a woman in a gray coat and jeans says. She has curly red hair and glasses. She’s not a member of ACT UP; she’s a part of another organization called WHAM!, Women’s Health Action and Mobilization, which is joining forces with ACT UP for this. “Today is just a chance to scope out the place, come up with ideas.”
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice I recognize calls out from behind me. I turn around to see Jimmy, wearing the same black fur coat he wore the last time I saw him, inside the Korean deli, that awful night I thought Reza and I were going to fall in love and live happily ever after. I hate that night and want to forget everything about it except for Jimmy and his fabulous coat. I love that he’s wearing it to church.
Jimmy kisses everyone on the cheek, saving me for last. By the time he gets to me, everyone else has begun to enter the church. Jimmy locks his arm in mine. “Art,mon amour,” he says with a conspiratorial wink. “You just get more handsome, while the rest of us degenerate into one giant lesion.”
“You look like Mahogany,” I say.
“I look like Mahogany with an eating disorder and jaundice,” he says. “Darling, do you remember thatphoto you took of me and Walt in the deli?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Could you...” His voice quivers. He takes a breath of crisp winter air. I can feel the shallowness of his breath, his lungs working overtime to do their job. “I think it was the last photo of the two of us together while he was still...” He takes another big breath in, but this time, he doesn’t finish the sentence.
I know the end, of course. Walt is dead. Died almost two months ago, just weeks after I saw them. And I should’ve given him a copy of that photo as soon as I found out. I’m sure he would’ve appreciated it. But the thing is that I never developed that roll of film. I knew it would remind me of Reza, and I didn’t want to see any of those photos.
“I’m on it,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder.
We are almost at the entrance of the church when Jimmy whispers to me, “Do you believe in God?”
I pause for a moment. I don’t know what the right answer is. If I say yes, I’m lying. If I say no, I’m telling a dying man who just lost the love of his life that there is nothing left for him but dust. “I don’t know,” I finally say.
“I didn’t think I did,” Jimmy says. “But since getting sick, I’ve started to wonder, or to hope...” Another breath, and then he says, “Hey, do you know that Walt died the day after Bette Davis? Honestly, that queen was such a fan that he had to follow Jezebel to the afterlife. You didn’t see me croaking when Joan died, did you?”
I laugh, grateful that he lightened the mood. But I feel his pain. His body is wasting away. His lover is gone. And he doesn’t even have a copy of the final photo taken of them because the kid who took it is too self-involved to develop the roll.
“Welcome,” a woman says when we reach the entrance. She holds her hand out to us, first to me, and then to Jimmy. She fixes her gaze on him as she shakes his hand, inspecting him. “I hope you enjoy today’s mass,” she says.
As we move away from her, I tell Jimmy, “I hate that she stared at you like that.”
“Honey,” he says, “white ladies were staring scornfully at my queer black ass long before I had AIDS. I’m used to it.”
“Is it awful that I think this place is absolutely gorgeous?” Stephen asks, approaching me.
“Good Lord,” Jimmy says. “Next you’ll be telling us that you find Reagan gorgeous too.”
