couldn’t stand it at all. Eric Woodworth went first. He tugged Todd’s earring, and snagged it once, ripping it right through his lobe. A dark drop of blood pearled on Todd’s ear. “You’ll get AIDS,” Convey cried, looking at the red on Woodworth’s palm. “Drop it, you fool. You’ll get AIDS!” Still, Todd walked ahead, a determined look on his face as if he were telling himself that nothing could harm him.
Then Woodworth turned and noticed me. He knew that Todd and I were gym buddies, banding together during softball class, deliberately, flamboyantly missing the fly balls that dropped in our direction.
“Hey, Sarshik,” he said. “Here’s your friend, he’s bleeding. Why don’t you come over here and take care of your friend?”
I looked at him as if to say What friend? then left Todd to his own devices as I hurtled down the steps to the locker room.
***
Two mornings later I went to Todd’s funeral mass. I dropped William off at work, then drove around Coral Gables looking for the church. I found it after a few minutes, a large Catholic church with ocher brick walls and a round rosette window—St. Michael the Archangel. I sat in the back row, near the baptismal font, in my single white shirt and ill-fitting suit (an old thing I’d borrowed from William’s closet), and stared down at the initials etched into the soft wood of the pew. Ten rows ahead were his cousins, dozens of them, all bused in from Allentown, Pennsylvania; his former neighbors; his most recent friends, two of whom appeared to be models or porn stars; and his parents, Francis and Dot, who seemed alternately composed and quietly devastated. It was hard to imagine that they’d ever been cruel to Todd, but they’d been awful, literally locking him out of the house upon learning he’d had sex with Lloyd Scarborough, the marching-band director. Still, they’d welcomed him back home when he’d come down with his first symptom, a case of CMV retinitis, realizing that he had no other choice but to stay put, that he wasn’t going to run away, or frighten or surprise them anymore.
But it was foolish to expect anything but surprise from Todd. Even in death, he still managed to unsettle. Before mass, standing outside with his cousin Ricky (who’d allowed me to bum a cigarette, something I did from time to time), I’d learned that before moving to San Francisco, where he’d butched himself up and started sleeping with porn stars, Todd had been an accomplished composer of liturgical music, something he’d hidden from almost everybody, including his parents. He’d taken it quite seriously, taking pride in his designation as the youngest composer ever in the catalog of UIA Library, his publisher. Now the choir was performing some of Todd’s music for the service. The cantor intoned his setting of my favorite psalm, one of those I still knew by heart, Psalm 42— Like a deer that longs for running streams —and then we all repeated it, its antiphon rising, lifting us up, moving and unnerving everyone in the congregation.
Outside the church, Todd’s other cousins, three of whom had been linebackers for Penn State, hefted the shining casket down the steps. The sun went in. People milled about, jabbering. It was hard not to feel cheated somehow, though it was a nice mass, a nice sermon. There were only veiled, uncomfortable references to AIDS, the priest assuring us that God, in his infinite mercy and wisdom, was blessing Todd, seating him at his right hand. I tried not to be miffed. The palm fronds glistened in the heat. Karen Kenley, a mutual friend of Todd’s and mine, spotted me in the throng. To my dread, she made her way toward me.
“What have you been up to?” she asked.
I visored my eyes. Already she’d aged. She might have been five or ten years older than I was with her brittle blonde perm, her pitted skin. She waited for me to answer.
I hadn’t anticipated the question. Since I’d been with William I’d more or
Then Woodworth turned and noticed me. He knew that Todd and I were gym buddies, banding together during softball class, deliberately, flamboyantly missing the fly balls that dropped in our direction.
“Hey, Sarshik,” he said. “Here’s your friend, he’s bleeding. Why don’t you come over here and take care of your friend?”
I looked at him as if to say What friend? then left Todd to his own devices as I hurtled down the steps to the locker room.
***
Two mornings later I went to Todd’s funeral mass. I dropped William off at work, then drove around Coral Gables looking for the church. I found it after a few minutes, a large Catholic church with ocher brick walls and a round rosette window—St. Michael the Archangel. I sat in the back row, near the baptismal font, in my single white shirt and ill-fitting suit (an old thing I’d borrowed from William’s closet), and stared down at the initials etched into the soft wood of the pew. Ten rows ahead were his cousins, dozens of them, all bused in from Allentown, Pennsylvania; his former neighbors; his most recent friends, two of whom appeared to be models or porn stars; and his parents, Francis and Dot, who seemed alternately composed and quietly devastated. It was hard to imagine that they’d ever been cruel to Todd, but they’d been awful, literally locking him out of the house upon learning he’d had sex with Lloyd Scarborough, the marching-band director. Still, they’d welcomed him back home when he’d come down with his first symptom, a case of CMV retinitis, realizing that he had no other choice but to stay put, that he wasn’t going to run away, or frighten or surprise them anymore.
But it was foolish to expect anything but surprise from Todd. Even in death, he still managed to unsettle. Before mass, standing outside with his cousin Ricky (who’d allowed me to bum a cigarette, something I did from time to time), I’d learned that before moving to San Francisco, where he’d butched himself up and started sleeping with porn stars, Todd had been an accomplished composer of liturgical music, something he’d hidden from almost everybody, including his parents. He’d taken it quite seriously, taking pride in his designation as the youngest composer ever in the catalog of UIA Library, his publisher. Now the choir was performing some of Todd’s music for the service. The cantor intoned his setting of my favorite psalm, one of those I still knew by heart, Psalm 42— Like a deer that longs for running streams —and then we all repeated it, its antiphon rising, lifting us up, moving and unnerving everyone in the congregation.
Outside the church, Todd’s other cousins, three of whom had been linebackers for Penn State, hefted the shining casket down the steps. The sun went in. People milled about, jabbering. It was hard not to feel cheated somehow, though it was a nice mass, a nice sermon. There were only veiled, uncomfortable references to AIDS, the priest assuring us that God, in his infinite mercy and wisdom, was blessing Todd, seating him at his right hand. I tried not to be miffed. The palm fronds glistened in the heat. Karen Kenley, a mutual friend of Todd’s and mine, spotted me in the throng. To my dread, she made her way toward me.
“What have you been up to?” she asked.
I visored my eyes. Already she’d aged. She might have been five or ten years older than I was with her brittle blonde perm, her pitted skin. She waited for me to answer.
I hadn’t anticipated the question. Since I’d been with William I’d more or
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