Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

  He laughs and kisses me. The heat quickly returns. He enters me again, and it’s like we are flying together, soaring above the world and its problems, and there is no more death or grief or distance.

  We collapse into each other when we’re done. After a while, Art gets up and opens the curtains. He’s speaking to me, but I’m still in a haze, floating.

  “That was incredible.” And then, sadly, “I wish I could tell Stephen about this.”

  I crawl out of bed. It hurts a little to walk, but in a good way, like my body wants to remember him inside me. I walk over to him. I wrap my arms around him, and we gaze out at the city together. We don’t say anything for a very long time. We just stare at the city that brought us together.

  The next morning, I put on the most celebratory item of clothing in my closet, the beautiful shirt Judy designed for me. Stephen requested we all wear something fabulous to his memorial. He wanted it to be a celebration of life, not of death. I stare at myself in the mirror. When she first designed this for me, I did not feel worthy of it. Now it feels right. This shirt was designed for someone who loves himself.

  There is a knock on the door, which means it’s Abbas. Nobody else in my family knocks. “Come in,” I say.

  Abbas enters. He wears a black suit, a white shirt, and a pink tie. “Your mother and sister are both running five minutes late,” he says.

  “Because they are getting dressed or because they are arguing?” I ask.

  He smiles as he sits on my bed. “A little bit of both.”

  He stares ahead at my Madonna posters, records, magazines, all funded by money I stole from him, and suddenly I feel a desire, no, a need, to confess. “Abbas, I . . . there’s something I need to tell you.” He turns his head to me curiously. I take a deep breath. “I stole money from you. More than once. From your pockets when you were in the shower, and . . .”

  “I know,” he says, with no trace of anger.

  “You do?” My throat feels suddenly dry.

  “When you grow up and make your own money, you will always know how much you have in your pockets too,” he says.

  “But you didn’t say anything?” I ask, shocked. “Why?”

  “At first, I thought it could be Saadi.” He crosses each of his legs over the other so that he’s sitting on my bed like a pretzel. He leans closer to me, speaks in an intimate whisper. “But then I noticed the things you were buying and I knew it was you.”

  I can’t believe this. He knew all along. “Did you tell my mom?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I knew you wouldn’t do it forever. And I knew that you needed these things. These records and posters. If you were spending the money on something unhealthy, I would have stopped you.”

  “Wow,” I say, with surprise and gratitude. I sit on the bed next to him. “I learned how to do it from Art. He steals from his father. But his dad deserves it. You don’t.”

  “Thank you,” he says, a hand on my knee. “I appreciate that.” Then he pulls me into a hug and says with sincerity, “I’m proud of you.”

  I almost push him away. It’s too foreign to hear a man claiming to be my father say words like that. “Why?” I ask.

  “Because it took courage to tell me what you did,” he says. “And courage to be who you are.”

  “Do you think my mom is proud of me?” I ask, my voice shaking. I’m so afraid of the answer.

  “I know she is,” he says with certainty. “Even if she doesn’t know how to say it yet.” He looks me deep in the eyes. “She loves you so much. But you must understand we come from a culture with no history of this. She hasn’t been exposed to people like you, or to gay rights. I’ve been in New York for a decade. I’ve met people, seen things. She needs time.”

  “How much time?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, Reza,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s scared. She’s scared life will be difficult for you, scared you could get sick. Being a parent is terrifying. All we want is to protect our children, and there is so much out there to fear. So much to blame ourselves for.”

  “I’m scared too,” I say, on the verge of tears now.

  “I know,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay to be scared.”

  I appreciate him. So much about him. His gentleness, his patience, his understanding. The second chance at life he has given my mother. The way he has accepted me and my sister. “I love you, Baba,” I say.

  Abbas smiles, moved. He may not be the father who created me, but he is the father who loves me. I always thought my own father hated me, but Stephen said to me that nobody truly hates anyone. Hate is just fear in drag, he said. So maybe my father was just afraid of me. But Abbas isn’t.

  “Your mother will come around,” he says. “Just the fact that she’s attending this memorial is a big step. We didn’t know him. We’re doing this to be with you.”

