I LOVE YOU, MALCOLM
The
situation was redolent of déjà vu: bidding adieu to a dying comrade whose life
of heralded human accomplishments had been reduced to the figure of a body
prone under off-white hospital sheets with his labored breathing accompanied by
the sibilant symphony of wheezing machines, determinedly keeping him alive.
“He
can hear you,” the nurse assured me, echoing the words of Mark, his lover of
more than thirty years. That imposed a certain responsibility on my part; what
I said would potentially be ingested, possibly traveling from his ear to some
region of his body that could be soothed by mere words. Not texts, mind you, or
a gushy Facebook entry, but real words that would land in his physical orbit.
“I
love you,” I said. There must be something else to say, something less
predictable, a less hackneyed choice of words to impart to a man who wrote
dozens of luminous books, delivered thousands of profound sermons, told a
million or so juicy Hollywood stories.
“I
love you,” I repeated. “I love you. I love you.”
His
eyelids fluttered, like a silent movie star’s, like those of Mary Pickford, the
astronomical silent screen great, with whom he shared an intense business and
personal relationship more than a half a century ago.
“I
love you. I love you,” I repeated. There were simply no other words that came
forth. And yet, in uttering those three words, over and over and over, Malcolm
seemed to be the one who was giving as much as he was receiving.
"..shared an aura of indomitability that radiated from their essence; their shared larger-than-life personas made us believe that they were too big to die, too luminous, too outrageous, too present."
Sitting
with him, I tried to enumerate the deaths that piled up this year alone: Tommy,
a part of my life for more than twenty years, including a make out session that
lingers on my lips; Audrey, the grande
dame mother of one of my closest friends; Michael, a costume designer who I
once witnessed creating a dress on a male performer who stood patiently in a
black sea of tulle; Taylor, the actor-writer-painter who combined artistry and
humanity with every breath he took.
All
of these people, including my darling friend-comrade Malcolm Boyd, shared an
aura of indomitability that radiated from their essence; their shared
larger-than-life personas made us believe that they were too big to die, too
luminous, too outrageous, too present.
“I
love you, Malcolm.” I held his hand even though it was snugly situated under
the hospital blanket with its embossed pattern of…what is it, flowers? His hand
seemed large and strong, contrasting with the frail diminutiveness of his body.
Do
I tell him how monumentally he has affected my life? Do I announce how he has
consistently inspired me for decades? Do I remind him of all the giggles amidst
the shifting phases of our friendship?
“I
love you. I love you. I love you.”
He
appeared to be in a state of contentment; no raging at the night or waging a
war against time. At ninety-one, with a beloved husband (Mark Thompson), a
rolodex of friends who are true-blue and more than a little bit lavender, and a
literary legacy unparalleled, activist/man-of-the-cloth Malcolm Boyd seems to
be welcoming whatever is next. That seems to be his nature.
“Goodbye,
my dear friend.
“I
love you.”
