Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
“Hey babe, just calling to say I’m gonna be a little late. I’ve got a letter I need to post in the mail, if you can believe that. Probably not. You’re probably laughing and asking yourself, ‘Who the fuck posts letters in the mail anymore?’ Well, apparently it happens. I got one from this applicant in Louisiana and I had to write back because, well, it’s the only contact details he gave me and I know you’re laughing even louder now because it all sounds kinda ridiculous and bizarre like I stepped back in time, but here I am… stepping back in time and looking for a fucking mailbox. Hell, maybe I should film the whole random experience and see if it goes viral, who knows, right? The world will forever know me as the guy who posted a letter. People will see my face and say, ‘Hey, that’s the letter guy.’ Oh yeah, everyone will remember this face. I will endure till the end of time. Until then I should probably stop talking to a phone and go find that mailbox… Oh wait, I see one just up ahead. I’ll be home soon. Love you.”
Joel made a kissing sound into the phone.
Sitting on the rug beside the coffee table, Chet tilted his head to one side, ears pricked as he uttered the tiniest of whimpers, wondering where the kiss went.
I sniffed and wiped my eyes, then pushed aside the tangle of blankets and pillows and patted the spot beside me on the couch. “You wanna come up? Fuck knows I could use a hug. Even one from you.”
Chet gave me a look that said I wasn’t the one he wanted a hug from, then got up and walked away. I heard him plodding up the stairs where he had spent most of his time for the last two days since the party… since the news… since…
I sighed, wondering how long it would be before I returned to the bedroom to sleep. There was absolutely nothing in me that had the strength to get back into that bed. It just wasn’t the same bed without him in it.
Hell, it wasn’t even the same house.
Who knew how long it would take for those feelings to disappear, if they ever disappeared at all.
I sat there on the couch for a while longer.
Not crying.
Not even thinking really.
Just weary.
Just… numb.
Just sitting there, staring at my cell phone on the coffee table.
When I did start thinking again, I thought about playing the message once more.
I knew it by heart now, yet every time I listened to it, I heard something different; some new little noise in the background or a certain inflection on a word that I hadn’t noticed before. From the sound of passing cars, it was clear he had been walking home, although this was something I knew from the police report anyway. But the report didn’t detail the little things I now heard in the background; things that painted a broader picture of Joel’s last moments, putting me in the moment, almost as though I had been standing there on the street watching him leave that message as he headed toward the mailbox… toward his collision with eternity.
I heard the ring of a bicycle bell. I could only guess now that it belonged to the courier who was one of the witnesses interviewed by police.
I heard a baby screaming and a mother trying to calm the child. She too was mentioned in the report, her recollection of events being the most crucial, besides the bus driver’s account of course. She saw it all happen. Just before Joel could mail the letter, the wind caught it. It blew onto the street. Without looking, Joel stepped onto the street to catch it.
I saw the woman’s name in the report, but hers—like all the names mentioned—were instantly lost in the sticky blackness of my shock and grief.
But the background sound that would stay with me forever was the huff and squeak of a bus braking.
The bus had stopped to let passengers off no more than a hundred feet before the mailbox on the corner, before continuing on its ill-fated way.
It was the same bus that had now been examined by forensics and decommissioned for the next month to make repairs. Not that the damage had been extensive. From what I understood, the impact had barely left a dent. But I suppose when something like this happens, they take the vehicle off the streets for longer than necessary.
To allow the stigma of death to dissipate.
To let the traces of tragedy fade away.
To prevent anyone from getting the idea of bad omens in their heads, and give the staff at the bus company enough time to forget what happened and get on with the job of driving buses.
I caught my breath at the thought of someone pigeon-holing Joel’s death as a bad omen.
It was bad timing.
It was a misjudged step.
It was the calculations of the universe gone wrong.
But it was not a bad omen… just a bad, bad outcome… an unraveling of events that should never have happened… events which I now feared would be my own unraveling.
Yes, I was chillingly aware that Joel’s death might well lead to my undoing.
Yet now that he was gone, part of me embraced the notion that his untimely death would lead to my own end. Part of me was ready for it, even longed for it.
Of course, my own demise was not something that had even entered my consciousness three days ago.
We were happy three days ago.
I was standing in a jewelry store making the final payment on his engagement ring three days ago.
But now here I was, sitting on the couch in track shorts and a T-shirt that I hadn’t changed out of in twenty-four hours, staring at a phone on the coffee table while the dog hid under the bed.
