Here Comes the Corpse

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Our parents beamed and smiled, both mothers crying. The clergy rose to their feet. Along with our parents and friends, they cheered and clapped. Scott smiled and murmured, “This was perfect.”

  For the recessional we had a full choir, a host of trumpeters along with a small orchestra, and the church’s organ performing the “Ode to Joy.” When a lone trumpeter began the opening chords solo, it could not have been a more magical moment.

  Now, if you thought there was bit of excess (or even a lot) at the exchange of vows, you should have seen the reception. As Paul Rudnick put it in The Most Fabulous Story Ever Told, the entire operation looked as if it had been done by someone for whom “too much is just a starting point.” We rented the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Chicago, one of the newest hotels and by far the largest space available for such an event in the city, short of renting out McCormick Place. (A possibility, but not very practical. The lead time for getting space at the larger lakefront venue for the date we wanted was years.)

  This was the biggest party we ever expected to throw. We’d invited well over a thousand people, not counting as many of those clergy as wanted to attend, and a horde of reporters, too. Here’s another tip. Keep the reporters well fed and their drinks full up. You’d be amazed how much more positive your press coverage becomes.

  No need to winnow the guest list when you can afford to invite everyone you know.

  The mayor of Chicago, the governor of Illinois, and their wives stayed far longer than I thought they would. The guests were numerous and varied: movie stars and media hounds, half of Scott’s teammates, many of my fellow teachers, old friends, three teammates of mine from our championship high school football team and our old coach, all of my brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Over half of Scott’s relatives showed up from the wilds of backwoods Georgia, the most important being his mom and dad. We invited every sports reporter from around the country who’d ever said a kind word about Scott in print or electronically. Anybody who worked for the gay newspapers in town was given credentials to cover the affair. Special spots were reserved for entertainment columnists from the Trib and Sun-Times, E! network television, and all the national gay magazines that wanted to cover the event.

  In the Hotel Chicago the twenty-story atrium ballroom had two vast walls of solid glass and a dome of intricate stained glass. Rainbow-flag bunting around the ceiling’s four edges. Vast displays of flowers—sheets of roses, rainbow colors again. Then orchids and more orchids, all living, white orchids in vast redwood tubs filled with sphagnum moss. Gargantuan balloons and twenty-foot-long, rainbow-hued feather boas swirled around gold, Godiva-chocolate centerpieces. Huge banners held photos of Scott and me from our childhoods, teenage years, and adulthoods with the pictures blown up to twelve feet tall. Yes, they had the ones of each of us as infants with our bare bottoms prominently exposed. Those embarrassing treats were festooned behind the head table. I especially liked his high school photo with him in his baseball uniform. He claimed he liked best the one of me bare chested and clad in marine fatigue pants taken at boot camp. There was also a two-story-high collage featuring pictures of relatives and friends. There was one collage of his coach and team from when they won the Georgia state baseball championship, and one of me, my teammates, and coach from when we won the Illinois state football championship.

  Mirrored balls above the dance floor, mars lights dimmed for the moment, a string orchestra to play quietly during dinner, a wait staff inspired by pool-boys-r-us, each wearing tight, tight black pants and a muscle T-shirt. A bell choir, all of whom were in red toreador pants. An ice sculpture of the skyline of downtown Chicago that extended fifty feet. Five different restaurants catered the dinner, one for each course of the meal. More trumpets were in there somewhere. And a laser light show that ran continuously. Enough candles to lower the local supply for months. Along with an open bar, we had an immense buffet awash in hors d’oeuvres catered from a sixth restaurant to keep the crowd fed and lubricated as the reception line went on and on.

  While I was aware ahead of time of most of what Scott and company had prepared, I was still a bit awed. My lover, the calm, reasonable, never-do-anything-to-excess country boy, had put to shame all the drag queens on the planet. We had more glitz and glitter than a stadium full of drag queens’ wet dreams.

  The receiving line was immense. It took hours, but we shook hands with or hugged all of them.

