Something Like Winter (34 page)

Taking the bottle of
morphine from the nightstand, Tim drew more liquid into the
medicine dropper than recommended, squeezing it into Eric’s mouth.
Even these extra doses didn’t chase away the pain completely, but
they helped. “Need to answer Mother Nature’s call before that stuff
kicks in?”

Eric shook his
head.

“
How about some soup? You
need to eat something.”

“
Just keep working. I like
the sound of the brush.”

Tim toiled further, bending
the light into a nest, bringing out the colors hidden deep in the
spectrum. And as soon as Eric was asleep again, he let himself cry
while he worked, because that’s all he could do. Tim painted until
his fingers went numb and his body ached from staying so long in
the same position.

When he finished, he
stepped back and stared until he was sure he had it right. Then he
woke Eric, first saying his name, then shaking him gently until he
stirred. “Look,” he said, rushing back to the canvas and turning it
around so Eric could see. His heart was thudding in his chest as he
waited for a response. What was on canvas wasn’t a lie—not Eric
young and healthy. The painting was of him in his sickbed, but the
light and the colors were like a filter that tore through the
ravages of cancer, revealing the untouchable soul
beneath.

“
You made me beautiful,”
Eric said.

“
You’ve always been
beautiful.”

Eric looked at him like he
was being silly before closing his eyes. Tim stood there, arms limp
at his sides, and watched him as the light outside dimmed, feeling
disappointed that his magic spell hadn’t worked. Eric was still
sick. Eric was dying.

“
I love you,” Eric
murmured, shifting beneath the sheets.

Tim went to him, sitting on
the edge of the bed. “Eric?”

“
Let me sleep, Gabriel,”
Eric murmured, his brow creasing as if concentrating, but his eyes
remained closed. “I’m tired.”

Tim opened his mouth,
desperate to know if Eric had been addressing him a moment ago, or
if he was thinking of Gabriel the whole time. Then Tim leaned back,
biting his lower lip. Either way, he knew Eric loved him, and if he
was dreaming of being with the greatest love of his life, maybe he
was already experiencing a taste of Heaven.

“
You know I love you,
right?” Tim said. “I really mean it, Eric. I love you. I love you
so much! I love you.”

Tim clamped a hand over his
mouth to stop himself. He wanted to say it a million times, because
he realized that he’d never have another chance. This was it. No
more relaxing nights on the couch together, the television off so
they could talk the hours away. No more shared meals, Eric smiling
over the table at the way Tim stuffed his face. All of this would
be gone forever. No matter what he did, Eric was slipping away. Tim
could scream all he wanted, punch the walls, cut his own skin, lie
through his teeth or offer up his body and soul, but it wouldn’t
make a difference. Eric would die—and Tim was powerless to stop
it.

He felt tears rolling over
the fingers on his mouth, felt the breath from his nose coming in
manic bursts. Tim moved his hand away and tried once
more.

“
I love you.”

But Eric didn’t respond,
didn’t wake up again, even the next morning. Tim called the nurse
in a panic, which was silly, because he had known this was coming.
He had read it over and over again in books and online, but part of
him always felt that Eric would be one of the lucky ones. The
exception to the rule.

“
Oh, honey. That just means
he’s close,” the nurse said on the phone. “If God is merciful,
he’ll take him soon.”

If God was merciful, Eric
wouldn’t be dying, but Tim kept silent. He spent the next two days
at Eric’s side, giving him his medicine at the regular dosage times
in case Eric was still inside there somewhere, feeling everything.
And Tim took care of him in other ways he never thought he would
have to, doing the unpleasant things that most people don’t speak
about, except maybe with others who have been through the same
experience. He did everything he could for Eric, even talking to
him so he wouldn’t be lonely.

On the morning of the third
day, Tim woke to find that God—merciful or not—had allowed Eric to
slip quietly away in the night. Tim took his hand one last time,
squeezing it desperately, but Eric wasn’t there anymore. The soul
he had managed to capture a glimpse of on canvas had gone
home.

* * * * *

The funeral went by in
flashes. Umbrellas. Rain. People dressed in black and gray. Faces
Tim had seen only in photos, but now older. Eric’s sister. The
legendary Gabriel. Friends Tim had met in passing or not at all. So
many people, their heads often turning in his direction, as if he
had an explanation for this incomprehensible event.

Tim was lost, but Marcello
was there, handling everything with the precise attention he gave
his business ventures. “I buried too many friends in the eighties,”
he said to Tim. “Funerals have become disturbingly
routine.”

To Tim, the funeral felt
like a circus. So many people were surprised that Eric was even
sick, only in retrospect realizing why he hadn’t thrown any parties
this year or commenting how Eric seemed tired at the last one. Tim
just kept saying that Eric didn’t want them to know. Those final
days were private, just between the two of them.

When everybody else finally
went away, Tim found himself alone in a big house. He walked the
hallways, exploring each room, opening drawers and cabinets and
examining everything inside as if it had new meaning. And it did,
because this was Eric. This was the story of his life—what he had
chosen to surround himself with. He had left it to Tim so he
wouldn’t be alone.

But it wasn’t the
same.

Tim painted more than ever.
He did little else, aside from eating and sleeping. What he needed
to express was too big to fit on canvas, but he tried anyway. For a
while he indulged in the morphine left on Eric’s bedside table. The
medicine helped fill the void, but its comfort never lasted. Once
it was gone, Tim picked up the brush and kept working. The phone
rang, and so did the doorbell, occasionally, but Tim ignored it
all, shutting out the world. Eric hadn’t left. His ghost was right
here beside him. It was the rest of the world that had ceased to
exist.

Until one morning, when Tim
woke to find a very large man standing over his bed.