I’m not quite sure when it was that I noticed the smell.
It might have been five minutes later, it might have been five hours.
But the smell of poop slowly wafted down the stairs.
Not my poop, of course.
It could only have been—“Chet.”
Finally, I pulled myself off the couch and staggered up the stairs.
I stood in the doorway of the bedroom and looked at a puddle of pee and a petite little poo beside the bed— my side of the bed—and realized two things.
The pee and the poo told me I hadn’t taken Chet for a walk in the last two days.
The size of the poo told me I hadn’t fed him in that time either.
“Oh shit… literally.”
I cracked open two tins of dog food in the kitchen.
I forked them into Chet’s bowl and tinged the side of it like a dinner bell.
I heard his footsteps on the stairs, slow and wary.
He walked cautiously into the kitchen, as though he’d done something wrong, as though not only had his master abandoned him, but that I was punishing him for it.
“Chet buddy, I’m sorry. I’m not… I’m not thinking straight right now. Here boy, have some food. Eat. One of us has to eat, right?”
He stopped three feet away from his bowl, looking from me to the food then back again.
“You want me to leave? You want to eat in peace? I get it. I have a poop to clean up anyway.”
I left the kitchen and headed for the stairs. As I glanced back through the open door to the kitchen, I saw the little pooch slurping up his food.
I cleaned up the poop in the bedroom and sponged the rug clean.
I undressed.
I showered.
I didn’t use the loofah or soap. I couldn’t explain why, other than I didn’t want to scrub myself clean just yet… in case it meant scrubbing him away.
The last time he touched my hand.
The last time he nibbled my earlobe and whispered he loved me.
The last time he kissed me goodbye on his way to work.
I wasn’t ready to wash any of those things away yet. Not yet.
I lost track of time once more.
How long I stood under the running water, I had no idea.
When I finally stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me, I looked into the bedroom to see Chet sniffing the spot on the rug that I’d just cleaned up.
“Okay, okay, we’re going for a walk. Gimme a minute, would ya?”
With a towel around my waist I stepped into our walk-in closet.
My clothes were on the left.
His clothes were on the right.
I opened my underwear drawer, then paused a moment.
I glanced right.
I stepped over to Joel’s side of the closet.
I sat on a bench in the dog park, the same one I always sat on.
Usually, I’d sit and watch Chet play with the other dogs: the entitled Labradoodle named Lulu, and the British bulldog named Fred and that pompous fucking Pomeranian, Teddy.
But as I unclipped Chet’s leash from his collar, he didn’t rush to play with the other dogs.
Instead, he just sat there by the bench.
Watching as I did.
Not interested at all in engaging with the other canines, just as I was never interested in engaging with the other humans in the park.
At one point he trotted a short distance away and did his business.
I parceled up his poop in a bag, tied a knot and deposited it in the trash.
Then together we sat—him at one end of the bench, me at the other—watching the other dogs in their state of happiness.
“Is Chet alright?”
The voice startled me, and I jerked to the left to see Teddy’s owner, a thin older woman with a necklace that matched Teddy’s collar. She was standing by the bench, pointing to Chet.
I must have looked confused or perhaps even surprised as I looked up at her.
“Your dog, Chet. Is Chet alright?” she asked again. “He normally likes to play with the others. He’s not unwell, I hope.”
I shook my head. “He’s… he’s not unwell.”
The woman with the matching collar to Teddy’s leaned in closer. “Are you alright, dear?”
“Dear,” she called me. That was the thing about humans at dog parks. We all knew each other’s dogs’ names, but we had no idea of each other’s names, nor did we have any interest in finding out.
“Yes, I’m alright,” I answered, finding it hard not to sound defensive. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, dear… you’re crying.”
“I am?”
I quickly realized I didn’t have the energy to keep up a facade. I clipped the leash onto Chet’s collar and stood from the bench. “We have to go now,” I told Teddy’s mom.
As Chet and I walked hurriedly from the park, the woman called after me. “I hope everything’s alright.”
I wanted to turn around and tell her, “No… nothing will ever be alright again.”
But Chet had to be walked.
Chet had to poop and pee.
And if I stopped coming to this dog park, it was another six blocks to the next one.
So instead, I called over my shoulder to Teddy’s mom, “Everything’s fine. Thank you for asking.”
I was a block from home when my phone rang.
I snatched it out of my pocket.
My head, you see… my head had started doing this strange thing where it kept playing lousy pranks on me, telling my heart that it was him calling.
It was Joel.
