In Memory of Angel Clare Read Free Page B

plays the oboe.”
    “The guy you two were talking about? That was Clarence?”
    “Clarence Laird, yes.”
    “He was your boyfriend?”
    The question startled Michael. His conversation with Peter had given him away. He tried being very still and stoical. He nodded his head.
    “I know it’s none of my business, but—”
    It did not feel right to tell Tim about Clarence. It was too intimate and important a fact to waste on a stranger. And yet, Michael felt a sudden urge to be wasteful with everything he had been saving.
    “He’s dead now?” said Tim.
    “Yes.”
    “Oh God. I’m sorry. I really am. That’s really awful.” Tim contorted his face over it, grimaced and blinked, embarrassed at having asked something he did not know how to respond to. Then he said, “AIDS,” in a voice so reverent there wasn’t room for it to sound like a question.
    Michael nodded, finding it perfectly natural the boy already knew.
    “I’m sorry. Damn. When?”
    “Last October.”
    “Almost a year then.”
    He sounded faintly relieved, as if that were a long time ago. Time had stood so still since then that Michael could not believe it was almost a year.
    But the look Tim gave him remained full of embarrassed wonder and awe. He looked at Michael as if Michael were more real than anything he had ever seen. It was a strangely flattering look. He reached out and touched Michael on the arm, sadly, boldly, as if to prove he weren’t afraid of touching him.
    “I don’t have it,” said Michael. “Not even the antibodies.”
    Tim let go, flustered to have his thought read. “That’s good. That must be a big relief to you.” He held his hand in midair a moment, then returned it to his lap.
    “He was thirty-eight,” Michael announced. “Everything was coming together for him. For us. Careerwise. But we were everything to each other. ‘Boyfriend’ wasn’t the right word for either of us. We were together three years, you see.”
    Michael began calmly, wanting the boy to think about Clarence and not him. But as he continued he found himself touching emotions he had kept packed down since he left New York. Sadness came back to him changed, more physical than he remembered it being. The rich, warm sorrow that had begun when Peter Griffith touched his shoulder grew until Michael could feel it in his eyes.
    “He was a wonderful person,” Michael declared. “He was the first man I ever loved. He was handsome, wise, and talented. We were going to go to Europe when we finished our movie. We were so close. His death is the most important thing that’ll ever happen to me…”
    He was crying now and couldn’t continue. He lowered his head, trying to keep the tears from running down his face, but his eyes only filled more quickly. He couldn’t breathe without sobbing, so he tried not to breathe. When he finally took a breath, it felt so good to sob and blubber he couldn’t stop. He let himself cry, enjoying the sensation of grief washing away everything.
    Then it was over. He tried shuddering up another wave of tears, but he was dry. He looked up and found Tim’s face next to his, pale and staring, the boy’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other hand gripping Michael’s beneath the table. Biting his lower lip, Tim looked sweetly helpless.
    “It’s all right. It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’ll be okay. Maybe we should—” He hunted around the table, then rummaged in his canvas bag, but all he could offer Michael to blow his nose with was a map of Paris.
    Michael smiled politely and shook his head. He sniffed his nose clear and looked around. The people at the nearest tables were silent, their eyes averted.
    But instead of feeling ashamed, Michael was proud he had cried in public. And at the Café de Flore. Grief was such a pure, honest emotion.

2
    “W E REALLY SHOULD HAVE had a drink with him,” Peter moaned, “but Livy was adamant. And you know Livy.”
    Jack Arcalli nodded. He certainly knew Livy and her