We're all of us stars
We're fading away
Just try not to worry
You'll see us some day
Just take what you need
And be on your way
And stop crying your heart out
Stop crying your heart out
Stop crying your heart out
Oasis, "Stop Crying Your Heart Out"
Stephanie wore a black dress with an empire waist, capped sleeves and a scooped neckline to Collins' funeral. Mark remembered that dress from when they had gone to see a performance of Giselle at the Lincoln Center. Except, this time, she wore her hair down, not swept up in a twist and pinned back with silver combs. She did not wear the diamond teardrop earrings or the silver choker, or the strappy silver sandals. And she did not have Mark at her side.
As he sat in the front pew with Roger, Maureen, Joanne, Luc, and Collins' family, Mark felt almost guilty that he was staring at Stephanie while he was at Collins' funeral. But he couldn't take his eyes off her as people were filling into the church. It then struck Mark just how many people were here. Collins had very little family, but the outpouring of friends and colleagues—some who had come all the way from California—was overpowering.
Roger was stone-faced, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn't believe he was here. This wasn't supposed to happen. If anyone, it should be his funeral that everyone would be here for. His brother and his sister-in-law, his mother, his niece and nephew. Not Collins' grandmother and his older sister, with her husband and children. Not Luc. Collins wasn't supposed to go before him. Roger felt cold, not at all like himself. He felt like he was suffocating.
The preacher at the head of the church was there to lead the service, hired by Collins' grandmother. This didn't feel right to Roger—Collins was an anarchist, a non-conformist. Where did religion come in to play?
"We are here today," the preacher began, "to honor the memory of Thomas Barrington Collins: son of Theodora and Grayson; grandson of Eugenia. Brother to Sofiya. Uncle to Penelope and Spencer."
Barrington. Roger smiled to himself.
"Thomas was a devoted friend and a gifted scholar," the preacher began. "He was held in high regard by his students at New York University and the University of Los Angeles, California."
Mark found it amusing that MIT was omitted, probably because Collins as expelled from there.
The preacher went on about the work Collins had done at the schools he had taught at: being the faculty advisor for on-campus gay-straight alliances; setting up his own version of Life Support at UCLA; being a popular professor with new ideas that motivated his students.
"Thomas is looking down on all of us," the preacher said that the conclusion of his eulogy. "If you are here today, you are blessed for having known Thomas. You are even more so now, as he becomes your angel, watching over us right now.
"In the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, let us pray."
After the service came the burial. Collins was to be placed beside his mother, father and grandfather. Eugenia Pritchett, Collins's grandmother, approached Mark and Roger, and Maureen and Joanne in the graveyard, and offered them each a white rose to toss into the grave on top of the coffin.
"You all loved Thomas as much as we did," she said, leaning heavy on a cane. Her voice was a roll of thunder during a summer storm. "It's right."
As they murmured thanks to her and began walking towards the burial site, Eugenia grasped Roger's forearm inside his old leather jacket. "You. I know you."
Roger was surprised at the old woman's grip. "I don't think so, ma'am."
"No…no, I think I do. Roger, am I right?"
Roger's eyes widened. "Yeah…"
Eugenia blinked a few times and gazed at him. She made a small noise of amusement and released his arm. "Thomas was right."
"Right about what?"
Eugenia knocked the back of Roger's knee with her cane and continued to walk. "You have the deep look of a man who wants to rule the world," she said over her shoulder, leaving Roger dumbfounded.
As the preacher recited the burial prayer, they all threw in their roses, along with Eugenia, Sofiya and her family, and Luc. It was still not real to Roger, even as he watched the casket lower into the grave. He kept staring at the oak coffin, thinking absurd thoughts to himself.
Alright, this isn't funny anymore. Come on, Collins, get out of there. Stop fooling around. This isn't funny. Seriously, you're not fooling anyone. Please, Collins…please, get up…
As they departed from the cemetery, no one spoke. Roger walked with his hands shoved into his pockets, a few paces ahead of Mark and several paces behind Collins' family and Luc.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed Stephanie walking closely beside a young man with dark blond hair. Both wore solemn expressions. He almost wanted to go over there, pull her away and beg her to come back. But this wasn't the time or the place.
A handful of people were headed towards Collins' grandmother's house for a small repast, and, of course, Mark and Roger and the girls were invited. Roger did not want to go.
"I don't want to be reminded that this is really happening," was his bleak reply when Mark inquired.
Mark had an uncontrollable urge to smack Roger upside the head and scold to him, Woe is not you! "Come on," Mark implored him. "Pay your respects to the family and then we can go, alright?" I'm not letting you out of my sight for a second.
"Fine," he said after a pause.
A week later, Luc was emptying out the Chelsea apartment with help from Roger, Mark, Maureen and Joanne. Luc gave them permission to look through anything and everything, to take what they wanted, if they wanted anything.
Joanne busied herself with the books. Collins had a great collection of poetry, literature and, of course, varied philosophy texts—including one about the philosophies of The Simpsons and another of The Lord of the Rings.
Roger couldn't bring himself to take anything of Collins' as he boxed up shoes and clothes to give to the Salvation Army. Maureen helped him lovingly fold everything and pack it away.
As Luc and Mark were digging through years of papers, documents, lesson plans and letters from UCLA, NYU and MIT, Luc uncovered, at the very bottom of the pile, a very thick manila envelope.
"Hmm," he said to himself. He turned the envelope over in his hands. Mark glanced at it.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I don't know. There aren't any labels on it, and it's sealed."
"Should we open it?"