  “I know,” I say, allowing myself a little bit of hope that perhaps things will change soon with my mother.

  Abbas stands up. He gives me his hand. “Shall we?” he asks. “I think it’s time.”

  I let him help me up, and together, we find my mom and Tara. My mom looks beautiful in a black dress. Tara is wearing a tight, colorful, low-cut dress. I would never know this if not for Judy, but I think it’s Pucci. Tara looks a little bit like a drag queen, which is fitting for the occasion. And her hair is newly permed by one of the girls she bartends with.

  “You like it?” Tara says, as she twirls for me. “New dress. Vintage, obviously.”

  “You mean someone else wore that before you?” my mom asks, making a face. “Did you wash it?”

  “And new perm,” Tara says, ignoring my mom.

  “I don’t know why they call it a permanent,” my mom says. “Nothing is permanent.”

  “Some things are permanent,” I say.

  She looks at me with curiosity. I know she understands what I was saying, that I’m not going through a phase. That this is who I will always be.

  Massimo and Saadi, who were in the living room together, emerge. Saadi wears khakis, a button-down, and his white hat. Massimo somehow seems to match Tara in a bright shirt with tight white pants. “How long do I have to stay?” Saadi asks.

  “As long as I do,” Abbas says.

  We go to the memorial together, but there are too many of us to fit into one taxi. It’s Abbas who suggests my mom and I take one cab, while he rides with Tara, Saadi, and Massimo.

  So I join her in the back of the first taxi that pulls to the curb. At first, we each stare awkwardly out of our windows, but then she turns to me and says, “I don’t want life to be hard for you, Reza.”

  It’s just one sentence, but it means so much. “It’s not hard,” I say, quickly realizing what a lie that is. “What I mean is that, yes, it is hard, but I can’t change it.” I close my eyes for a second, wishing for eloquence. “I think what I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t change it if I could.”

  “Really?” she asks, surprised.

  “Because it’s been hard,” I say, a revelation coming to me. “But as hard as it’s been, it’s also been the best thing that’s happened to me. The things I’ve felt this year, the love, the community, I wouldn’t trade them in for an easier life. I don’t want to be like Saadi, playing sports and being boring.”

  “Go easy on Saadi,” she says gently. “He had a hard time with his mother.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I’m not—” She stops herself, then says. “Please don’t repeat this, but she fell in love with someone else and left abruptly,” my mom explains. “She didn’t want custody. Why do you think he barely ever sees her? Just imagine how hard it is for a kid to have a parent who doesn’t want them.”

  “Um, I don’t have to imagine that hard,” I say bitterly.

  She gives me a sad look. “Oh, my boy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I ask.

  “Abbas doesn’t like to talk about it. Neither does Saadi. It
’s hard for them.” She shrugs. “Maybe our culture is different. We have the same problems as everyone else; we just pretend we don’t.”

  “We definitely have the same problems,” I say. “And by the way, if you’re going to ask me to go easy on Saadi, I’d say the same goes for you and Tara.”

  She nods, taking this in. She almost says something but stops herself. Then she looks up at me and says, “All I wanted for so long was an easier life. It was always so hard. I wanted an easier life for myself, but also for you and Tara. And now I have one. But Tara doesn’t. And you don’t.”

  “But you love Abbas, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says. She leans into me. “I would never have married him if I didn’t love him. Never.”

  “And I can’t be with someone I don’t love either,” I say. “And neither can Tara.”

  Her eyes well as she hears this, like she’s understanding in a new way. She holds my hand and kisses it. “Okay,” she says.

  We don’t say anything else. It’s enough for now.

  The memorial is being held in one of Stephen’s favorite nightclubs. The owner was a friend of his, and a member of ACT UP. He has allowed the space to be transformed for this celebration. When we walk in, the stereo is blasting the Communards’ “Don’t Leave Me This Way,” and a few people are dancing. Jimmy is one of them, but he looks more like Diana Ross in a red dress, high heels, and a sky-high wig. He looks like a star. Art’s photographs line the walls. Photos of protests and actions. Photos of Stephen and José. Photos of Judy. Photos of Jimmy and other activists posed like glamorous movie stars. And photos of me. I freeze in front of the photo of me outside that stock exchange protest. I almost don’t recognize myself. I was so much younger then, and yet I almost feel younger now. So much freer. Art’s arms wrap around me. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear.