  Until we found the dead body in the bathroom, it was a reasonably fun event.

  2

  The first hint of something being amiss came in the reception line. Everything was all I expected and more until Ethan Gahain appeared in front of me. Rachel and Perry Gahain, my parents’ best friends since before I was born, had been invited to the wedding. Ethan was their younger son. When I saw him, the smile that had been plastered to my face remained intact, barely. Standing next to him was my sister, Caroline, and her husband, Ethan’s older brother, Ernie.

  There was history here. Big history. A lot of it was kind of sad, sentimental, and nostalgic. Some of it was true love, betrayal, and heartache. My first memory of Ethan was of us playing together in my backyard when we were both five years old. He’d taken a red truck from me. It was my favorite toy at the time. My mother had come out to find out what the squalling was about. I’d gotten a lesson in sharing and the unfairness of the world. Our getting in trouble was his fault. He’d swiped the truck. The tears then were a harbinger of things to come. For thirteen years we went to the same kindergarten, grammar school, and high school. We played on all the same sports teams. When we were kids, our families went on picnics, took camping vacations together, and shared numerous holiday events. My mom and dad still frequently socialized with his.

  During my sophomore year in high school, I developed a mad crush on him. Ethan was the first guy I made love to, my first boyfriend. I was his first as well. We were passionate with each other in that supersecret teenage way. This feeling of and need for secretiveness was made even more acute because of our being frightened little gay boys.

  Even in that reception line at such an incredibly happy, busy moment, the flash of remembrance of that first sexual encounter was as clear as if it had happened less than ten minutes ago. I would never forget the fear and ecstasy of intimately touching and being touched for the first time. Does anyone ever forget their first time? I doubt it. On that late-Saturday night so long ago, we admitted we were both scared, but willing to go beyond experimenting.

  I thought Ethan was gorgeous then. As he stood before me, he was, if possible, even more handsome. The skinny kid had become a well-muscled adult, into his thirties and looking fine. He obviously kept himself in shape. His suit, shirt, and tie matched perfectly and fit beautifully. He was a Harrison Ford type, kind of rugged, kind of daring, but with warm and fuzzy not far underneath. Ethan’s brush-cut red hair might have receded a trifle since I’d last seen him.

  We had had a sexual relationship for over a year and never did get caught. His house was the best place. Both his parents always worked until after six.

  While we were in love, we’d made all kinds of unrealistic teenage dream-plans together. As adults we would own a farm in Nebraska and grow old together unbothered by society. We’d make love endlessly under the starlight. We’d ride motorcycles through the Sahara desert and camp through Europe. We’d never lose touch. We’d always be in love.

  We broke up during junior year.

  I remember precisely what caused the split with almost as much clarity as our first sexual encounter. The day before Christmas vacation, I caught him after school in a classroom with the lights off. He was having sex with a female substitute teacher just out of college. She had fled instantly. He and I had stayed and talked. His cruelty during that hour had left nasty welts on my teenage psyche. I remember distinctly that he said, “Our sex wasn’t any more meaningful to me than the sock I use to cover my dick when I beat off.” I thought we’d been engaging in heavenly bl
iss. It sure felt like that to me.

  I’d planned to go on a trip to Disney World with his parents and family over that vacation. I couldn’t think of a way to get out of it. I still went, but I was totally depressed and miserable the whole time. Going on the trip probably turned out for the best. At least I wasn’t at home and didn’t have to face all kinds of questions from my mother about what was wrong. Even more, I saw clearly how cold and unfeeling Ethan really was. Worst of all, the whole trip he acted as if nothing had happened. If the breakup had bothered him, I might have felt better, but he seemed happy and content every single instant. Not a bit worried about me or what might have happened to the substitute teacher. No teenager is that good at acting. It was real and hurtful. That vacation, he always managed to make sure we were in a crowd so even if I knew how to talk to him about what had happened, I wouldn’t be able to. By the time the trip was over, I thought I would hate him for the rest of my life.

