Page 53 of Like a Love Story
“Right,” he says. “Reza. Isn’t this magnificent? Listen to all these people. It’s the sound of centuries of repression being beaten into the ground. It’s the sound of change.”
“Do you know where Art is?” I ask urgently.
“I think he wanted to be in the church,” he says. “You know Art. He’s got to be at the center of the action. Come on.”
He gifts his sign to another protester, then takes my hand to lead me inside. I freeze when I notice another lesion on his palm. I feel its texture on me. I remind myself this isn’t how you get infected, and I grip his hand so tight that the lesion disappears in our united palms. There’s no purple anymore. Just my brown hand gripped into his black one.
“You know I’ve wanted to scream at churches since long before this disease,” he says. “This is like a lifelong dream come true.”
“What did you want to scream?” I ask as we get closer and closer to the church.
“Just a great big fuck-you for messing with my brain as a kid, for making me feel shame, for making my momma think she shouldn’t love me for who I am.” He takes a breath. “Of course, I wasn’t Catholic, but it’s all the same to me. I don’t care if you’re Baptist, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Jewish, or one of those adorable little Scientologists. If youuse Godto tell peoplecreated by Godthat they’re sinners for who they love, then I give you a great big middle finger and I invite you to sit on it.” He raises his free hand up into the sky and points his middle finger at the cathedral and screams a loud guttural scream, years of emotion coming out of his tired lungs. I notice a gold ring on his ring finger when he does this, and I remember the man who was with him at the deli, the man who isn’t with him now. I hope he’s just lost in the crowd.
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 stillswollen 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 bothblow 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.
