“Go. I’ve got things from here. And I will keep you posted.”

  As I was opening the door to exit, she called, “I’m sorry for all you’ve gone through, Mr. Blake. And I’m especially sorry for your loss. My condolences.”

  I rushed from the room, found the nearest men’s room, plopped down in a stall and wept.

  Marc was gone.

  And nothing else mattered.

  For some reason, as my tears abated an image arose—the beer bread Marc had made on the day he vanished. Something about that homely food—and the dinner we never shared—completely broke me.

  Chapter 15

  One Month Later—Sam

  I

  I held the memorial service for Marc at a small Unitarian church only a few blocks west of our condo on Morse Avenue. I’d waited a while because the authorities kept the body for the usual autopsy and to ensure all the possible evidence that could be collected had been. They still needed it, Detective Cawood explained, because even though there’d been an iron-clad confession, no one ever knew how or when things could change. Something that might have seemed inconsequential at one point might take on vast importance later on.

  “Once the body is gone, there’s no going back,” she told me over the phone when she’d called to let me know I could proceed with funeral arrangements.

  She’d been an unexpected source of solace through the trauma of losing Marc, the press’s insistence on making a big story of it, and the grief I experienced at suddenly finding myself alone. She and I hadn’t exactly become friends, but she seemed to care about me since the day I’d been interviewed. Although I didn’t want to put words in her mouth or thoughts in her head, I suspected her affection and protectiveness stemmed from the fact that she knew, deep down, that I could never have murdered anyone, let alone Marc. She kept me posted on developments with the case and told me things she probably shouldn’t have, like verifying the fact that it was only when Keith Walker had been shot coming out of a southside convenience store, that Hunter had been freed. Jeb, according to what she’d discovered, had managed to escape several months ago.

  Marc had always wanted to be cremated, and I respected those wishes. The cremation had taken place last week and Marc’s ashes now rested in a bronze urn on a podium at the front of the church, sheathed by a small piece of fabric—his mother’s Hermes scarf the turquoise of a swimming pool. She’d always treasured it. Little did she know that her son had also always treasured it.

  I was still in the process of figuring out what I should do with his remains (or cremains, as the funeral director had called them). I knew I could simply keep them and there was a comfort to that notion. They’d looked fine on the mantle at home, next to one of my favorite photographs of us, taken early on in our relationship when we’d driven all the way from Chicago to spend a week in August in Provincetown. A fellow gay tourist couple had snapped our picture as we walked down Commercial Street, hand in hand. We’d been young and carefree on that sweltering summer day, in tank tops and cut-offs, our smiles testimony to our insular passion. We’d become friends with the couple and the one, Robert I think his name was, sent us a print a few weeks after we’d come home.

  And yet, I didn’t like that idea. It seemed selfish. I knew, sadly, that Marc had yearned for freedom from our life together. I’d tried not to take his desire personally, but it was hard. But I thought a better way to deal with the ashes was to liberate them, to set Marc free on a gust of wind. I only needed to find the right place, a location from which he could soar…

  Mom had been a source of comfort through these turbulent times. She’d bravely flown out to Chicago a second time, just so she could stay with me for an indefinite period, leaving her job behind.

  I wasn’t sure she’d ever go back to St. Clair. I was okay with that. I didn’t care if she simply lived with me for the rest of her life. Nor did I worry about the potential for jokes about the middle-aged bachelor living with Mother. We’d always had a special bond, a sort of me-and-you-against-the-world kind of thing. Just as she had when I was a little boy, she hugged me late at night when I woke, screaming, from nightmares. She soothed me with her home cooking, her love of old television game shows, and the occasional game of hearts.

  Now, as I stood at the back of the church, looking over the assembled crowd come to say goodbye to Marc, I was a little disheartened to see so few people there—a ‘congregation’ made up of Marc’s boss, a couple co-workers, a guy from an LGBT book club Marc had belonged to a couple of years ago, and the dog walker we’d used. Of course, his mom and dad were there, a weeping indivisible unit in black, in the front row.

  That was about it, except for one other person, who sat in the last pew, in a worn navy sweater and jeans, his head bowed. I squeezed his shoulder as I went by, heading for the front of the church. He clasped my hand for a moment, then let go.

  I headed up front to sit next to Mom. She’d worn navy slacks and a white blouse. I don’t know if it was the passage of time or the trauma of what her only son had gone through, but she looked smaller somehow, older. Her shoulders were hunched. She’d freed the gray in her hair and now, after several months, her shoulder-length bob was almost entirely white. It looked good on her, but she’d never again be the youthful mom people mistook for my sister.

  She looked up at me as I approached and a sad smile deepened the creases around her eyes and mouth. Her dark eyes were damp and red-rimmed. I thought of a card she’d once given Marc years ago for his birthday and her note to him inside was about how he was just as much a son to her as I was.

  These thoughts brought a lump to my throat—the impermanence of it all. Mom leaned over to hug me and I did my best to hold it all in. I was on the verge of all-out sobbing and I definitely didn’t want to do that here. There would be time enough for more tears, yet another release, today and in the years to come. I knew I’d never fully get over this loss.

  I disengaged myself from her when the music started. I’d created a playlist that played through the church’s speaker system—Judy Collins singing the Beatles ‘Golden Slumbers,’ Sarah McLachlan’s ‘I Will Remember You,’ Celine Dion’s ‘Because You Loved Me,’ Whitney Houston with ‘I Will Always Love You,’ and Elton John’s ‘Candle in the Wind.’ Sure, they were cliché and sentimental, but all of them contained lyrics that beautifully expressed the loss I felt, the hole left in my world by Marc’s sudden and violent passing.