  Certainly, I was taught one of the tough lessons of life, that we do not always get what we want, no matter how sincere or eloquent or desperate we are. The harsh lesson that loving someone truly and deeply does not guarantee that he will love you back.

  I have no idea what happened to the teacher. She never subbed in our school again. I know my sixteen-year-old heart was broken. I remember not having anyone to confide in or cry with. By necessity I was very closeted when I was in high school. Now or then little sixteen-year-old closeted gay guys don’t have a lot of options. Although I think that is slowly changing for teens.

  To this day I don’t think either his or my parents had a clue to the sexual nature of our friendship. Combined family events were a strain for me for years after that. I hid our breakup as secretly as our intimacy. When we were in college, my sister helped bring about a reconciliation of sorts.

  We were never close again, but my hurt and anger slowly dissipated. Our parents were still friends. We had the same close-knit circle of friends. We had to work together and be in one another’s presence. We were still both starters on the same football team. After one collision at practice looked more like a war than a tackling drill, our coach had to pull us apart. He’d asked us if there was a problem. We’d both said no in that hide-the-problem-from-adults teenage way.

  We’d gone to different colleges. After his first marriage, he seldom attended any family events, so I saw even less of him. We had talked only sporadically over the ensuing years. He’d coached for a number of years at Carl Sandburg University in Wheaton and then moved to Lafayette University just outside St. Louis. Several of the athletes he’d coached at both schools had gone on to win medals in the Olympics.

  Usually my parents were my main source of information about the events in Ethan’s life. At last count he had a total of nine kids from four different marriages. His offspring included those that were biological, adopted, and blended. I’d heard he’d just divorced his fourth wife. We hadn’t talked in nearly two years. I remember exactly what he said that last time. I’d been traveling with a stopover in St. Louis and had a half a day with nothing to do. My mother was always urging me to call him. In a fit of nostalgia, I’d phoned and suggested we get together for a cup of coffee. He said, “Taking the time to get together with you is not worth the bother.”

  Before I could shut myself up, I had blurted out, “Why not?”

  I remembered his next words exactly: “I want you to keep your faggot ass out of my life.”

  I was hurt and mystified. What do you say to a statement like that? I don’t know how I had the presence of mind to simply say, “I hope you have a happy life.” Even if I had thought of a brilliantly cutting and witty comment, it would have made no difference. He’d hung up before I began speaking.

  What kept our lives intertwined and made things even more complicated was that just after I got out of college, my sister married Ethan’s older brother, Ernie, a stunningly attractive man in his own right. I’d had an unrequited crush on Ernie when I was little. That attraction had been one of my first clues that I was different. As an adult, Ernie had developed numerous health problems. He had been hospitalized for one illness after another, culminating a couple of years ago when he’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. He was generally okay, but was often forced to take it easy and occasionally needed to use a wheelchair.

  And now, here was Ethan at my wedding, smiling happily.

  Mrs. Gahain said, “Ethan called this morning and asked if he could be at the reception. I hope it’s all right.”

  Well, of course, it wasn’t all right. It was all wrong, but you don’t say that to a grandmotherly woman who’s your mom’s best friend. You don’t make a scene, especially not at such a moment. I’d read my Miss Manners.

  Ethan held out his hand and said, “Congratulations.”

  I shook his hand, nudged Scott, and said, “Look who’s here.” I introduced them.

  Scott looked at Ethan, then back to me. He knew the history and the hurt although they’d never actually met. But Scott’s got as much social sense as I. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, “I’m glad to meet you at last.”

  Ethan smiled broadly, leaned close to me, and whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

  I remember thinking this was a monumentally dopey time to say such a thing. We’re in the middle of this vast, once-in-a-lifetime party, and he wants to talk? This wasn’t some silly soap opera. At any rate, in less than thirty seconds the moment was over. The line eddied around us with the fabulously prominent mingling with the dearest of old friends. The mayor’s wife gave me a hug. Ian McKellen smiled cheerfully. A Hollywood producer in the mob had been trying to convince us to let him use our life stories for a movie of the week on some obscure cable channel. We sicced our agent on him. An hour later the line finally ended and the festivities commenced in full.

