Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle (49 page)

I have attended many operas since that first one, and every time I think about John and the wonderful gift he gave me. Now I know the libretto of La Bohème by heart, and when Mimi sings I hear her telling Rodolfo that her love for him is as huge as the ocean, as deep and infinite as the sea. I hear her tell him not to be worried about her little cough, because she's used to it now. I hear her ask him if he still finds her beautiful, even in her ruined state, and I weep every time he tells her that she is more lovely than the dawn.

I've heard many people say they don't like opera because the stories are silly, depressing, overblown. Yes, they are. But then so is life. What I've come to understand about opera is that it takes the most basic human emotions and magnifies them a thousandfold. In opera, love isn't just love, it's the most wonderful and terrible thing in the world. Because that's how we feel it when it happens to us. Opera is nothing less than the heart singing, and its song is as raw and violent as the fiercest storm, as soft and soothing as the gentlest kiss.

That night, I didn't know what Mimi and Rodolfo were saying to one another, but I understood them perfectly. And as I stood with the rest of the audience to give Cotrubas and the rest of the cast the ovation they more than deserved, I saw John standing beside them on the stage, taking his bow and basking in the love of the audience. In that moment, I was able to say good-bye to him, and I knew that wherever he was, he was happy.

CHAPTER 48
"Is that who I think it is talking to Bernadette Peters?"

I followed Alan's gaze to the piano in the corner of the living room. There I saw the unmistakable hair and heard the unmistakable voice of the woman who after a ten-year absence was about to make her return to Broadway in the new Stephen Sondheim musical, Sunday in the Park with George . And she was talking to the equally unmistakable Andy Kowalski.

It was the second week of 1984, and we had just arrived at a party hosted by Back Stage critic and cabaret scene fixture Marty Schaeffer. The apartment was filled with a who's who of faces from the theater world, any one of whom I would have been more interested in under ordinary circumstances. But at the moment I was concerned only with finding out why Andy was in Marty's apartment and how he'd gotten there. Dragging Alan along, I headed straight for the piano.

"Hey," I said, patting Andy on the back. "I hope we're not interrupting anything." "No," Andy said, showing no sign of surprise at my presence. "We were just talking about Bernadette's show."

 

"Hi, Alan," Bernadette said, giving Alan a kiss. "I saw the show last week. Fourth time. It's amazing."

"Thanks," Alan said. "I hear yours is fantastic, too."
"I hope so," she said. "Previews are in April."

"You'll be great," Alan assured her. I nudged him and, remembering his manners, he added, "This is my boyfriend, Ned."

 

I shook Bernadette's hand. "We loved you in Sally and Marsha ," I told her. "That line ‘I love being touched by babies' was amazing."

"I just said it," she answered with a smile. "Sybille Pearson gets all the credit for writing it." "So, Andy," I said, turning to my old friend, "what brings you here?"
"I'm here with Crosley," he answered cryptically.
"Crosley?" I repeated, never having heard the name before.
"Do I hear someone talking about me?"

I turned to see a tall, thin man coming toward us with a martini glass in each hand. His dark hair was thinning on top, and he wore a close-trimmed beard and moustache. Round, gold-framed glasses perched on his nose, and he wore a black turtleneck sweater covered by a black jacket. He handed Andy one of the martini glasses, then extended his hand to me.

"Peter Crosley," he said. "But everyone calls me Crosley."

 

"Ned Brummel," I replied, taking his hand. When I released it, Peter slipped it around Andy's waist in a clear gesture of ownership.

 

"Crosley's a producer," Alan said to me. "He's responsible for a lot of the big shows that are going on right now."

"Well, my money is," said Crosley, laughing. "I'm afraid I don't have an artistic bone in my body, just a talent for the stock market and an interest in the theater. Fortunately, there are a lot of people willing to help me spend what I have."

"Ned is an old friend of mine," Andy said. "We went to college together." I noticed Crosley relax a little at hearing this. His hand remained on Andy's waist, but he didn't seem quite as territorial as he had a moment before.

"And what do you do, Ned?" Crosley asked.
"I'm getting my degree," I said. "In history."
"That's a long time to be in college," Crosley joked.

"Well, there was a war in between," I said, annoyed by his mocking tone. "That tends to interrupt things."
"Bernadette," Crosley said, ignoring the remark, "do you have a minute? I want to introduce you to someone." To Andy, he said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"I'll be here," said Andy.

