It was Henry who made high school look easy—he rotated through all the team sports, took advanced math and science, and bagged a 4.0.
Biology was one of the few classes we had together freshman year, and the first day of class, Henry and I scoped out a table in the back to wait for Danny. Taking the seat closest to the window, Henry patted the stool next to him, and I felt a tiny ember of… something… flare to life. Sitting next to Henry felt like I’d won the raffle, and a rebellious piece of me was hoping we’d be assigned these seats for the semester.
I’d just dumped my backpack on the table when Danny burst in, beating the bell, grin plastered on his face from his jog across campus. He never said a word to me, just shoved my stuff over and hipped me away, dropping onto the stool next to Henry. Just like that, I was third again.
By senior year I’d gotten used to my permanent role as Danny’s wingman. Danny always called the shots—keeping Henry and me in line, dragging us to parties and games, arranging movie nights and sleepovers. He’d hang out in the stands with me while we watched Henry play football, or sneak us into the dugout during baseball season. No one could say no to Danny, not even his coach.
Senior year was also the year I came out to myself.
I’d seen enough jocks and smelled enough locker-room pheromones to admit that I was solidly in the gay-only camp, though I was never brave enough to share the news with my friends. It became awkward at times, hanging out in their rooms, catching a whiff of teenage boy. It was enough to have me sporting wood, and I lived in terror that they’d figure it out and reject me. So I hid my nature and my secret crush and watched Henry and Danny for signs that they were more than just friends.
While none of the three of us dated, Danny was the king of hookups. He flirted with anyone and everyone. Reports of his conquests of both sexes never made the rounds outside his almost pathological need to share all the details with Henry and me, and we weren’t talking, though I suspect it was for different reasons.
Henry didn’t have time to date. Unlike Danny, who tried to fit his homework into his socializing, or me—wasting hours in my room with my hand—Henry was stoic in his pursuit of academic excellence, spending all his free time on homework or with us, ignoring the flocks of girls and the few mournful boys vying for his attention.
Henry also had a plan to see us all in college together. He cajoled us into completing our applications, drilled us relentlessly for our SATs, and just as he planned, we received our acceptances to Illinois State University, about an hour away in Normal.
All the moms were thrilled. Fantasies of weekly trips home loaded down with dirty laundry, desperate for home cooking, had no chance. We were ready to break free from them, and I just wanted to finally get laid.
Henry had arranged everything. And just like before, when it came to our academics, we fell in line behind him.
“WE’VE GATHERED here today in memory of Daniel James Anderson, whose untimely departure from this earth has left his family and this community of brothers and sisters under our Lord bereaved….”
The eulogy droned on. It was obvious to anyone who knew Danny that his path had never crossed that of the wispy-haired man.
I scoffed at his mention of community, and Henry’s pinch was back. I brushed his fingers away.
Danny was no paragon of virtue—no champion of the weak, no feeder of the homeless, no reader to the elderly. Danny had been messy, an addict, an underachiever, living off his charm, squeaking through college by the sheer force of Henry’s will alone.
As much as I loved Danny, his indifference to the gifts he’d been given was only highlighted by his cavalier exit in death. Hearing him built up like some paragon before a sea of nodding drones made me sick. I couldn’t understand how Henry bore it when I could feel cracks forming in my own self-control. Any second now I’d be fleeing down the aisle, away from the white-rabbiting that had been driving me—I’d been in free fall ever since I got Henry’s call, and the surrealism of a world without Danny in it was breaking me.
I was just about to do it—to call a cab and escape back to the West Coast, where at least parts of my life made sense—when something inside me broke, rocketing me to me feet.
Instead of making a break for the double doors leading out, I found myself striding down the aisle to confront—well, I wasn’t sure what. My feet were moving faster than my brain. I was brushing through the stunned silence that was echoing off the walls, my legs moving onward—clearly under command of some impulse I couldn’t control—until I was face-to-face with the stunned man of god.
The lowercase g was mine.
No god I could contemplate would bring us together again for such an ugly reason and then leave us in the hands of this narcissistic quack of faith.
I pushed past him on my way to the pulpit—my hands sweaty once they clutched the sides of the worn lectern—and my momentum failed. I stared across the frosty expanse of the congregation, skittering past the sight of Henry in a half crouch, looking as if a flash freeze had caught him just as he was about to stand. Maybe that was true. Everyone else seemed to be staring at me with eyes glittery with ice.
It was only when my search reached the faces of my mom and Aggie, their warmth melting some of the icefall lodged in my throat, that I could speak.
“I don’t know who that man being eulogized here today is, but he’s not Danny Anderson.
“My Danny wasn’t a community leader, he could give a rat’s ass about your little business clubs and church socials, he was an indifferent and lazy boss—everyone knows that—and he was happiest being a pain in the ass…. He would have hated everything about this.”
I waved my hand to include the funeral trappings, and a hiss erupted from the back. I dug in, ignoring it, and started again.