He was still here.
He hadn’t left me.
He hadn’t stepped out onto the street when he shouldn’t have, and the whole thing was a big silly mistake, and he was still alive.
Every time I heard the phone ring, I thought it was him, calling to tell me everything was a big mistake.
It was him ringing to tell me everything was okay, he was just running a little late…
Ringing to ask for his favorite creamy mushroom pasta for dinner, with extra parmesan…
Ringing to check on Chet and make sure he wasn’t missing Daddy too much.
Who knew the head could be such a fucking prankster?
Who knew the heart was stupid enough to fall for it every time?
I juggled the phone out of my pocket, my hands trembling so much I almost dropped it. When I managed to bring the screen into view, my head gave a sly little laugh— haha —and my heart sank at the sight of Margot’s name, not Joel’s.
I let the call go to voicemail.
I pretty much stopped checking most of my calls after the message from the manager of our favorite restaurant, Balthazar:
“Good afternoon, Mr. Van Owen. This is a courtesy call to ask if you had plans for Christmas this year. According to our system, your partner Joel is quite partial to the chocolate souffle. I can happily arrange that for your table in lieu of our traditional festive selection, if you like. May I take the liberty of making a reservation for the two of you?”
And the message from Agnes, the woman who owned the flower shop around the corner:
“Oh Noah, I’m so sorry to hear about Joel. I realize you’ve asked people to donate to a charity of their choice instead of filling up your house with flowers… and don’t get me wrong, I think that’s so admirable of you… but do you think you might reconsider that request? Joel knew so many people in the performance industry that… gosh, how do I put this… his contacts would be wonderful for business. Oh, by the way, should I put the account in your name now instead of Joel’s? Let me know, dear. And my sincerest condolences.”
And then there was the message from Robert:
“Heeeeeey, Noah. How are you? Are you okay? I… I mean we … Andrew and me… we hope you’re getting over things. We’re worried about you, honey, and quite frankly we’re very conscious of you going down any dark, nasty tunnel of despair because God knows you deserve better. On that note, Andrew’s cousin is still in town. FYI, he’s single and handsome and did I mention he’s a firefighter? Just sayin’. Maybe we could bring him along to the wake and you two could—”
Needless to say, I deleted that last message before Robert had even finished talking.
Of course, I didn’t let every call go to message bank. There were exceptions.
I’d taken the calls from the police.
I’d taken the calls from the mortician.
I had a vague recollection of walking into the morgue to identify the body.
The mortician began with condolences, then talked about formalities, then mentioned something about me needing to talk to Joel’s doctor, and all I did was nod without taking any of it in.
I signed forms.
I stood beside a body beneath the sheet, telling myself it wasn’t Joel under there.
How could it be?
I couldn’t feel him in the room like I always did. Whether it was at a busy concert hall or a cozy jazz bar or an intimate restaurant, I could always sense the moment he walked in the door before turning to see him there, smiling in my direction.
No, surely that wasn’t him under the sheet.
I couldn’t hear him breathing, not even that barely audible whistling sound his nose made that used to drive me insane at a Chopin recital.
I couldn’t even smell him, that scent that was so uniquely him. It was the smell of a glass of cognac on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The scent of a fresh bouquet of gardenias in his favorite vase by the window, the one he bought on our first trip to Vienna together. The aroma of pumpkin soup in winter and peach-flavored iced tea in summer. The smell of Chet who cuddled in close to his master when Joel was sick in bed with a cold. The smell of burnt toast when he was late for work in the morning. The smell of the Steinway. For some reason it reminded me of a cabin in the woods with an open fireplace.
I couldn’t smell any of that in the morgue, only hospital-grade disinfectant and metal slabs.
No, how could it be him lying there?
How could it possibly be him?
A big silly mistake.
That’s all it was.
That’s what I kept telling myself.
I wanted to tell the mortician that too, this was all some big silly mistake…
I wanted to ask if I could scratch my signature off the forms I’d signed…
I wanted to take it all back.
But before I could say a word, he lifted the sheet, and everything went blank.
I knew I hadn’t fainted.
I was cognizant enough to come home with a box of his personal belongings and the clothes he’d been wearing at the time.
I remember pulling out the step ladder in our closet and shoving the box on the highest shelf on the right-hand side, where I wouldn’t have to see it or think about it till tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that and the day after that and the day after that.
It was the same with phone calls.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep holding everyone at bay, but I also didn’t give a fuck.
There was nothing anyone had to say to me that couldn’t wait.