Bernadette excused herself, and she and Crosley walked off, leaving Alan and me with Andy. As soon as they were swallowed by the crowd, I turned to Andy. "Well," I said. "When did this happen?"

"When did what happen?" he asked.
"You," I said. "And him."
"Oh," said Andy, taking a sip of his martini. "That. The end of December, I guess." "And you just forgot to mention it?" I said.

"I didn't know if it would go anywhere," said Andy. "Why bring up a trick if he's not going to be around more than a night or two?"

 

"He looks like more than a trick to me," I countered. "He seems to think you're his personal property."

"That's just Crosley," said Andy. "He gets a little possessive is all."
"So he is your boyfriend," I said.
Andy nodded. "I guess you could call him that," he admitted.
"You could do a lot worse than Peter Crosley," Alan said. "The guy's loaded."

"Is he?" Andy said, as if this was news to him.
"Where'd you meet him?" I asked.
"I forget," Andy answered. "A party, a bar, something like that."

I could tell he was lying, hoping I would drop the subject. But I was annoyed, both at Andy for playing dumb and at his apparent boyfriend for talking down to me. I decided I wasn't leaving until I knew exactly what was going on between them.

"Are you guys serious?" I pressed. "I mean, is he the one?"

 

"The one?" said Andy. "Christ, you sound like some high school girl. Yeah, I've got my hope chest filled with dish towels and silverware. I'm just waiting for him to pop the question."

"Hey, I'm just trying to figure out what the situation is," I said.
"There's no situation," Andy said, clearly irritated. "We're just dating."
"I think I'm going to go get some drinks," Alan said. "What do you want?"
"Scotch and soda," I told him, knowing that he was leaving to give me time alone with Andy. "Andy?" he asked. "Another one?"
"Thanks," said Andy, handing him the empty glass.

"Okay," I said when Alan was gone. "I know you. And I know that guy isn't your type. Now what's going on?"

"What do you mean ‘my type'?" said Andy. "What's my type?"
"Not that queen," I answered. "Since when are you into theater?"
"Since he started paying me," Andy said.
"Paying you? What, you work for him now? Doing what?"
"Being his boyfriend," said Andy.

I looked at him, speechless. "He pays you to be his boyfriend?" I said. "You mean you're an escort?"

"No," Andy said. "It's not like that. He doesn't pay me, exactly. It's more like I'm his executor." "You lost me," I told him.

"He's going to leave everything to me," Andy explained. "Not everything, but a lot. When he dies. Until then, I'm his boyfriend."

I was dumbfounded. "He bought you?" I said.
Andy shook his head. "You don't understand," he said.
"You're right about that," I told him. "So, enlighten me."

Andy looked around, as if to make sure no one was listening. "He has AIDS," he said, speaking quietly.

 

"Nobody knows. He's not sick yet, but he will be. He knows no one will want to be with him when he is. I will. Then, when he dies, I get some money and his apartment."

"You're joking," I said. "You've got to be. Why would anyone do that?"
"He doesn't want to be alone," said Andy.
"I can't believe he's buying a boyfriend," I said. "Do you even like him?"

"He's all right," Andy said. "Like you said, maybe he's not my type. But I'm not fucking him, so who cares?"

 

"He's not even getting sex out of this deal?" I said.

 

"I jack him off," Andy said. "Sometimes I let him suck my dick. But that's it. He doesn't really like getting fucked anyway, so he doesn't care."

I shook my head. "How much are you getting?" I asked.
Andy shrugged. "A couple of million, I guess."
I couldn't help but laugh. "This is insane," I told him. "Totally insane."

"How's it any different from making porn?" Andy asked me. "It's a fantasy. I let him live out his fantasy, he pays me. What's so weird about that? It's not like I know how to do anything else, Ned."

"No," I said. "I guess you don't."

 

Alan reappeared at that point, balancing three glasses in his hands. I took my scotch and Andy retrieved his martini.

"So," Alan said. "Are all four of us having dinner soon?"
"I don't think so," I told him as Andy drained his glass.

We left soon after that and went home. As we got ready for bed, I told Alan what Andy was doing with Crosley. He was as shocked as I'd been.

"He has AIDS?" he said. "You can't even tell."
"He's not that sick yet," I reminded him, squeezing toothpaste onto my brush.
"And Andy's getting all his money?" Alan asked.
"Not all of it," I said through a mouthful of suds as I scrubbed. "But enough. And the apartment."