“Danny was my first friend, and I loved him. He was there for me when my dad left. He kept the bullies off my back when I was still treated like the new kid. He never gave up on making me a part of his life, even after I made the choice to leave his. I’d thought I’d lost him forever—but there hasn’t been a week that’s gone by in the past ten years that Danny hasn’t reached out to me. Checking in, keeping me close.
“Even during the times I was a lousy friend, he never gave up. And now I can’t help but wonder, when did we give up on him?
“There was a singular part of Danny that he felt he couldn’t share with you. He had bigger dreams than to come back to this town. He did it for his family, so he returned to a community that he thought would rather see him dead than embrace who he was inside.
“Now he’s brought us together again for a final chance at good-bye because—I may be guessing here—Danny’s plans for his own happily-ever-after never came true, and he gave up. Only, instead of slipping peacefully away like some tragic fairy-tale figure just so you can neatly mark his story with ‘the end’ and put him away on a shelf, Danny fucking killed himself.
“And I’m so goddamned angry now—aren’t you?” I felt hot tears roll down my cheeks and swiped at them as rage, fierce and red, spewed forth in a miasma of pain.
“Aren’t you angry that a beautiful man put a gun to his head rather than live another day among us?”
I turned to the casket and slammed my hand against the polished wood, the shock reverberating across the sanctuary, shedding rose petals in a shower of white, and the next second I was wrapped up tight against a hard warm chest.
Henry’s rich timbre rose above my sobs.
“Danny was just a man we loved, who loved us back, who loved his mom and dad—who lost his way. He was no hero, not in all the choices he made, but he was a good man with a good soul, and we wanted him in our lives. I’m sorry. So sorry that he didn’t give us another chance to prove that to him.”
HENRY PULLED me out of the sanctuary and sat me on the floor outside our old Sunday school classroom, cradling me in his lap until I was empty of tears.
He bundled me into his car and left me there to stew in misery and
self-pity. When he returned, he had my mother with him, and I realized that I’d missed all the maneuvering he’d done behind the scenes.
I’d walked to the church that morning, needing the mile to clear my head, knowing that Mom and Aggie would be with Danny’s mom. I wasn’t ready to face her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But when I reached the church, Henry was leaning against the building, looking so much like the boy I’d grown up with except for a few more inches across the chest and shoulders, waiting for me.
And it was Henry who’d guided me to a spot in the back, away from as many curious eyes as possible—though I’d made that a wasted effort—and it was his calm strength pulling me back from disaster, until even he wasn’t enough in the face of my overwhelming grief.
MY MOM leaned over the front seat, pressing a kiss to my cheek before turning to Henry. “Thank you, dear. I know you wanted to be here for Jeremiah. It’s such a hard day for everyone.”
Henry caught my glance in the rearview mirror, and for a second his old smirk was back at the mention of my given name. I’d given it back more times than I could count, but my mother insisted I keep it.
My thoughts were still pinballing when my mom reminded me of what had bothered me earlier. I turned in my seat to look at her.
“Was Lucy there?” I whipped back to look at Henry, his eyes fixed on the road. All he would give me was another tightening of the jaw, so I turned back to the only functioning adult in the car. “Mom?”
“She wasn’t feeling well, and she didn’t want to get Miriam sick on top of everything….” She trailed off at Henry’s snort, and I turned back in amazement. He wasn’t holding his impassive cop face very well, so I poked. Hard.
“Short of a double amputation, there’s nothing in the world that would keep Lucy Keller from Mrs. Anderson’s side today. Henry?”
“Hush, Jeremiah. This has nothing to do with Henry!” My mom’s staunch defense of Henry wasn’t so far-fetched—he was another son to her—but her insistence that this was somehow not Henry’s fault suddenly made it seem like there was some debate that it was.
“She thinks this is your fault?” I’d grabbed Henry’s bicep, trying to get him to look me in the eye. I was grateful we were now part of a procession driving twenty miles an hour through suburban streets. He shrugged me off easily, and it was my mother who answered for him—again.
“It’s no one’s fault, honey. Not even Danny’s. Certainly not Henry’s. Lord knows he’s done more for that boy than a hundred saints could….”
She moved closer and reached her hand over to gently squeeze his shoulder. “No one thinks this is your fault, love. Danny was always so high strung and insecure. He hid it well behind all that charm of his, but the only time I saw him settled was when the three of you were together.
“And as for Lucy, well… she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and got her feelings hurt. It happens. Now Miriam looks at her, looks at me, and sees us with two healthy, grown—and God forgive me—alive sons, and it hurts her to the bone. She’ll get over it, but she needs time. She needs to bury her boy. So it’s a good thing Agatha is with her.”
Henry nodded tightly, gaze still fixed on the car in front of us, but his large tan hand crept up and covered my mom’s pale pink fingers lingering on his shoulder.
I marveled at the words of endearment she’d poured over Henry like a balm, as if it was most natural thing in the world to do.
THE CEMETERY was chilly—headstones half-buried in drifts of gold and red. It looked like the groundskeepers were a pragmatic bunch, preferring to wait to rake away the remains of autumn rather than stand vigil.
Danny’s burial plot had been carefully swept of leaves and covered with a cheerful carpet of plastic grass to frame the open grave. Due to circumstances even I didn’t want to dwell on, there’d been no viewing after the service, just an unseemly rush to get the interment over with—especially after my performance.