  Three hired videotapers. Three still-picture photographers. The buffet, the free drinks, and then the meal itself. An entrée of Hawaiian fillet of beef; vegetarians got vegetables; noncaffeine people got noncaffeine drinks. Gifts, as if we needed them, on an immense gift table. We’d registered to the hilt. Our biggest disagreement had been pro and con about accepting presents, Scott for and me against. Our compromise was to agree to donate all gifts to charity.

  Cutting the wedding cake was fun. No, we didn’t do that stupid shove-the-cake-in-the-other’s-mouth bullshit, which I consider to be possibly the most singularly idiotic and moronic part of any ritual on the planet.

  The toasting was kept to a minimum. My dad’s awful jokes were strictly limited by my mother. What threats she used to cut him off, I can’t begin to imagine. Scott’s toast was sweet. He simply lifted his glass and said, “To the man I love.” Mine was equally as simple: “I will always love you.”

  I think the best part was when the lights went down, a spotlight shone on us, and we shared the first dance together. Scott dancing used to be a sight to behold—this wonderful stud athlete turning total klutz and forcing himself to be propelled around the dance floor. No question, he’s game, especially for a slow dance. We’d taken some lessons. He was no longer horrible. Over the years I had graduated from wild flailing about to rock and roll, to above average at some pretty complicated steps. We weren’t ready to enter a tango contest, but we could hold our own and not embarrass ourselves.

  As the crowd watched and applauded, we began to sway together. I remember shutting my eyes and melting into his arms. It was a perfect moment. He is so gorgeous and so strong, and I love him so much. Dancing together with him in public is wonderful. I felt his arms, and shoulders, and torso, and legs, and it was fabulous. And then we danced with our moms. We were prevented from making a decision about dancing with our dads by the expedient of Scott’s dad flatly refusing to be coerced out onto the floor with anyone. He claimed he didn’t dance, and Scott averred that this was true. I think my dad might have done it, but I’m not sure. My brothers and sister danced with both of us. It was a little weird, but they’re so great and so sup
portive. I thought about trying to ask some of Scott’s teammates, but I thought that would be pushing my luck.

  The dancing thing turned into this gender-bending extravaganza. People were laughing and carrying on with same-sex and opposite-sex couple switching. I remember doing a bit of the Charleston with a guy I had played football with in college and the polka with my old high school coach. I used to babysit for his kids. I danced with a punter from the NFL and his date, a college basketball player. They hadn’t arrived together, and as more and more people danced in same-sex couples, their two daring whirls together weren’t noticed. There are all kinds of closets. I even managed a sweep around the floor with Ethan’s brother Ernie, who was in a wheelchair.

  The crowd did a lot of good old-fashioned whooping and hollering as everybody whirled and twirled, twisted and shook, throughout the ballroom.

  Through the chaos and the fun, I saw Ethan only twice, at a distance. No opportunity presented itself for a tête-à-tête with the negatively remembered. I didn’t seek him out.

  3

  An hour later the band had swung into its second set of wild rock and roll from the late fifties and early sixties, and I needed a break. I eased out to stop in the washroom. The closest one was jammed. We’d made sure there was another, more private one for the use of the bridal party. It was behind the dais, up several sets of stairs, and down a hallway. This bathroom had only one urinal and one stall. The place was crammed with multisized, ornate, bronze sculptures. It had blue-green tile walls and was topped off with the odd flourish of a lavender porcelain urinal. Standing there pissing, I was just barely able to hear the sound of the band. As I zipped up, I heard a soft moan. I looked around. Nothing. Another soft moan. I looked under the stall partition. I saw a foot resting at an odd angle. For the foot to be in that position the person sitting on the commode would have to be a contortionist. This wasn’t good. The trickle of blood I noticed next was alarming.