CHAPTER 29

“Well, here we are again.”

Simon looked down at Walter’s grave. Someone had, not surprisingly, taken the CD player since his last visit. A new layer of snow had covered the stone, and the lower half was almost completely obscured by a small drift that had been pushed up against the marker by the wind.

“I don’t know how you stand it out here,” Simon said, addressing the stone as he pulled his coat more tightly around him. “It’s not precisely balmy.”

He had brought a bouquet of flowers, red roses that he’d paid dearly for at a shop downtown. He bent down and stuck their stems in the snow. The roses, defying the cold, bobbed their blood-red heads against the wind. It was a futile battle, but Simon admired their defiance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again addressing Walter’s resting place.

He waited a moment, as if perhaps Walter’s voice would creep up from the grave and answer him. He half expected it to, and when he heard nothing, he was vaguely disappointed.

“I’m sorry for thinking that I could replace you,” he tried again. “It was a silly notion. I suppose it’s what I get for listening to those young men. They don’t understand, really, what we had together. And I can’t blame them. They haven’t yet had it themselves.”

He was talking quickly, letting his thoughts pour out. He’d been thinking about what he was going to say ever since he’d walked away from the library after making such a fool of himself. He owed Walter an apology, an explanation for his behavior. Now that he was standing there, giving it, he felt better.

“I’m an old man,” he continued. “An old man who had the great fortune of sharing a life with someone he loved. That’s enough for me. I’ve been selfish. But I miss you, Walter. Oh, how I miss you.”

A tear slipped from his eye and fell to the snow. Simon sniffed, trying to prevent any further crying. It was too cold for crying. The moisture froze in the corners of his eyes, painful stabs of iciness that hurt when he blinked.

“You should have seen me,” he told Walter, hoping that talking would prevent any additional weeping. “You would have laughed. I know you would have laughed. Didn’t you always say that I could never tell one of our kind? Well, it seems you were right.”

He looked around him. The cemetery, draped in white, was asleep, its dead nestled safe in their earthen beds. Someday, Simon knew, and perhaps not too many years off, he would join them. He looked at the plot beside Walter’s. It was empty, bought at the same time and reserved for him. He remembered the day Walter had brought him the brochure and suggested it. How old had they been then? He counted back. They had been in their thirties. Death had seemed an impossibility, although both of them had already buried their parents and a number of friends.

Simon had laughed at Walter’s morbidity, agreeing to purchase the plots in order to maintain peace in the house. He had drawn the line at choosing headstones, however, believing that it could only tempt fate. Walter, unusual for him, had acquiesced. It wasn’t until Walter’s death years later that Simon discovered that Walter had selected his stone in secret. At the time, Simon had been thankful rather than angry, relieved to have one less decision to make on his own.

He had not yet chosen his stone. Although he appreciated Walter’s thoroughness in planning for his inevitable passing, he himself couldn’t entertain thoughts of his own funeral. Looking at the blank plot of land beside Walter’s grave, however, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of peace knowing that there was a place for him beside his lover. It was sentimental, he knew, but the knowledge that they would be together forever made the idea of dying slightly more bearable.

He knew too many couples who had been separated in death, first by the passing of one or the other, and then later by the family who cared little about the partner with whom the deceased had shared his life. He and Walter, at least, would be reunited in death. He had no belief that they would meet again, walking the world as ghostly lovers or existing as some kind of ectoplasmic energy. Dead was dead, and he was content to become fodder for whatever plant or insect life wished to use his decaying body for its purposes. But he would do it while lying next to the man who had captured his heart, with whom he’d spent the majority of his life.

As he stood, thinking these thoughts, a cardinal detached itself from a nearby branch and landed atop Walter’s gravestone. Cocking its head, it looked with interest at Simon. Its black eyes sparkled and it ruffled its crimson feathers, fluffing itself up against the cold. Simon regarded the bird with interest. Cardinals had been Walter’s favorites. He had often sat at the window watching them forage in the seed he scattered under the trees behind the house for them.

“What?” Simon said to the bird. “Are you supposed to be some kind of a sign? Because I don’t believe in signs.”

The bird tipped its head at him, but made no move to fly away. It rubbed its beak against the stone and shuffled from foot to foot. Simon crossed his arms over his chest.

“Walter, did you send this bird to me?” he asked. “If so, I think you’ve been badly influenced by your friends on the other side. Parlor tricks are beneath you.”