The whole world could wait now.
I frankly didn’t give a—
“Oh fuck.”
Chet and I were returning from the dog park when I turned the corner onto our street, glanced toward our house and saw them standing on our doorstep dressed in black.
“You gotta be shitting me.”
Regina and Dennis, Joel’s sister and her husband, were glaring impatiently at the house. Regina was hammering on the door relentlessly while Dennis was trying to peer through the front window into the living room even though I’d pulled the drapes shut.
Instantly I turned on my heel, about to retreat back to the dog park, when I heard Regina shout. “There he is. Noah! I see you!”
My shoulders deflated so much that the leash went slack between me and Chet.
Slowly I turned back toward the house.
I didn’t wave.
I didn’t smile.
I simply marched solemnly toward whatever dreaded encounter was about to unfold.
“Coffee?”
I sat a tray on the coffee table and Regina lifted the rather dramatic black lace veil from her face so she could drink.
Yes, she had gone all out.
Black veil.
Black dress.
Big black handbag.
Everything was black except for the shiny silver cross that she wore on the outside of her dress, so there would be no doubting her faith.
“Why haven’t you answered my calls? I’ve left a dozen messages, haven’t I Dennis?”
Dennis was wandering around the room, inspecting the items on our shelves, the pictures on our walls. “More than a dozen, I’d say,” he answered distractedly.
“More than a dozen,” Regina nodded. “More than a dozen unanswered calls. Noah, this is not the time to sit in a corner and cry, or curl up in a heap on the couch, as the case may be.” She glanced disapprovingly at the crumpled sheets piled next to me.
I quickly balled them up and dropped them behind the couch. “I wasn’t expecting visitors. At least not until…”
The wake.
Don’t say it, and maybe it won’t happen.
Maybe none of this needs to happen, because maybe he’s not even gone.
Maybe it’s just a big silly mistake, something we’ll all laugh about later.
I almost smiled at the thought until—
“What is that you’re wearing?” Regina was looking curiously at the jacket I had on, as though she had only just noticed it. “Is that Joel’s? It is. You’re wearing Joel’s jacket.”
“I… I…” I began to mumble. “It smells like cognac on a rainy—”
“It is his jacket. I know because I remember giving him that jacket for his thirtieth birthday. Long before he met you. Why in heaven’s name are you wearing his jacket?”
“I…”
“And if I’m not mistaken those are his shoes too. They don’t even fit you properly, they’re at least two sizes too big for you.”
I was becoming confused. Regina’s voice was loud, and her words were beginning to muddle me. “Um, I’m sorry. What are you doing here, Regina?”
She scoffed. “My brother died. Why do you think I’m here?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. Why are you in our house? Why did you drive two hours from Pennsylvania to see us?”
“To see you ,” she corrected me. “We came to see you, Noah. You’re not an ‘us’ anymore.”
I felt her words dig the hole inside me a little deeper. “Yes. To see me. Why did you come to see me?”
Before she could answer, Dennis asked, “Where is this? Who’s that?” He was standing by the mantle and had already picked up a framed photo, pressing his finger to the glass and no doubt leaving a smear of fingerprints that should never have been there.
“Please don’t touch that.” I was already off the couch, easing the picture out of his hands.
“Why can’t I touch it?”
“Because… because I don’t…”
Because I didn’t want anything to move out of place, ever again.
I wanted everything to stay exactly as it always was.
I changed the subject by answering his initial question. “That was taken in Hamburg, outside the Steinway factory. That’s Joel’s friend Hannah in the picture with us. She arranged the tour of the factory. She and Joel work together at Juilliard.” I realized I had used the present tense and quickly corrected myself before Regina had a chance. “Worked. They worked together.”
“Hamburg is where again?” If anyone was going to ask a stupid question it was Dennis.
I put the picture back on the mantle, turning it to face exactly the way it was facing before. “Germany. Hamburg is in Germany.”
Dennis gave a mocking chuckle. “Why on earth the two of you ever felt the need to travel is beyond us. A waste of time if you ask us. There’s only one passport that really matters, and that’s the passport to heaven, right Regina?”
“Amen, dear. Which brings me back to the reason we’re here.” From her large black handbag, Regina produced an ornate silver urn adorned with crucifixes and sat it on the coffee table.
“What is that?”
On another day or week or month or even in another lifetime I might have tried to hide the defensive tone in my voice. But my reactions were raw and like I said before, facades were hard.
