Chapel of Ease (11 page)

“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.”

That caught me off guard. “Well … Ray was my friend.”

“Ray was my friend, too, but I'm in no hurry to run around Tennessee with his hick family.”

“But you were
going
to go,” I said, hoping it didn't sound like an adolescent whine.

“Sure, because I felt like it was my responsibility.”

“Well, now it's not your problem.”

“Don't get smug. Maybe you're the toughest fag in Manhattan, but it won't stop a bullet. And everybody down there carries a gun, remember?”

“You really think someone will try to shoot me just because I'm gay?”

“I know what Ray told me. I'd prefer not to send you in the same way, and for the same reasons, that I'd never send Jason.” Jason, of course, was black.

“Well, I'm not worried. I'll get a hotel room, keep to myself, and only show up for the funeral. It's not like I'll be out barhopping.”

“No,” Neil said knowingly, “you'll be out chapel-searching.”

I said nothing, but felt my cheeks burn.

“I'm as curious as any of you,” Neil continued. “Maybe more, since I've been working with Ray on the story for so long. But whatever's buried in the chapel of ease is not worth risking your life for. Knowing it won't change the show: Ray was adamant about that.”

“I know,” I agreed sheepishly. Ray had stressed that enough throughout rehearsals, but none of us believed it. It was the central secret of the story, and Cassandra was right: knowing it
had
to change how we behaved and related to each other as characters.

“All right. I'll let the funeral home and Ray's family know you're coming. You'll be flying into Nashville, and either someone will pick you up, or you'll rent a car.”

“The company paying for this?”

“Yes, yes, just keep your receipts and don't buy dinner and drinks for everyone. I'll call Ray's parents tonight. And remember, they've lost a child, so behave accordingly.”

“What sort of person do you think I am, Neil?”

He let out a long breath. “You're right, I'm sorry. Just … be careful, Matt. We need you for the show. Yes, Steve has understudied the part and could go on in your place, but Ray picked you because you brought something special to the part that he felt was essential. And he was right. I want you there when we open.”

I tried not to let my reaction show, but I left feeling unaccountably buoyant. It wouldn't be a fun trip, exactly, but I knew I'd be bringing back knowledge that would no doubt improve my (apparently already pretty darn good) performance. If nothing else, my Southern accent would be note-perfect.

 

9

Joaquim, surprisingly, was totally against it.

“Are you crazy?” he said as we walked through Chinatown, sipping our milk tea. His had bubbles of tapioca in it; mine was free of what I called “phlegm balls.”

“No,” I said patiently. “It's something that needs to be done for a friend, and I'm going to do it. I'll be gone four days at the most. I have to be back for opening night, after all.”

“But why you? I mean, my friend Titus died last year, his body was cremated, and his ashes were just mailed home.”

“Really?” I said dubiously. “In one of those ‘whatever fits' boxes?”

“I don't know, but it's the truth. Send them UPS if you don't trust the post office.”

“Look, Joaquim, I
want
to go, okay? I liked Ray, and I want to be sure his family understands how talented and creative he really was.”

“Then send them a video along with the ashes. I'll help you put it together. We can talk to people who knew him—”