Chapel of Ease

by Alex Bledsoe

  “He’s dead.” She drew out the word, giving it greater weight and meaning. It wasn’t simply an announcement; it was a shifting of the world, her world, my world.

  All I could think to say was, “What happened?”

  “He went to sleep and just … died. I couldn’t wake him up. He was cold, and stiff. I called 911, and they said he’d been dead for a couple of hours.” She dissolved into sobs, and all I could do was stare at the phone in my hand while it cried at me.

  I promised Emily I’d go there as soon as I got showered and dressed; then I checked the other messages. Most were from the cast, a couple from theater reporters I knew casually, and a half dozen from Neil. He was the only one I called back.

  “Matt,” he said with such evident relief that I wondered what exactly he thought I could do. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “I turned off my ringer. I wanted to sleep in.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Ray’s girlfriend called me already.”

  “It’s awful. He went home, lay down, and died. Just like that.”

  “Was it a tumor?”

  “Fuck if I know, although that seems like a pretty good bet, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I remembered the way he’d rubbed his temples on the roof. My God, had I missed a crucial sign? If I’d called 911 then, would he still be alive? Was this all my fault? “I guess they’ll do an autopsy, and we’ll know.”

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  “Listen, we’re calling the cast together this afternoon for some announcements. Three o’clock.”

  My stomach dropped even further. “Are we closing?”

  “Have you read the reviews?”

  “No. Are they terrible?”

  He laughed, with real amusement. “Matt, we’re the best thing since sunshine. Marion Davies didn’t get reviews like this when Hearst owned the papers. No way we’re closing down. But we can’t just act like nothing’s happened, either.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “And would you mind asking Ray’s girlfriend, Erica—”

  “Emily.”

  “Oh, that’s right, Emily. Would you mind calling her and inviting her to come, too? I plan to let everyone say a little about what Ray meant to them, and it might do her good to hear it.”

  “Sure.”

  “And don’t talk to the press; we’ll take care of that. Everyone else in the show is already tweeting about it, so there’s no point in asking you not to, but just try not to say anything about the future of the show.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, Matt? I know you and Ray had gotten close. I’m really sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  I continued to stare at my phone after he hung up, as if it might spit out details that I craved but didn’t dare ask. When it rang again I jumped, then turned it off and opened my laptop. I searched for reviews of the show.

  A MAGICAL MOUNTAIN EVENING was both the headline and the overall theme. “Like being right there in the Smokies,” one critic gushed, as if he’d ever been south of Baltimore. “Songs that will pierce your heart while they make your feet tap,” said another, a quote I hoped ended up on the CD cover.

  Damn, Rayford, I thought. Your timing is exquisite.

  I took a quick shower, then called Emily and told her about Neil’s offer. She sounded numb, but she agreed to go with me.

  As I rode the elevator down, it hit me all at once: Ray was dead. That smile, that goofy, stooped walk, that amazing musicianship, all were gone. Alone in that tiny metal box, I cried.

  And I hated myself for my next thought, but there was no holding it back: Now we’ll never know what’s buried in the chapel of ease.

  * * *

  I pushed the buzzer outside Emily’s building in Hell’s Kitchen and said, “Hey, it’s me.” She let me in without a word.

  When I got to her floor, the door was already open. Emily stood in the kitchen in a black dress that would’ve been sexy in almost any other context. As it was, she looked gaunt and willowy, like a twig in the winter.

  She hugged me as soon as she saw me. “I’m not crying,” she said, as much to herself as to me. “I’m not.”

  “It’s okay if you need to.”

  “No. I’ve got to make it through this without collapsing. Neil might want to hire me someday, and I don’t want his most vivid memory of me to be sobbing with snot running down my face.”

  I remembered my pledge to Ray to look after Emily; whatever his reason for making me promise it, I was now bound to my word. At least he seemed to be wrong about her, because she wasn’t falling apart. “Do you have anything you can take?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll manage it, thanks.”

  I looked around her slightly rumpled apartment. An overnight bag was open on the couch. “So you were at Ray’s place last night?”

  She nodded. “We were waiting for the reviews to show up online, and he went to lie down. I came to bed about an hour later, after reading the first couple. They were raves, I couldn’t wait to share it with him.” She hiccuped a little, but maintained control. “Do you think he knows? I mean, wherever he is?”

  I wanted to be comforting, but I didn’t have it in me. “I don’t know, Emily.”

  “Well, I’m going to assume he does. And that he’s proud. He’s got a right to be, doesn’t he?”

  “He does. Are you ready?”

  “No, but I’ve never let that stop me.”

  Emily turned heads the whole way to the theater. I kept looking for the black-haired woman I’d spoken to after the show, but I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d seen her; my nagging, unshakable sense that she had something to do with Ray’s death wouldn’t go away. But that was crazy, right? Ray had been sick, and with Emily the whole time.

  When we were about a block from the Armitage, a voice behind us said, “Excuse me. Muh-Mister Johansson?”