“What does it look like?” Regina clearly had no intention of hiding her tone either. Hers was blunt. Aggressive. Ready to attack. “It’s an urn. Joel’s urn.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t chosen an urn for Joel yet. And if I had, that’s not it.”
“Yes it is. At least, for our half of the ashes it is.”
“What? No.”
“Oh Noah, don’t do what you always do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Make things difficult. Ever since you waltzed into Joel’s life, you’ve made things difficult.”
“Difficult? Like how? Like when?”
“Like when we invited you to Thanksgiving dinner and you embarrassed yourself by not knowing the words to Grace.”
“I wasn’t raised religious. I’ve never said Grace in my life.”
“Or the time you started adding your signature to the cards Joel sent to the family at Christmas.”
“But everyone knew who I was. Joel and I told your family we were together.”
“Just because you choose to tell people that, doesn’t necessarily make it so. Not to those who choose to believe otherwise. And especially not on Jesus’ birthday.”
“It doesn’t matter what people choose to believe. The fact is, Joel and I—”
“Then there was the time I asked you as politely as I could not to attend cousin Verity’s wedding because it would make things awkward for everyone if Joel turned up with… you.”
“You never asked me not to attend your cousin’s wedding.”
“Of course not, I asked Joel… who outright refused to attend if he couldn’t take you as his plus one.”
“I’m not his plus one. I’m his partner.”
“You were his partner. The lies I had to tell to cover for my brother’s absence that day. May the Lord forgive me. My point is, whether you knew about the kerfuffle over Verity’s wedding or not, you once again ended up making things difficult for everyone. That’s what your kind do, after all. When you’re not making a fuss about who you are, you’re making things difficult for everyone else.”
“My kind?”
“You know what I mean. All that flag waving and rainbow stealing. All that pride nonsense. How ridiculous and vain you all are.”
I felt my nostrils flare. “I’d like to see you say that to Joel’s face.”
“I can’t, Noah. He’s dead. Remember? But I can say it to you now he’s gone. I can rain on your pride parade as much as I want. You do know that pride is one of the seven deadly sins, don’t you? I can only pray the Lord spares Joel from whatever eternal damnation awaits the rest of you. He was a good boy, you know. A loving brother. An obedient son. He deserved a better life than the one you gave him. He deserved a long, happy, righteous life. Why he chose to stray from his faith, I’ll never know.”
“Perhaps it’s because you’re a bunch of judgmental, hypocritical assholes.”
Dennis gasped.
Regina simply sat there as a condescending smirk slowly appeared on her face. Without even turning to her husband, she said, “See Dennis? I told you he’d be difficult.”
How desperately I wanted Joel to come walking through the door at that moment and jump to my defense.
How desperately I wanted him to prove everyone wrong; to laugh and say, “I fooled you all, I’m not dead after all!”
The heavy black rocks inside my chest struck one another, giving off a tiny spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, the handle on the front door was about to turn.
But instead of that happening, Regina simply pushed the gaudy silver urn across the coffee table toward me. “We have no intention of attending whatever service you’re planning to hold for my brother. Keep your queer celebrations to yourself. But we have absolutely no intention of letting you keep all his ashes.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m not dividing him up like a cup of flour or sugar. Joel isn’t cake.”
“Well, he can’t stay here. He deserves to rest in a place of purity, in a home that’s close to God. Not wallow in this house of debauchery and despair.”
“I’m his partner.”
“You were his partner. I’m his sister. I’m his family and always will be. You… you’re nothing to him now. What even are you? You’re not a widow, you’re not a widower. No, those words imply the presence of a woman. The love of a woman. But when two men choose to live in sin, what does one become when the other dies? There’s no word that exists for it… because you should not exist. There was never a place for you on God’s earth… and there is no name for you now.”
“My name is Noah. That’s all anyone needs to call me.”
Regina laughed. “How ironic. When the rest of the world drowned in a sea of wickedness, Noah built a boat. His story serves as a constant reminder that all sinners will be judged. Yet here you are telling us you weren’t raised religiously. Why on earth did your parents choose such a biblical name if you’re not religious? Was it ignorance? Vanity? Disrespect for the word of the Lord?”
I stood from the couch. “I think you need to leave now.”
Regina stood and shouldered her handbag. “Happily. We’ll be back in one week to collect our half of my brother’s ashes. After that, you’ll never see us again.”
I didn’t walk them to the door.
I let them close it behind them.
But I did lock it as soon as they were gone.
I wanted to keep it locked forever.