Page 90 of Something Like Winter

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 readThe 1stAnnual 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?”