Tommy awoke to the smell of coffee. On a small table by the window of his bedroom, breakfast had been laid. On the bench at the foot of the bed, clothes had been laid out for him. He got up to use the bathroom. In the mirror, his face shocked him. He was unshaven, unkempt, and worn from grief. He splashed his face and resolved to face the day. First, that good smelling breakfast. He had always been the one to prepare breakfast for Billy when they were together – Billy just called out for delivery. As much as he appreciated the efforts of the Hopkins, he could manage for himself. But here it was, perfect.

He ate then returned to the bathroom. All his personal care products had been unpacked and placed in the most logical of orders. He set about washing and shaving then took a shower. It was several minutes before he was able to adjust all the many nozzles to inoffensive angles. A few tickled enough to get him to laugh.

As he went to put on the clothes that had been left for him, he recognized them as his original school jeans and shirt. As he picked them up he heard the now familiar discreet knock at the door.

“Yes?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, I thought you might be tackling the study and would prefer some rough clothes for the task. I’ve taken the liberty of providing dusting cloths and furniture oil, and a feather duster that would work well on the books. There is oil for the bindings as well.”

Hopkins retired from the room and Tommy dressed. He went into the study, first opening each of the three windows. He took the vacuum cleaner provided and made a first pass over the room, collecting the worst of the accumulated dust and debris. Though he decided to work through the room methodically, each new shelf cascaded dust back onto all the clean surfaces as soon as touched.

The task took on the aspect of an archeological dig, removing layer after layer of dust and dirt. Slowly the titles of the books emerged from the grime. Classical literature, a complete Shakespeare, Milton, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau and other philosophers, Whitman, Millay, Poe and other poets. Art books and scientific texts. First editions, fine bindings, rare old books. He carefully cleaned each one, often pausing to glance through them. A surprising number had dedications from the authors. This was the library of an educated man, one dedicated to arts and ideas. A man Tommy knew he would admire. A man Tommy hoped would like him.

Again, the knock at the door. Hopkins appeared suggesting that luncheon was in order, being well past one. A whiskbroom appeared in his hand and he attempted to tidy Tommy. Tommy took another look at the room where he had been working. While far from finished, it too had been transformed, returned to its purpose. Fully cleaning and preparing the books would probably take all summer. He was happy for the task, a task to fill the time left void by Billy.

Tommy spent his days restoring the library to order. His nights he spent alone, recalling each day with Billy, from the moment they met until the horrid scene in the apartment, the passion and loving, the fun and good times, the quiet hours spent in each other’s company. At times he laughed at funny moments. Sleep came each night in a tide of tears.

Charles stopped by every other week or so. Mrs. Hopkins always had a special meal prepared, proudly served by Hopkins in the dining room. Charles kept the conversation alive with stories of the outrages of the gay society Tommy had been introduced to by Billy. Charles hoped that the gossip would entice Tommy to accept an invitation to participate. Tommy promised to think about it.