  I turn around to face him. I want to kiss him so badly, but I know my mother’s eyes are probably on me, and she couldn’t handle seeing that. “Did your parents come?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t think they would,” he says. “Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I guess I hoped that maybe death would make them see things differently. Death is supposed to bring people together, right?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I know how it feels to have a parent who can’t love you. I also know how it feels to have a parent who can.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Look at all these people Stephen brought together. Who needs two more?”

  Judy catches my eye. She’s at the buffet table, next to her parents and Annabel de la Roche, serving herself a plate of arroz con pollo. She whispers something to Annabel and then walks over to us. We hug her. “Uncle Stephen didn’t cook the food,” she says. “So it’s really good.”

  “It’s kind of weird to have food in a nightclub,” Art says.

  “He left very specific instructions,” Judy says wistfully. “The menu. The art. The soundtrack.” As she says this, the song changes to Sylvester’s “Be with You,” and even more people join the dance floor. I recognize so many of them from the protests and meetings. Men on the verge of death finding a moment of joy through music. Women with conviction singing the words to the song with all the force of their love and commitment. I want to be with you forever. I want to share this love in heaven.

  When the dancing stops, and when people have eaten and hugged and said hello, the memorial itself begins. The owner of the club gives the first speech. He says that Stephen used to be a regular at this club, even before he met José. And then Stephen and José were regulars together. And then it was just Stephen again. And now it’s us. He describes Stephen as someone “who knew how to live, even when he was dying,” and I love that. A Judy Garland impersonator sings “Over the Rainbow.” A man with a guitar sings a slow, mournful version of Marilyn’s “I Wanna Be Loved by You.” My sister clutches Massimo, tears in their eyes. My mother’s and Abbas’s eyes are misty. Even Saadi seems moved, his baseball hat pulled a little lower, perhaps to hide the emotion in his eyes. And am I imagining it, or does Saadi keep glancing over at Judy? Jimmy gets up onstage and explains that Stephen’s favorite cinematic funeral scene was from Imitation of Life, “the Lana Turner and Juanita Moore version, obviously.” He then lip-synchs the song from that scene, Mahalia Jackson’s “Trouble of the World,” imbuing every movement of his lips with so much passion that it sometimes feels like it really is his voice we are hearing.

  Stephen has asked Judy and Art to speak together. I’m sure this was intentional, that he wanted to make sure they had to work together, remember together, grieve together. Their friendship mattered to him, and it probably matters even more now that he’s gone. “Hey, everyone,” Judy says. “I’m Judy, Stephen’s niece. You know, the girl he named after Judy Garland. No pressure there.” There are loud cheers from the crowd. She and Art speak of Stephen’s love, his mentorship, his guidance. At the end of the speech, they read Stephen’s notecard about love. “The most important four-letter word in our history will always be love,” Judy says, before Art finishes with “That’s what we are fighting for. That’s who we are. Love is our legacy.”

  After the speeches, there is more music. More dancing. All his favorites are on the mix. Bette and Barbra and Grace Jones and George Michael and Diana. Then Madonna’s “Keep It Together” comes on, and it feels like he’s playing it just for us. Judy pulls me and Art and Annabel to the dance floor. Mr. and Mrs. Bowman join us. Jimmy shimmies to the middle of our circle, spinning with abandon. I wave Tara and Massimo over, and Tara puts her arms around me, swaying with me. My sister, the first person who accepted me. I realize how much I love her. Even my mom and Abbas and Saadi reluctantly join the circle. We all dance. Family, new friends, old friends, keeping people together forever and ever.

  The night ends. We give hugs, we say our goodbyes.