The bird chirped loudly. Simon waved a hand at it, shooing it away. The bird ignored him.

“Walter, I’m cold,” Simon said, half addressing the bird without meaning to. “I’m going to go home now, where I will sit in front of our fireplace with Clancy on my lap and grow old without any further attempts to be twenty-one again.”

The cardinal leaped into the air, flapping its wings. It flew at Simon, who put his arm up to block the attack. But the bird flew by him, landing on a stone some way off. It continued to look at him.

“You are a bird,” Simon said loudly. “A bird and nothing more. Go away.”

The bird chirped.

“Please go away,” Simon repeated. “Leave me in peace.”

He stared at the cardinal, expecting it to leave. He was irritated, both by the bird’s stubbornness and by his own inability to just turn and leave it there. He looked again at Walter’s gravestone, a feeling of annoyance growing inside him.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll play your game, but I don’t believe for a minute that this bird has anything to do with you. I am simply humoring you, you old bastard.”

He walked toward the cardinal. When he was a few feet from its resting spot, it took off again, flying to another stone. Resigned to his role as the pawn in whatever was occurring, Simon followed it. Each time he grew near, the bird continued on. It was leading him down the main road that ran through the cemetery, away from the parking lot where his car waited and deeper into the world of the dead.

He followed the bird as it flew around a bend in the road. The wind had picked up, and the snow was blowing against him. Even with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat, he was chilled. He was too old to be out in weather such as this. He should, he knew, just turn around and walk as quickly as he could back to the car. There he could warm himself and forget about the foolish notions that had taken hold of him.

Growing angry, he decided to do exactly that, the bird be damned. He turned, determined to go, but found himself buffeted on all sides by the wind. It had picked up the snow and was twirling it around him, blinding him. He had no idea which direction he was facing; all was whiteness and cold. He put his hands up to his face, suddenly very afraid. He opened his mouth and cried out in fear.

The snow stopped. He felt the wind die away immediately, and he no longer felt the sting of the snow on his skin. The cold remained, but it was tolerable. He lowered his hands and looked around him, searching for the bird. It had gone.

“Hello, Simon.”

He blinked. Standing not more than a dozen feet from him was a young man, a young man with familiar features. He was dressed in brown pants and a blue shirt. His features were strong, his eyes bright. He wore no coat.

“Walter?”

His lover was there. But it wasn’t the Walter of those last days; it was the Walter of forty years ago, Walter the way he was when he and Simon had first met. Simon stared at his handsome, youthful face, not believing.

“Where’s your coat?” he asked incongruously.

Walter laughed. “Look around you,” he said.

Simon did. The snow had gone, and in its place summer reigned. The sun shone down from a clear sky, and all around him the grass was fresh and green. Daisies nodded their bright faces in the pleasant breeze that blew. The tombstones, too, were gone. He and Walter were standing instead in a spreading field that seemed to have no end.

“What happened to the snow?” Simon asked.

Again Walter laughed. “You know I was never one for the winter,” he said as he walked toward Simon. “Summer was my time.”

Simon regarded his lover with wonder and suspicion. Walter, stopping just in front of him, reached out and touched him. Simon flinched. Walter touched him again, this time leaving his hand on Simon’s chest. Simon felt the pressure there, as real as the sun on his face and the scent of the grass.

“Walk with me,” Walter said.

He took Simon’s hand, his fingers curling around Simon’s. They were warm, beating with blood. Simon held on to them tightly, afraid that if he let go, Walter would float away from him.

“The roses are beautiful,” Walter said. “Thank you.”

Simon said nothing. He didn’t know how his lover had come to be with him, how the world had changed in the blink of an eye, but he wanted to do nothing that would end it.

“It’s all right, Simon,” Walter told him. “This is my world. Look at yourself.”

Simon did as Walter told him. When he beheld his own figure, he was again shocked into stillness. Like Walter, he had grown young. His body was once more strong. He no longer felt the weight of age, the tiredness of his years. The skin of his hands was smooth, the hair on his arms dark. He felt his face and discovered there the softness of youth.

“This is how I remember us,” said Walter. “Forever young. Do you remember how it was that summer, Simon? Do you remember what it was like to be two men in love?”

“I remember,” Simon answered. “I remember looking at you and knowing that everything was all right with the world. I remember sleeping beside you and being afraid of nothing.”

