About the time Goldman was diagnosed with cancer, I began experimenting with sex. I had just turned sixteen and I let Bobby go to second base and touch my breast. As I thought about the cancer eating away at Goldman’s body, I let Bobby go to third and touch other things. I let him come in my hands, reluctantly touching his erect penis with disgust, letting him come all over my newly painted fingernails as he gyrated and groaned. And though this was not technically going all the way, it went far enough. I cried while Bobby wiped his gunk off himself with a snatch of toilet paper and flushed it. I watched it swirl away to oblivion just as I imagined Goldman in his coffin being lowered into the ground, covered with dirt, thud by thud, until every inch of him disappeared and the mourners said Kaddish and we all said amen.
