things he planned to say, and several answers he intended to demand, but not quite yet.
Charlie went back and sat in his desk chair, and for a moment it looked as if he were going to collapse sobbing. In a way, it would have been the only appropriate thing. But instead his lips thinned, his nostrils flared. He said, “I didn’t know how to reach you.”
“You could’ve called my office.”
“I meant yesterday, or today.”
“What did you want to say?”
Charlie put his elbow on the desk, then his forehead in his hand. “I needed to tell you that Terrence died.”
Yale only stopped breathing for an instant, because it wasn’t true. What the hell was Charlie trying to pull?
“No he didn’t.”
“Actually, he did.”
Was he trying to prove that Yale wouldn’t know if a thing like this had happened?
Yale said, “Sorry, but I was just there. I stayed there, at his place. On Thursday night. He’s fine.”
Charlie’s voice was suddenly patient. “That might be true, but they took him to the hospital late Friday morning. He died Friday.”
Yale didn’t believe him. But then why did he find himself crying? His tears were hot and fat and they rolled silently into his mouth.
Charlie said, “I’m glad you were with him.”
Terrence had looked so sick on New Year’s, had seemed about to go. But not on Thursday. Not on Friday morning. He’d been on the bathroom floor, but that was normal. And Yale had left him there. Yale had kept him up talking, the night before. Yale had tracked germs into his house. He felt like tearing the air around him to shreds. He couldn’t think.
He said, “Where’s Roscoe?”
“Who the hell is Roscoe?”
“The cat. Nico’s cat. Terrence had him.”
“That’s what you’re concerned about? I’m sure Fiona has it.”
Yale said, “I was with him at the hospital on New Year’s.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
“Where the fuck were you on New Year’s?”
“Yale, don’t start. The thing is, the service is at three.”
“Today?” How many days had passed? Two? This seemed even less plausible, even more of a horrid joke than the actual death. He said, “Wait. So he what, he called an ambulance on Friday? Or someone found him? What time?”
“I don’t know the details, Yale.”
“How is this happening today?” He was asking the wrong questions. Watching Julian’s production of Hamlet, he’d been struck by Laertes’ response to Ophelia’s death. “O, where?” he’d said when he heard the news. But yes, look, it was right: The details were what you grabbed for.
“Fiona’s organized it.” Of course; that was part of the whole power of attorney thing, dealing with the body. Charlie said, “It’ll be odd if we aren’t there together.”
“Will it.”
“I just mean we shouldn’t burden Fiona with this right now. You can sit beside me. It won’t kill you.”
Yale had never hit anyone in his life, not really hit, but he wanted to right then. He wanted to grab all the gay weeklies from around the country that Charlie hung on those pretentious racks behind his desk and crumple them, one by one, in his face.
But Charlie looked so tired. Blue moons under his eyes.
Yale said, even though he knew it was ridiculous, “Where did you even have this testing done?”
“Yale. It’s positive. I was exposed, and it’s positive. One plus one is two. I’m dead.” He flung out the last word like a hand grenade.
And if Charlie had broken down right then, if his face had crumpled—Yale might have softened, gone around to him, held him in his arms even as he stared out the window conflicted. But Charlie’s face didn’t change.
Yale had come here planning to yell, and the fact that he wasn’t yelling was concession enough.
Charlie said, “Would you please just sit near me at the bloody church so we don’t have to explain this to everyone?”
The thing was, Yale wasn’t ready to explain it either.
“I’ll need a suit. Fuck. Is Teresa in the apartment?”
“I can call and send her on an errand.”
“Yes, please do.”
“It’s at the Unitarian place. You’ve got, what, two hours?” This was the same church where they’d held services for Asher’s friend Brian. A gay-friendly church right off Broadway, and thus—recently—Funeral Central.
Yale said, “I don’t even understand. I don’t get—” And he stopped talking, wiped his face with his sleeve.
Charlie said, “I’m sorry you’re so torn up about Terrence.”
“Okay, Charlie.” Instead of screaming, he walked out of the office. He closed the door, really believing that Charlie would call him back, chase him down. Had this truly been their first