Roland
ROLAND
C ary Grant is holding the door open for me. “Well, are you going to come in, Roland, or are you just going to stand there?” It feels warm on the other side, but pleasantly so—like the radiant heat of a sauna. “You know who I am?” I ask him, even though he was fucking me from behind several dreams ago. This time feels different. Sharper. “Of course, I do, old friend,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.” I know that this is it. This is what comes next. I think about Zoya and her indomitable spirit. I think about Adam’s mopey face and his beautiful, prematurely ancient soul. “But what about my friends?” I ask Cary. He doesn’t miss a beat. “They’ll catch up with you, Roland. Now, come on. We wouldn’t want to keep everyone waiting, would we?” No, I suppose we wouldn’t , I think, but I also have no idea who “everyone” is or what is “waiting” on the other side of that door. Everything behind Cary is hazy, like air above asphalt on a summer day in Georgia. But that uncertainty doesn’t scare me now. The world never knew me. They may never know me. But I knew myself at the end. And I knew love.
“Just two questions before I come in, Cary, if you don’t mind.” He looks puzzled—not quite screwball-movie puzzled, but just confused, like no one’s ever done this at the pearly gates before. “Well, I don’t see how it makes any difference, but go ahead,” he says. First, I ask him, “Did you get to keep your honorary Oscar after you died?” And he says, “Well, to quote one of Jimmy’s movies, you can’t take it with you, can you?” I’m a little more worried about my second question, but I decide to hell with it, I’ve wanted to know the answer for decades. “Are you gay?” Cary Grant smiles. “You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” He reaches out his hand. I step toward him and take it. Together, we walk through the door.