“
I don’t like the beard,”
Marcello said. “Maybe when you’re older, but you’re too young and
handsome for it now.”

“
What are you doing here?”
Tim said, pulling the covers up higher.

Marcello sat on the edge of
the bed, Tim scooting over so one of his legs wouldn’t be crushed.
“I need a favor. There’s a charity dinner tonight, and I’m
short-staffed when it comes to waiters.”

“
Fuck you,” Tim said. “I
don’t need your money.”

Marcello looked over his
shoulder at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m well aware of that. You
would be doing me a favor, so I would owe you one in return. Having
someone indebted to you is infinitely more valuable than money. You
see, I can’t hire just anyone for this job. Even gay charities
revolve around men, and beauty is more effective than crowbars at
getting wallets to open.”

“
Leave me
alone.”

“
This isn’t what Eric would
want.”

Tim didn’t respond. Even
hearing Eric’s name hurt too much.

“
Seven o’clock, my house.”
Marcello stood again. “If you aren’t there, I’ll bring the entire
party here. Don’t think I won’t!”

Tim didn’t doubt it. Once
Marcello was gone, he got out of bed and stomped and raged around
the house. Then he took a long look in the mirror and saw a
stranger. The beard was alien, his hair unruly, his complexion pale
and bloodless. Marcello was right. This isn’t what Eric would
want.

When he reported to
Marcello’s house that night, the man of the hour wasn’t in sight.
Instead, an Asian guy in charge of organizing the event had him
dress in an outfit suited for a Chippendale’s dancer and informed
him how the evening would work. Luckily it didn’t sound hard. Tim
would only be handing out drinks, not serving food.

A speech in the main room
was followed by applause. Tim sulked in the corner of the kitchen
until the time came to bring out the champagne. Once in the midst
of the party, he found he couldn’t maintain his foul mood, not
while surrounded by so much life. Nearly six weeks alone in the
house made the prospect of conversation enticing, and most of the
men here were more interested in talking to him than getting a
drink.

Marcello came over half an
hour in, guiding him away from the crowd and to the side of the
room. “Well, what do you think?”

Tim sighed. “You were
right. I needed to get out of the house.”

“
And shave.” Marcello
smiled. “You look much better now. But I mean, what do you think of
that?”

He pointed to one end of
the room where a banner read
The
1
^st
Annual Eric Conroy Foundation Fundraiser.

Tim felt a lump in his
throat. “What’s the foundation for?”

“
To support the arts,”
Marcello said with pride. “Mostly by funding underprivileged
artists through scholarships. Eric always loved his
art.”

And Tim loved the idea.
“I’ll give everything Eric left to me.”

“
No,” Marcello said with a
chuckle. “The men here have plenty to spare. Eric wanted you to
have what he gave you, not give it away. What he wanted most of all
was for you to be happy. You’ve grieved, and you can keep grieving,
but you also have to resume living. For Eric. For yourself.
Understand?”

Tim nodded.

“
Good. Now get back to work
and make sure these men are all drunk and horny before I ask them
for their hard-earned cash.”

Tim laughed as Marcello
floated back into the crowd, graceful as a Zeppelin. All around
voices were babbling, laughter filling the air. Life went on.
Painful and treacherous as it may be, life went on.

__________

Part Three:

Austin, 2002

__________

Chapter
Twenty-one

Ben.

Tim had dreamt of running
into him countless times. Usually these fantasies were triggered by
a visit home, especially around the holidays. Tim would go
shopping, hit the mall, Walmart, or even the grocery store, and
part of him would always be looking, just in case Ben was home
visiting and needed to buy markers or whatever in the middle of the
night.

One time Tim saw him, or so
he thought, in the greeting card aisle. The person’s build was the
same, the hair color right. Any other discrepancy in resemblance
could be explained away by age. Tim browsed the cards, eyes never
on the folded cardboard in his hand, until the other person had
finally looked at him. And didn’t react. Not his Benjamin,
then.

Outside these odd moments,
Tim went on with his life, struggling through his last year of
college and trying not to think about what the past had been or
what the future held. So when he entered the coffee shop, annoyed
by the loud espresso machines and bean grinders, his thoughts
weren’t on the past at all. Instead he was looking forward to
getting an Italian soda so he could return to the sunny weather
outside. The clueless person in front of him was sounding out the
words on the menu, so Tim glanced around in
exasperation.

A pair of eyes darted away
as he did so. Big expressive eyes that stood out against dark skin.
Well, well! Allison Cross. Tim hadn’t seen her since the end of
sophomore year. As always she looked good, if a little nervous, her
attention locked stubbornly on the person she sat across
from.

Blond hair, medium length,
half covering the ears. His build was right too, but Tim didn’t
need more evidence. If asked to paint those ears from memory, he
couldn’t have. There was nothing significant about them, but seeing
them now, even half obscured, got his neurons firing. Tim was
already moving around the tables, feeling detached from the world,
like in a dream. He could see the person’s profile now—the nose
that curved upward ever so slightly at the tip, the brow cocked in
an all-too-familiar “what the hell?” expression. Tim opened his
mouth to speak the impossible.

“
Benjamin?”

As soon as their eyes met,
Tim felt light, as if the molecules in his body were separating and
would soon dissipate, floating away in a happy cloud. Maybe this
heady sensation caused him to reach out and place a hand on Ben’s
shoulder. Even through the light blue T-shirt, Tim felt
sparks—real, honest to goodness tingles.

Tim caught his breath.
“It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Ben looked just as taken
aback, mouth hanging open as he stared. Those lips, the pointy
incisors, every detail was still so familiar. “Yeah,” came the
answer.

They were together again.
Finally. Already it felt so good. Except the feeling wasn’t mutual.
Ben’s watery brown eyes turned hard as he jerked away his shoulder,
breaking physical contact.