"Might as well," Luc replied, already prying open the brad that held the envelope closed. He reached in and pulled out a stack of papers. He rested it in his lap and read the title page out loud to Mark: La Vie Boheme. A Memoir by Thomas B. Collins.
"A memoir?" Mark repeated. "Collins wrote a memoir?"
"Apparently," Luc said, in awe. He flipped through the pages—nearly three hundred neatly typed single-spaced pages. "This is incredible. All this time, I never knew. Did you?"
"No, not at all."
"This probably took him years. I mean, this is his life on these pages."
"I wonder if he expected to get this published. I sure as hell would read a book about his life. Did he ever tell you he ran naked—?"
"—through the Parthenon. Yeah. He called it one of his proudest moments," Luc smiled fondly.
"The American Embassy had to come bail him out of jail," Mark chuckled.
"I wonder if that's in here," Luc fanned the pages.
"Probably. Luc," Mark said after a pause. "Maybe you could try to sell this to publishers."
"Really?"
"Well, what else are you going to do with it?"
Luc stared at the title page and flipped it over. The next page held a dedication: For Angel and Luc, it read.
"I should talk to Eugenia first," Luc said reluctantly, putting the manuscript back into its envelope.
"Okay," Mark nodded. "Sure."
Outside, Roger's Volkswagen bus was parked. Mark and Luc began bringing boxes down so that Roger could drive them to Salvation Army, in their coats, scarves and gloves. The air smelled sharply of snow. Their breath curled out of their mouths like smoke.
A few things, such as the yellow armchair and Collins's desk, Luc couldn't bear to part with. He had arranged for them to be sent to his apartment in New Orleans.
"I really appreciate all the help from you guys," Luc said as they each carried a box to the curb. He put down his box and pulled out Roger's keys from the pocket of his jeans. He opened the hatch of the bus and hoisted the box into it.
"We wouldn't dream of leaving you to do this by yourself," Mark assured him, handing him the box that he was holding. Luc gave him a small smile. "So, when do you head back to New Orleans?"
"Next week," Luc revealed. He closed the hatch and leaned against the side of the bus, his heels on the curb. "I'll stay there for a few weeks, then my sister Caterine is moving in to watch the place while I go back to California and finish grad school. I only have a year left."
"Best of luck with that," Mark said sincerely. "I've been thinking of going back to school myself. I don't know if Collins ever told you, but I never graduated. I'd like to finish."
"Good for you," Luc nodded. "It's never too late to go back to school." He glanced up at the sky, his hazel eyes searching. He wore a Burberry scarf. "That's something Tom valued: education. He loved teaching, he loved learning even more. I learned something new every day with him." He paused. "I think you're right, about the memoir. It should be published. People need to know his story. Everything he's done, what he's been through, the people he knew. I'm going to call Eugenia tonight, and Sofiya, to see what they think."
"Good," Mark said. "It's like you said—his life is on those pages."
"Mark?" An inquiring female voice right behind him called his name. He turned his head.
"Stephanie?"
She wore a camel-brown wool coat, her hands stuffed in the pockets. She wore a black scarf around her neck. "I thought that was you. That old scarf of yours…"
Mark glanced down at the frayed material of his old blue-and-white scarf with a small frown. "What do you want, Steph?"
"I thought you might be here, but if this is a bad time—"
"It kind of is," Mark stated curtly.
"Oh," she said after a pause. "Should I come back later?"
Luc looked down at his shoes as Mark responded, "I'd rather you didn't."
Another pause. "Look, Mark, I know this isn't the best time, but…we need to talk."
"Fine. But not here. And not today."
"Tomorrow? At the Moondance?"
"When?"
"Three?"
"I'll be there."
"Hello."
"Hi."
"Coffee?"
"Um, I think some tea, instead," Mark said, sliding into the booth, across from Stephanie. "I think I had a coffee overdose."
Stephanie wore a dark green sweater that made her eyes blaze golden. She wore subtle makeup—eyeliner and blush. In her ears were tiny gold studs. Mark thought of what Roger had said on the rooftop months ago, quoting that Joni Mitchell song, "you don't know what you got 'til it's gone." It wasn't until then that Mark realized how much he really did miss her. She clasped her hands on the table. Her nails were polished a dark berry color. She pursed her lips before she said, "It's been a tough few weeks for you, huh?"
"You could say that."
She paused. Mark could tell she was mentally rehearsing what she was going to say next. "I…I just wanted to let you know that…I still love you, Mark."
He blinked at her. "Do you?"
"What? Mark, why would I lie to you about that?"
"Who was that man you were with? At Collins's funeral?"
She rolled her eyes. "Lee Anderson. He and I were in Collins's class together. We hadn't seen each other in awhile. We went out for a drink after the burial."
"So there's nothing between you?"
"Absolutely not!" She was mildly insulted. "I'm sorry if you thought otherwise."
Mark felt relief. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "So what does this mean, now?"
Stephanie shrugged shyly, a small, nervous smile on her plump lips. "I…I wanted to know what you thought about us maybe getting back together."
A weight lifted from Mark's chest. She did want him back—just as he wanted her. He swallowed hard. "Yes," he murmured.
"What?"
He cleared his throat. "Yes," he repeated. "Yes…I want to get back together."
Her eyes brightened, "You mean it?"
"Yes." He reached out and took her hand. "Things are going to be different, too. I can promise you that."
"I didn't think you'd be so eager," Stephanie admitted.
"It's been a rough year," Mark said by way of explanation. "I don't know what's going to happen next. All I know is…I want you to be there."
Stephanie leaned over the table and planted a small kiss on his lips. Mark smiled into the kiss, and felt, for the first time in several months, some relief.