Here Comes the Corpse Read Online Free

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.