“You don’t want to play it that way.”
“Oh no?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell do you want me to do? You want me to ask you not to go? You want me to beg—what? What do you want from me? Tell me and I’ll do it.”
“I’m tired, Alan. I’m tired and sad and even a little frightened, but I need to do this.”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you.”
“Then why do you need to get away from me so desperately?”
“Because right now love alone isn’t enough. It seldom is.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “Love is enough. If it’s real, it’s enough.”
“I want—”
“Yes, by all means let’s make sure we attend to what you want. The world is in fucking flames, everything is going to shit and right in the middle of it, right when I need you the most, you bolt. That’s your solution, to go run and hide. Fine. Go.”
“You may not want to admit it,” she said, speaking in a loud whisper, “but right now this is best for you too. It’s something we both need.”
“So that’s where we are then? Just like that.”
“For now.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We need some time apart.” She approached me slowly, and until she raised herself up on the tips of her toes so her lips could reach my forehead, I hadn’t been certain if she’d planned to kiss me or strangle me. Her mouth lingered, warm and soft against my skin, then she dropped down to her natural height. “That’s what it means. And that’s all it means.”
I heard her descending the staircase, struggling with the suitcase, bouncing it against each step as she went, and felt guilty for not offering to carry it down for her. The guilt vanished the minute I heard her car start. Until that moment, when I heard the car pull out of the space and saw the headlights glide past the windows, the engine sound slowly absorbed into the night, the authenticity of the situation hadn’t quite hit me. But she’d done it. She’d really left.
I had the conversation again, this time alone of course, and I caught myself mumbling my lines aloud as I stood in the newfound silence of the kitchen, numb and unsure of exactly what to do with myself. I wondered if we’d ever be all right again, if we’d ever be whole again. The two of us. All of us. Any of us.
I found an unopened bottle of whiskey in the liquor cabinet, stared at the label a minute, then grabbed the phone and dialed Donald’s number. I figured if I could catch him before he finished the vodka at his house I could convince him to drive to mine. “Hey, it’s me,” I said. “I’m going to get really shit-faced, you want to join me?”
“What’s wrong now?”
“What isn’t? Come on over, let’s get trashed.”
“Call me psychic, but I don’t think Toni would be too thrilled with that idea.”
“Yeah, well she’s not here.” I held the phone with my chin, broke the seal on the bottle and poured a glass. I could hear Donald breathing through the line.
“Where is she, Alan?”
“She moved out for a while.”
“Oh, God, I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Come on over and get drunk with me. Bring ice.”
“I’m already too drunk to drive,” he said guiltily.
“OK,” I sighed. “I’ll catch you tomorrow then.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
Our roles had switched it seemed, even if only for a night. “Too early to tell.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you ever think about him? About what he might do if he was still here?”
“Bernard?”
“Tommy.” He said it like it should have been evident, like I should have realized he couldn’t have been referring to anyone else. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”
“I miss him too.”
“Sometimes it seems like we lost him only yesterday, but other times it seems like it’s been a hundred years, doesn’t it? Sometimes it seems like it couldn’t be possible he’s been gone for so long.” Ice cubes clinking glass echoed through the phone. “But he would’ve known what to do, don’t you think? Tommy would’ve known what to do.”
Donald was right, of course. Somehow Tommy—or at least our memory of him, the teenage version, the version that remained forever young, forever frozen in perfection even when I remembered him dying along the side of the road—that Tommy would’ve known what to do, would’ve gathered us all together like the natural leader he was and made everything all right with a cool, collected sentence or two.
I started drinking. If Donald wasn’t coming over there seemed no reason to delay the inevitable. “Yeah, Tommy would’ve known what to do.”
“Maybe he’s guiding us.”
A comment so lacking cynicism sounded peculiar coming from him. “Let’s hope so.”
“Do you ever… do you ever feel him around you?”
“Right after he died,” I admitted. “But not for a long time now.”
“Sometimes I do. Or—well, at least I think I do. Probably just wishful thinking.”
I heard him swallow, crunch some ice. “Everything’s changed,” I said. “Anything’s possible now.”
“You’re right. If we’re expected to believe demons exist then why not angels too?” His voice cracked. “I loved him, you know.”
“Me too, man.”
“No… I loved him, Alan.”
I poured another drink. “I know.”
“And I don’t know if I’ve ever quite recovered from his death.” Although when he spoke again he had done his best to collect himself, I could tell by the cadence of his breath he’d been battling sobs only seconds before. “Christ, maybe Bernard was right when he said we’re all a bunch of clichés and don’t even realize it.”
“Bernard was wrong.”
“Yes, well Bernard may very well have been the Devil.”
“No, just a devil.”
“Maybe he was right about me. I’m a lonely, pining, overemotional, self-loathing, alcoholic gay man—gee, there’s a new twist—never seen that characterization before. Could I be a little more ’70s formula, please? Lip-synching to Diana Ross records in a bad wig until the wee hours of the morning can’t be far behind.”
Even under the circumstances, his sense of humor was contagious. “Far behind?”
“OK, I’ve done that too. Apparently my political incorrectness is terminal.”
“And I’m a huge loser with no job. And my wife just left me. What’s your point?”
“You’ve lost enough people you loved to know there aren’t any second chances,” he said softly, his tone serious again. “You and Toni were made for each other, Alan. Don’t let her go. Do whatever you have to do, but get her back, because it’s a terrible thing when someone’s gone—really gone—and you’re left wishing you could say all the things you feel, all those things you need so desperately to say. And you do say them, trust me, you do. Only by then, no one’s there to hear it.” The sound of a hissing match was followed by a slow, deliberate intake of breath. “Get her back, Alan.” Then release. “Just get her back. You need her. Hell, we all do. Toni’s our den mother.”
I laughed lightly. Toni would have loved that description. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t get too drunk.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, though I could no longer be sure of anything.
I hung up the phone and turned back to the bottle.
Let the demons come, I thought. And I knew damn well they would.