Michael,” I snapped. “So though I know you had high hopes for setting me up with your sexy stud of an accountant, I would say unless he digs bald chicks, all bets are off.”
“Don’t even talk like that, Lily. I hate when you do that.”
“I can talk like that. I’m the one with cancer.”
“Lily…”
I saw him swallow hard and look away. “The rule, Michael!”
“Oh, fuck your No Crying rule. Who institutes something as stupid as that? Just fuck it, Lily. I’m allowed to cry.” He exhaled loudly and turned his head. In profile, he was even more good-looking, which I have come to believe over the nearly twenty years I’ve known him should be against all laws of genetics. His nose was perfectly straight and regal. There was strength and beauty in his cheekbones and jawline, in his olive complexion and black curly hair. His neck was strong, like a Greek marble bust.
He faced me again. “Sorry. I was having a moment. God, Lily,” he wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned my head against his chest. I fit so perfectly, as if the hollow there was made for me. More often than not, I suppose I shared that hollow with his latest lover, but they always left and I was always here. For now. I snuggled in closer. His black sweater smelled of Aramis.
“Hello chemo. Goodbye hair.”
I heard him sniffling.
“Are you blowing your nose in my ear?”
“You need some new one-liners. Honestly, you can be…the most impossible bitch. It’s a good thing I adore you.”
“I’m the only one who can put up with you during Yankees season. And now you’ve corrupted my son.”
“Taken him to the dark side.”
“Baseball is so boring.”
“Blasphemer!” He pulled back in mock horror.
I smiled. “I love you, Michael.”
“I love you, Lily.”
“Now we really have to tell the kids. I don’t think I can hide a bald head, and you know I am the biggest baby in the world about throwing up.”
“I’m well aware…. Are you going to tell Satan’s Spawn?”
“No.”
“One of the kids might tell him.”
“He hasn’t called either of them in going on five months.”
“Such an asshole. All right then. And by the way, just because you have cancer doesn’t mean you get out of clean-up duty.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but do you have to use every pan in the kitchen? Every one?”
“You won’t be complaining when you taste.” He held a spoon of clam sauce to my mouth.
“You are a culinary genius.”
“More flattery. It’ll get you everything.”
“A cure? Can I have that?” I smiled weakly.
“I’ll talk to the Big Man and see what I can do.”
Michael attended Mass every Sunday, a fact that confused me. Some of his dates found it endearing. I didn’t understand how he could be a gay Catholic, technically condemned by the very Church whose faith sustained him. I just didn’t understand, though being sick had taught me in a short amount of time to stop questioning faith. Mine was fragile. My faith. Barely there, it was like the last breaths of a dying person, just a whisper of air, a hint of life. With Michael, faith was like greedily gulping in the wind at the seaside, filling his lungs with its healing.
We sat down for dinner, just the three of us. Michael said grace. “Heavenly Father, grant us a miracle. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
“What kind of miracle do you want?” Noah asked with simple innocence.
Michael looked at me. I shook my head.
“We’re praying your mother doesn’t burn your breakfast tomorrow. But that may be too much to ask.”
Noah nodded, looking at me the way little boys do when they adore their mothers.
I stared up at the ceiling and said my own silent prayer. Big Man, breakfast I can handle. A battle with cancer, I’m not so sure.
11
Michael
I ’ve been single since the 1980s. Since the age of AIDS.
Lily and I used to attend funerals like they were dates. It seemed, for a time, that we had one funeral a week. It’s so hard to convey to
“Don’t even talk like that, Lily. I hate when you do that.”
“I can talk like that. I’m the one with cancer.”
“Lily…”
I saw him swallow hard and look away. “The rule, Michael!”
“Oh, fuck your No Crying rule. Who institutes something as stupid as that? Just fuck it, Lily. I’m allowed to cry.” He exhaled loudly and turned his head. In profile, he was even more good-looking, which I have come to believe over the nearly twenty years I’ve known him should be against all laws of genetics. His nose was perfectly straight and regal. There was strength and beauty in his cheekbones and jawline, in his olive complexion and black curly hair. His neck was strong, like a Greek marble bust.
He faced me again. “Sorry. I was having a moment. God, Lily,” he wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned my head against his chest. I fit so perfectly, as if the hollow there was made for me. More often than not, I suppose I shared that hollow with his latest lover, but they always left and I was always here. For now. I snuggled in closer. His black sweater smelled of Aramis.
“Hello chemo. Goodbye hair.”
I heard him sniffling.
“Are you blowing your nose in my ear?”
“You need some new one-liners. Honestly, you can be…the most impossible bitch. It’s a good thing I adore you.”
“I’m the only one who can put up with you during Yankees season. And now you’ve corrupted my son.”
“Taken him to the dark side.”
“Baseball is so boring.”
“Blasphemer!” He pulled back in mock horror.
I smiled. “I love you, Michael.”
“I love you, Lily.”
“Now we really have to tell the kids. I don’t think I can hide a bald head, and you know I am the biggest baby in the world about throwing up.”
“I’m well aware…. Are you going to tell Satan’s Spawn?”
“No.”
“One of the kids might tell him.”
“He hasn’t called either of them in going on five months.”
“Such an asshole. All right then. And by the way, just because you have cancer doesn’t mean you get out of clean-up duty.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but do you have to use every pan in the kitchen? Every one?”
“You won’t be complaining when you taste.” He held a spoon of clam sauce to my mouth.
“You are a culinary genius.”
“More flattery. It’ll get you everything.”
“A cure? Can I have that?” I smiled weakly.
“I’ll talk to the Big Man and see what I can do.”
Michael attended Mass every Sunday, a fact that confused me. Some of his dates found it endearing. I didn’t understand how he could be a gay Catholic, technically condemned by the very Church whose faith sustained him. I just didn’t understand, though being sick had taught me in a short amount of time to stop questioning faith. Mine was fragile. My faith. Barely there, it was like the last breaths of a dying person, just a whisper of air, a hint of life. With Michael, faith was like greedily gulping in the wind at the seaside, filling his lungs with its healing.
We sat down for dinner, just the three of us. Michael said grace. “Heavenly Father, grant us a miracle. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
“What kind of miracle do you want?” Noah asked with simple innocence.
Michael looked at me. I shook my head.
“We’re praying your mother doesn’t burn your breakfast tomorrow. But that may be too much to ask.”
Noah nodded, looking at me the way little boys do when they adore their mothers.
I stared up at the ceiling and said my own silent prayer. Big Man, breakfast I can handle. A battle with cancer, I’m not so sure.
11
Michael
I ’ve been single since the 1980s. Since the age of AIDS.
Lily and I used to attend funerals like they were dates. It seemed, for a time, that we had one funeral a week. It’s so hard to convey to
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