"I guess I should be nice to him," said Alan from the other room, where he was taking off his clothes.

 

"He might be producing my next show."

 

I spit into the sink. "I just don't get it," I said as I rinsed my toothbrush. "Why would a guy like Peter Crosley need to pay someone to be his boyfriend?"

"Well, I sort of understand it," Alan said. "If he just had a normal boyfriend, I mean one who wasn't like Andy, he might not know if the guy was sticking around because he loved him or because he wanted his money. With Andy, he knows, so he doesn't have to worry about it."

"That's totally fucked up," I said, turning out the bathroom light and coming into the bedroom.

"Maybe," Alan said. "But it kind of makes sense. You've seen how these guys look when it gets bad. How many boyfriends do you think would stick around if they weren't getting something for it?"

"They should stick around because they love them," I argued.

"They should, yes," Alan agreed. "But you know a lot of them don't. They can't handle it and they leave. With Andy, Crosley has insurance. Andy won't leave because he won't get anything if he does."

I pulled back the comforter on the bed. "But Andy doesn't love him!" I said.
"Sometimes pretend love is enough," said Alan. "What do you think theater is anyway?"

"But he could do so many other things with all that money," I said as I slipped between the sheets.

 

"Right," said Alan. "He could give it all to the Met, like John did. Who also gave you something for coming around twice a week, I might add."

 

"A box of opera records is a little different than a couple million dollars," I said.

"It's the same thing," said Alan as he squirted hand lotion onto his palm and began rubbing it into his skin. "My great aunt Charlotte left my mother a diamond necklace when she died, all because when my mother was twelve she told her that she made the best lemon cake in the world. John left you opera records. Crosley is leaving Andy a couple million dollars and an apartment."

"It's more sad than anything else," I said. "What does it say about us as people that we abandon each other when things get hard?" I looked at Alan. "What would you do if I got sick?"

Alan put the lotion away and got into bed. "You're not going to get sick," he said. "That's not an answer," I told him. "What if I did?"
"I'd bring you chicken noodle soup and read you bedtime stories," he said, kissing me. "You're avoiding talking about it," I said.
"Because we don't need to talk about it."
"Would you leave me?" I asked him.

"Are you going to give me a million dollars?" he asked.
"Alan, I'm serious. Would it scare you away if I was sick?"
"I don't think so," he said after a moment. "I hope it wouldn't."
"That wasn't the answer I wanted to hear," I told him.

"I love you, Ned," he said. "And I want to believe that I wouldn't be the kind of person who would run away if you got sick. But we're not talking about regular sick here. We're talking about sick sick. You know what happens. Shit, I freak out when I have to pop a zit."

I nodded. "I do know what happens," I said. "I know what happened to John, and I know what's happening now to Ike and Bart and the other guys I take food to. And I know that if it ever happened to me and you couldn't handle it, I'd probably die."

"Then you understand why Crosley's willing to give Andy everything he has for not leaving him," he said.

 

"We're not talking about Crosley and Andy," I told him. "We're talking about you and me." He took my hand, running his thumb along mine as we sat for a while in silence. "I'm not leaving," he said finally.

 

"Even if I lose my hair and end up covered in purple spots?" I asked. "Like Mad Madam Mim inThe Sword in the Stone ?"

"Even then," he said. "Disney queen."
"Promise?"
"I promise," he said. "Now can we go to sleep?"

I nodded. Alan reached over and turned off the light. Then he turned onto his side and put his arm around me, pulling me close.

"You worry too much," he said.
"And you don't worry enough," I answered.

"Which is why we're perfect for each other," he said. "Between the two of us, we're a normal person."

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my brain was still wide awake, unwilling to settle down and go to bed. It jumped up and down like an unruly child, demanding attention and ignoring my pleas to stop. I couldn't stop thinking about Andy and Crosley. I did see Alan's point. But I also couldn't ignore the fact that Andy was taking advantage of the situation, like a vulture hovering a few feet above a cowboy slowly dying of thirst. I knew there were men in apartments and hospital rooms all over the city who were dying alone, with only people like me and other volunteers to hold their hands and care what happened to them. Why should men like Peter Crosley be using their money to buy an illusion when it could be used for so many better things? And why should a man like Andy be getting it?