Walter smiled at him. “It was wonderful,” he said. He looked into his lover’s eyes. “I want you to have that again, Simon.”

Simon’s face fell as sadness filled his heart. He was looking into Walter’s eyes, and in them he saw nothing but love. Yet what he was saying hurt Simon deeply.

“I can’t,” he said softly. “No.”

Walter nodded. “You can,” he said. “And you must. I want you to.”

“I’m too old,” Simon protested. “Too tired to start again.”

“You’re not,” Walter insisted. “You have all the time in the world, even if it’s only a day, a month, a year. Don’t spend what you have left living with only my memory.”

“I miss you,” Simon said. “I miss you every day of my life.”

“And I miss you,” echoed Walter. “That will never change. But it’s not a reason to stop living.”

“I am living,” Simon objected. “I have friends. I—”

“You need more than friends,” said Walter.

Simon looked away from him. He knew Walter’s words were supposed to comfort him, but they were tearing his heart to pieces.

“Why can’t I stay with you?” he asked sadly.

Walter didn’t answer. He merely looked at Simon with his great dark eyes. Simon, lost in them, realized suddenly that Walter was fading. His touch was becoming lighter, insubstantial. Simon grabbed at his hands.

“No!” he said plaintively.

Walter continued to diminish, his body growing less and less visible. Simon could see grass through his shirt, sky in the hole where his face had been. He was breaking up, the pieces swept away in the breeze.

Simon grabbed at the air around him, trying to resurrect Walter, to pull him back. His hands found nothing, though, and he was left twirling around, searching blindly for some remaining scrap of his lover. When his fingers found nothing, he buried his face in his hands.

“Are you okay, mister?”

Simon felt a pull on his sleeve. Looking through his fingers, he saw a little boy staring up at him.

“Are you lost?”

Simon lowered his hands. He was standing in the graveyard. Snow was falling. He patted himself. He was once again dressed in his coat. And he felt the heaviness of age once more in his bones.

The boy continued to look at him. Simon smiled at him. “I guess I am a little lost,” he said.

“Walter?” A woman’s voice echoed through the air. Simon looked up to see a young woman walking toward them. “Walter?” she called out again. “What are you doing?”

Simon turned, half expecting to see his lover standing behind them. But there was no one. He and the boy were alone.

“Walter,” the woman said as she reached them. “Where did you run off to?”

“Nowhere,” the boy said indignantly. “I was right here.”

The woman looked up at Simon and gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry if he was bothering you,” she said. “I was putting a wreath on my husband’s grave. He must have wandered off.”

“I didn’t wander,” Walter insisted. “I said I was right here.”

Simon smiled at the young woman. “It’s all right,” he said. “Walter was helping me find my way, weren’t you, Walter?”

“That’s right,” Walter said brightly. “I was helping him.”

“I was visiting a loved one of my own,” Simon explained to the woman. “I’m afraid I got a little bit turned around. I’m sorry about your husband.”

The woman nodded. “It’s been nearly two years,” she said. “But the holidays are always hard.”

“Yes,” Simon agreed. “They are hard.”

The woman looked up. “You have to go on, though, don’t you,” she said, not speaking directly to Simon. “You have to live your life.”

“Can we go?”

Walter was tugging on his mother’s hand impatiently.

Simon looked at the boy and his mother. “Thank you for your help, Walter,” he said.

The boy nodded, his interest in Simon waning. His mother took his hand and the boy smiled broadly, having achieved his aim.

“Merry Christmas,” the woman said to Simon.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” replied Simon. It seemed an odd thing to say to someone he’d met in a graveyard, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But the young woman didn’t seem to notice the peculiarity of the moment.

Simon watched as Walter and his mother walked in the opposite direction from him. When they were out of sight, he turned and made his way back toward his car. He still wasn’t certain what had happened to him there in the cemetery. He wasn’t one to believe in ghosts or visions. Still, he’d experienced something. Whether it was a momentary delusion or something else, he wasn’t sure.

But did it really matter? As he passed Walter’s grave, he gave it a final look. If millions of people could believe that angels appeared to announce the birth of God’s son to a virgin, what was one dead queen coming back for a few minutes to deliver a message to his lover? Thinking about it, he felt himself grow lighter. A warmth spread through him, banishing the cold. He began to sing.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen,” he sang out to the surrounding graves.

Laughing at his little joke, he returned to the world of the living.