I stood there, flanked by my mother and Aggie, who had abandoned Mrs. Anderson in favor of me. I wasn’t sure if that was an indication of a sea change in the relationship between the women based on my behavior at the church, or that I was now considered to be the more damaged party.
Henry stood a foot behind me, guarding my flank. I imagined I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, even though I was bundled up against the chill, his scarf wound around my neck almost as tight as my nerves—another act of mothering by him. I could smell the lingering cologne in the felted material, and I squeezed back another tear. I desperately wanted this day to be over so I could run to the airport and never look back—just like the last time.
I’D BEEN so excited as I drove on campus in Normal, my hatchback loaded to the gills. They’d already been at the dorm for a day, setting everything up. I’d been getting calls from them every couple of hours with updates so I knew where to go. I left everything in the car and tore across the lawn—just a day apart, and I found myself already missing….
Later I’d analyze the scene and try to come to terms with my reaction, to understand the source of my pain. But at the time… at the time, I was operating on pure instinct. When I rounded the corner and saw Danny wrapped around Henry, the pair passionately kissing… flight was my only option. So I ran.
I called Danny from the road—I’d never been able to hide anything from Henry—and leaning against a fuel pump in Minneapolis, I lied my ass off.
I told him I’d been waitlisted by University of Washington and my acceptance had just arrived—their writing program was always my dream. If I wanted the spot, I had to catch a plane now to make orientation. He had Henry—they wouldn’t miss me. I’d be back in the summer. Just like old times.
It sounded false in my own ears, but Danny barely said a thing. I heard Henry in the background demanding the phone and hung up—just in time. He wasn’t so easily fooled by me, so I ignored his phone calls until I reached Washington. I was afraid that if I heard Henry’s voice asking me to come back, I would. Something about crossing the Rockies and seeing the blue waters of Puget Sound made my decision final. I spent the next four years licking my wounds in Seattle. Ironically, all those lies came true anyway—except for my pledges to return.
After graduation, I stayed away. At the time none of us had the money to hop a flight for a visit, so the excuses came naturally. And the idea of seeing Danny and Henry happy together was still too painful to contemplate, even at the expense of my own sister and mother. It was ironic that after all these years, Danny was still moving me around the board like a pawn.
ONCE THE undertakers have had their turn with the dearly departed, he or she is handed over to the pastoral authority for prayers of redemption and absolution.
The moment the priest steps away—comforting hand on the shoulder of the closest bereaved—a stalemate occurs: the body is in physical limbo, neither among the living nor truly with the dead and whatever eternity has planned for it.
If all goes as planned, the attendees, ready to shuck the mantle of their grief and tuck into Sunday hams, leave in a respectful but brisk manner and the undertaker will be home in time for dinner—job well done.
But as is often the case, grief is not so neatly sorted. The mourners searching for solace or answers to questions unknowable will linger, waiting for the masses to depart so they can have a private moment with their dead. When this happens, the efficient processing of death grinds to a halt, the burial party frozen in place until the cemetery is clear once more.
I knew this. I recognized the mortician in his dark suit, smoking a cigarette as discreetly as possible, leaning against the backhoe along with the cemetery staff, pretending to be invisible. But I couldn’t make myself follow Aggie and my mom. I just stood there, watching them cross the lawn, weaving through headstones.
I lingered as each black limousine pulled away from the curb, exiting along a driveway that snaked through rolling fields of granite. I watched as a couple stopped to brush the leaves away from one headstone be
fore disappearing into the distance. And then it was just the four of us. The mortician had vanished, leaving only his minions to keep watch over the tableau we made.
I could feel Henry standing as still as ever behind my left shoulder. He remained, planted in the earth like another marker, until I finally moved. He’d always known what I needed before I did, and he let me go to Danny alone.
I stroked the polished wood, following the grain as it moved across the casket, and tried to imagine my best friend lying inside.
The urge to howl clawed up my throat before I choked it down—I was tired of feeling angry. I just wanted my best friend back. I wanted to spin the hands of time in reverse and take back the moment of that kiss—when I chose to run instead of fight for the men I loved.
Danny wasn’t the only coward here.
I pressed a last kiss against the wood. “I love you, Danny Anderson. I hope you finally have some peace.”
I couldn’t see through the tears welling up, but the arm that wrapped around my shoulders felt dangerously familiar. Through the shimmer, I saw Henry place his hand briefly next to mine on the casket before we drew away.
The rumble of a diesel engine turning over followed us as we walked to the car.
I RETREATED to my bedroom as soon as Henry dropped me off without another word. I tried hard not to feel disappointed or abandoned. Henry was grieving too, and unlike Danny’s mother, no one was baking him cakes and casseroles or giving him condolences for the loss of his loved one—his partner, his…?
I must have slept, because I heard two distinct chimes in the distance—two o’clock in the morning—and I was awake. Hungry. I moved toward the stairs, pausing outside my sister and mother’s rooms, letting the sounds of their breathing soak into me. I’d missed this.
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