  We stopped and turned. The dreadlocked girl stood demurely there, head down, her shoulders shaking. “I j-just wanted to say … how sorry I am to hear about … Ray Parrish. I know he was your friend, and—”

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked, my temper going from zero to sixty almost at once. “Why the fuck have you been following Ray around?”

  She burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, I am, I didn’t mean any harm, I wasn’t doing anything, I never spoke to him, just like she told me—”

  “Like who told you?”

  People stopped around us to watch the scene.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again, almost a wail. Then she turned and ran off. In moments she was lost in the crowd.

  “Who was that?” Emily asked, eyes wide with surprise.

  “Ray’s stalker,” I said.

  “Ray had a stalker?”

  “Yeah.” The urge to chase her down was overwhelming, but my main duty at the moment was to Emily, and to the cast of the show.

  “He never told me about it,” she said numbly. “Never mentioned a word.”

  “He probably didn’t want to worry you.” Then I took her hand and we resumed our walk.

  Some of the cast waited outside, smoking and looking despondent. We nodded and muttered hellos as we entered. The lobby was empty, and I heard murmuring inside the auditorium.

  Emily stopped. “Oh my God. There’s a lot of people here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know why, but I didn’t think of that. I’m the girlfriend, they’ll all be watching me, to see if their stories make me cry. Won’t they?”

  That was Emily: the center of the universe even when it wasn’t her funeral. If she’d been malicious about it, I would’ve hated her, but I knew there was a fair bet she was right. We were a bunch of actors, after all.

  “We can leave if you want,” I said.

  She stood up straight, put her shoulders back, and said, “No. Ray deserves this to be about him, n
ot me. Right?”

  “Right,” I agreed as wholeheartedly as I dared. She took my arm and we went into the auditorium.

  Neil stood on the edge of the stage, talking to a few people in the orchestra pit. He looked up when we entered, then waved us down front. There were probably forty people there, cast and crew and friends whom we’d all gotten to know to various degrees. Everyone looked solemn and preoccupied, and a few people had the red, bleary signs of recent tears. I helped Emily settle into a seat on the front row, sat beside her, and waited for whatever would come.

  Neil said, “Ellie, would you let everyone know we’re going to get started?”

  Ellie went backstage, and a moment later her voice came over the house PA. “Please come and take your seats. We’re ready to begin.”

  The people outside filed in at an appropriately funereal pace, and Neil waited patiently for them to get settled. We were clustered at the front of the seats, except for those few who sat far in the back for their own reasons.

  “This is an unexpected and sad occasion,” Neil said. “This has never happened to me before, and I’m not at all sure what to say here, so if I ramble, please excuse me. First, for those of you in the cast and crew, the show is not closing. You’ve all seen the reviews; we’ve got a hit here, and truthfully, we all knew it anyway. But we are shutting down for a week out of respect for Ray, and to get our own heads together. When we do open, I don’t want any of us thinking of anything but how great it is to be doing this play.”

  That seemed an unrealistic goal, but I knew it was just to give us something to focus on other than the tragedy. Neil, as were most great directors, was a master manipulator, and knew how to get people to do what he wanted. And right now he wanted us to focus on the future, not the past.

  “This is a major loss, not just to theater in general, not just to the show, but to each of us personally. And that includes me, I assure you. I’d been working with Ray for a year on this, and in that time I’d gotten to know him very well. He was a man who loved the theater and its music with a passion that reminded me of why I’d chosen this career in the first place. His eyes would light up as he talked about his favorite plays or numbers. And…”

  He paused, and seemed to legitimately choke up. That was one of the problems with theater people: you could never really be sure they weren’t acting. But I’d known Neil long enough that I was pretty sure this was genuine. And to share this moment with us was especially powerful.

  After a deep breath, he continued. “Some of you were lucky enough to hear Ray sing. But most of you had no idea he could dance as well. A lot of the choreography came from steps and moves he showed me and Stella, from his hometown. If the people in the show seem like a community, it’s because Ray showed me how a community dances and sings.”

  That brought the dark-haired woman back to the front of my brain. I discreetly glanced behind me, pretending to look at the other mourners but actually checking to see if the woman was there. I didn’t spot her.

  Neil then opened the floor to the rest of us. We told stories about how we’d met Ray, what we felt about his work, and how much his enthusiasm had rubbed off on us. Emily took it all in, only once letting a single tear escape when someone mentioned the way Ray would listen as if the other person were the entire world.

  The most surprising testimonial came from Lance Abercrombie, whom I hadn’t even seen arrive. He walked down to the orchestra pit and stood, with his leather jacket and perfect hair, looking up at all of us.

  “You probably know who I am,” he said. “I only heard about Ray an hour ago, and I came here out of … respect, or homage, or something. I had no idea you were having this service. But I’m glad you are, because there’s things about Ray you may not know, and you should.

  “Ray Parrish was the best musician I ever met. Certainly better than me. If he’d gone into performance instead of composing, he would’ve been the biggest star in the world by now. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I promise you, I’m not.”

  His eyes filled with tears, but his voice remained strong.