  I tell my family I’m going to stay behind with Judy and Art. Before my mom leaves, she gives me a long hug and whispers in my ear, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Then she lets me go but keeps searching my eyes for something. She places a hand on my cheek. “I love you,” she says.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper. I hug her once more, because I need to. And because she deserves my love and acceptance and patience, just like I deserve hers.

  And then there is me, and Art, and Judy. The three of us. We decide to go get ice cream. We sit on the stoop of a downtown tarot card reader, tasting the sweetness, saying nothing for a long time. Through the window of the building, the tarot card reader waves to us. I wish she would tell me my future, flip over a card that will ease all the fear inside me. But I don’t step inside. This is not a time for crystal balls, or a time to think about the future. It’s a moment to honor the past.

  Judy puts her head on my shoulder. Art is on the other side of her. When he finishes his ice cream, he puts his head on her lap, and she runs her hands through his hair tenderly. We’re so connected, and yet something inside us has shifted, just as something in this universe has shifted. When someone leaves this planet, they take so much with them. So much energy. So much connective tissue.

  “Let’s walk,” Art says, and we do. I hold his left hand. Judy holds his right. It’s not until I see the river again that I realize he has led us directly west, to the very edge of this island. Art looks out, not at the water, but out past it. I watch him gaze at the horizon, like he’s trying to see what is beyond it.

  Judy

  It’s been almost two weeks since Stephen died. Life has felt like a blur ever since. My mother’s tears, endless. Art’s decision to leave, unbelievable. I sometimes think I dreamed it all, but I didn’t. It’s real, too real.

  “I want you both to come with me,” Art said as he stared out at the Hudson River. “We belong together, the three of us. Let’s start over in San Francisco.” I brushed him off. I thought he was just looking for an easy way to escape the pain of grief. I told him it isn’t that easy. “Maybe it is that easy,” Art said. “Ho
w do we know until we try? We’d be like the three heroines of How to Marry a Millionaire, living in a pad together. Except instead of marrying millionaires, we’d be changing the world.”

  I went along with the joke. I said that if we were going to be like the heroines of that movie, I’d be Lauren Bacall. Art said he’d obviously be Marilyn, which meant Reza would be Betty Grable. And Reza asked who Betty Grable is. And we managed to laugh through our tears.

  But there were more tears in store for us. And more anger. With every day that passed, Art became more resolved. At first, he decided he would go to Berkeley in the fall. Then he announced he wouldn’t go to Berkeley at all. He wouldn’t go to college, because that would mean taking more money from his dad, and he was done with him.

  I guess I always knew he had to escape his parents’ world to forge his own path. I just didn’t realize his parents’ world encompassed the entire East Coast, and I didn’t think that once he made this decision, he would choose to leave so soon. “I need to go before I change my mind,” he told me.

  Now the day of his departure has arrived. Reza and I wait for Art in the lobby of his parents’ apartment building. “How’d it go?” I ask when he emerges holding a small carry-on suitcase.

  “As good as it could have,” he says. “My dad wished me luck and told me never to ask for money.” He shakes his head as he says this, but then his face softens and his eyes well up. “And my mom cried. A lot.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my heart breaking a little. “Your parents love you. I know they do.”

  “It’s just, their love comes with a lot of conditions,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not them I’ll miss most. It’s you guys.”

  He looks into Reza’s misty eyes. Reza says nothing. His lips just quiver, words hovering under them that won’t come out.

  “Before we go,” Art says, “can we stop by a photocopy place?”

  We walk to the nearest Kinko’s, the wheels of Art’s suitcase loudly banging against the uneven sidewalks. When we get there, Art pulls out Stephen’s notecards. There are one hundred and thirty-one of them, and we each take a third and head to separate copy machines. Art’s stack begins with #1 Adonis and ends with #41 Divine. Mine begins with #42 DSM and ends with #83 Mineo, Sal. And Reza’s begins with #84 Minogue, Kylie, and ends with #131 Woolf, Virginia. We copy each card one by one, making two copies of each. The machines light up each time a new copy is made, little sparks thrown into the world. We have three stacks when we’re done. Two copies, and the original notecards.