  “The thing is, he never tried to show up me, or anyone else. When he played with us, he supported whatever we were doing. If he was adding rhythm guitar, he didn’t try to convince us he should play lead. If he harmonized on a vocal track, he blended in perfectly. In a world filled with fucking egos, he only cared about the song at hand.”

  He wiped his eyes. “Thank you for letting me crash your party today. I’m looking forward to seeing this show when it opens.”

  And with that, one of the biggest rock stars in the world walked out alone.

  More people from the company spoke, all reiterating sweet or funny things Ray had done. The mood grew lighter. But then Mark said something we all were thinking, but only someone as egotistical and clueless as him would ever utter aloud:

  “Well, I guess we’ll never find out what’s buried in the chapel of ease, will we? Unless he told somebody here—?”

  “Oh, come on, Mark,” someone said.

  “Hey, I’m just saying what I know we’re all thinking,” he said. “Is there anyone here who isn’t dying to know?”

  Whether his word choice was deliberate or not, a wave of groans went through us. He sighed and crossed his arms petulantly. “All right, you people don’t want to be honest with yourselves, fine.”

  “Thank you, Mark,” Neil said sternly. “But let’s keep this about Ray. There’s plenty of time for gossip and whining later.”

  His words had their effect: no one else mentioned the secret, or Ray’s promise to reveal it. Instead, people spoke of their memories of Ray, little vignettes that illustrated his warmth and tenderness. Yet for me, that damn secret stayed right at the edge of my consciousness, gnawing away like a patient and particularly determined rat. Was I no better than Mark?

  Emily’s moment came at last, when Neil said, “We also have here with us Emily Valance, Ray’s girlfriend. Would you like to say anything, Emily?”

  At least he got her name right. She glanced at me, and I nodded encouragingly. She stood and turned to face the crowd.

  “I’m an actress,” she said, her voice trembling, “and a dancer. I met Ray just before Neil didn’t cast me in this show.”

  There was some uncomfortable laughter.

  “I was, and probably will be again, a bitter, cynical bitch who is only out for herself. I started dating Ray because I thought, even if I didn’t get into this show, I might have a better shot at his next one. But…”

  She looked down and took a deep breath.

  “Once I got to know him, the show didn’t matter. Acting and dancing didn’t matter. I wanted to be with him because of him. If you spent any time with him, you know what I mean: he was just simply good, without any agendas or ulterior motives. He laughed when he was happy, cried when he was sad, listened when you spoke—do you know how rare it is to have someone not interrupt you, to listen to your stories without trying to trump it with one of theirs?—and just generally made you a priority when you were together. I never told Ray that I loved him, but…”

  And then she lost it. Not in some dramatic look-at-me way, but she just lowered her head and began to cry, softly and simply. As I stood to help her sit back down, I heard many, many others join her.

  Even Neil looked like he might, but he kept it under control. He said, “Ray’s ashes will be sent home to his family. They’re not able to make the trip up to get him, apparently. So unless someone volunteers to take them, I guess I’ll be doing it.”

  I leaned close to Emily. “Do you want to do it?” I whispered.

  “God, no,” she said. “I’ve never been south of D.C.”

  “I’ll do it,” I announced suddenly. “I’ll take his ashes home.”

  Neil looked at me oddly. It wouldn’t affect the show, since we were already planning to be closed anyway. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We don’t want to just FedEx him home, do we?”

  �
��Okay, we’ll talk about it afterwards,” he said, still giving me a sideways look. I sat back, patted Emily’s hand, and listened to more tales of Ray’s awesomeness. But inside, damn my shallow soul, I was excited at the prospect of meeting people who might know the secret of the chapel of ease.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon I sat in Neil’s office as he asked me, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes. You don’t need me here, and it’ll take, what, four days at the most? Fly down, drop off the urn, attend whatever funeral service they have, fly back. No problem.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Ray told me a lot about his hometown. It didn’t sound like the most progressive place.” He gave me a steady, significant look.

  “I’m not flaming,” I said, unable to keep the defensiveness from my voice.

  “No, you’re not. But you don’t exactly radiate butch, either.”

  “So you think I’ll get beaten up?”

  “I think that’s a distinct possibility.”

  “I’m a black belt in muay Thai, you know.”

  “No,” he said, surprised. “I did not know that. How did that happen?”

  “Hard work and dedication.” There weren’t really belt ranks in muay Thai, but sometimes it was simpler to just say there were than to explain how it really did work.

  “No, I mean … I assume you were also taking dance classes as a kid.”

  “Yes.”

  “So didn’t they … conflict?”

  “Well, I never accidentally used a flying knee on a dance partner, or did a grand plié in a sparring match, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why did you take … what did you call it?”

  “Muay Thai. It’s from Thailand. Well, when I came out to my family, my dad said, ‘Okay, but you’re gonna get picked on, and I don’t want to read about it on the news. So you’re going to learn to defend yourself.’ And I did.”

  “That’s a hell of a thing.”

  “My dad is very practical.”

  He looked down at his desk for a moment. “Matt, I appreciate you doing this. I really wasn’t looking forward to it. But I have to ask why you want to.”