  As Judy Collins’s plaintive soprano rang out over the suddenly stilled church, I thought that it didn’t matter Marc had left me for something else only he could understand. He’d been seduced by a conniving con man for one thing, a con man intent on killing to fulfill some crazy, blood-lust fueled need for revenge, even if was horribly, horribly misplaced. For another, the fact that our marriage had withered on the vine wasn’t something for which I could totally blame him. Every marriage needs two people to nurture it. And I knew now I’d failed him by being complacent, taking our many years together and the belief that there’d be many more for granted. Who knew? Maybe if the circumstances were more commonplace, Marc would have gotten his disenchantment out of the way with a bit of separation. Perhaps he would have returned to me more fully committed.

  I’d never know.

  And it didn’t matter anymore, anyway. I loved him and I knew he loved me. That was solid and undoubtable.

  The minister’s brief eulogy went by as a mumbled noise. I couldn’t concentrate. But I sat up straighter, as the minister, a lovely woman named Sandra, with short gray hair and severe black glasses that did nothing to lessen her light, her kindness, said, “And in closing, I’d like to read a poem by Christina Rossetti, chosen by Marc’s husband, Sam.”

  I squeezed Mom’s hand so hard she gasped, yet didn’t pull away. She eyed me.

  “This will be hard,” I managed to say, my words coming out choked, barely above a whisper.

  Sandra looked down at the podium and then raised her eyes to the small crowd.

  “This is ‘Remember Me.’ Sam, I hope it gives you—and all here—comfort.

  Remember me when I am gone away,

  Gone far away into the silent land;

  When you can no more hold me by the hand,

  Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

  Remember me when no more day by day

  You tell me of our future that you planned:

  Only remember me; you understand

  It will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

  For if the darkness and corruption leave

  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  Better by far you should forget and smile

  Than that you should remember and be sad.”

  It was too much, the words too perfect. They seemed to have been written just for Marc and me.

  A child again, I lay my head on my mother’s breast and wept and wept until my eyes burned and my nose felt completely stopped up. I got lost in my pain, my mourning. I lifted my head only when the first notes of Vaughan Williams’s lovely and poignant piece for solo violin, “The Lark Ascending” sounded.

  I fought and managed to regain control of myself, for this was my cue to approach the altar. The minister handed me Marc’s urn. I would lead the procession, carrying it out of the church. I’d thought I might say a few words, but I didn’t have the strength. The poem had said it all for me, anyway.

  As I walked down the space between the pews, head held high and with no more tears, I treasured the sympathetic and kind faces, all turned toward me. Just as I was nearing the door, I saw him.

  My Marc, seated in the very last row. He wore his favorite sport coat, a subtle gray and blue plaid, white shirt, and bow tie. His gaze bore into my own. He mouthed the words, “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”

  I blinked and he was gone. But I will always believe he was there that morning to say goodbye and maybe to reassure me of our singular love.

  II

  Another month passed. The trees lost their leaves and their branches, barren, reached toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The wind moving across the lake was now cold, even at midday. In Chicago, we put flannel sheets on our beds and battened down the hatches for the winter we knew was coming.

  But today, today was different.

  The temperature soared into the low seventies and the sun was butter yellow in a cloudless blue sky. Out the window, a person could be fooled observing that sky, thinking it was summer.

  But the day inspired me. For too long, I’d wondered every night before falling asleep how I should take care of Marc’s ashes. The sunshine and relative warmth of the late autumn day gave me an idea.

  When Marc and I were first together, before we’d even dreamed that a legal marriage was a possibility for us, we’d cohabitated for the first time in a spacious and very old two-bedroom apartment on Fargo Avenue, about four blocks from the lake, but right next to the L tracks. We had to stop our phone conversations as trains went by so we could hear. But the apartment was huge, with crown moldings, hardwood floors, fireplace, built-in cabinets, butler’s pantry, an original claw-foot tub, and huge windows that lured shafts of sunlight in. It had a ton of charm. It also had mice, ancient appliances, noisy neighbors, and the surrounding area could be a little dicey at night.

  But during the day, especially during warm summer ones, Fargo Avenue Beach was but a few blocks away, a ten-minute walk. We accessed the beach by a set of broad concrete stairs. The sand was always fine, the water pristine, and there was a small island comprised of boulders within easy swimming distance.

  Marc and I spent countless carefree days on that beach. We would anchor an old sheet down by folding the corners into the sand. We’d sprawl out on it, playing music on the relic of an old boombox I’d held on to since the 1990s. The air was scented with coconut oil and we’d spend entire days, lost in conversation, drinking Cosmopolitans from a thermos, and sharing pimento cheese and saltines. One of the reasons we adored this place so much was because it was always relatively empty, being about as far north in the city as one could get.

  Somedays, it felt like our own private beach.

  Marc, I knew, would love the idea of this beach as his final resting place.

  The day was perfect for the task. I thought of waiting for Mom to get back from St. Clair, where she’d gone for a couple of weeks to settle her affairs before moving back here permanently. She’d be disappointed because she loved Marc about as much as I did. I hoped she’d understand.

  I did invite one person to join me. I hadn’t intended to, but when Hunter texted me that morning, I decided on a whim it would be nice to have him with me. His part in this story was undeniable, even it did have gothic and gruesome overtones. I’d learned, though, that Hunter was as much of a victim as I was and as Marc was. He was no villain and I’d grown to care about him. Call me weird. You won’t be the first.

  Besides, there remained one burning question I needed to ask him. The answer to the riddle was vital for me to decide if I wanted to continue having him in my life in a way I’d yet to define, or if I should do the mentally healthy thing of cutting him loose.

  I seldom did the mentally healthy thing, which Mom will attest to.

  I went to the mantel and opened the urn. Inside was a plastic bag of ashes, although calling them ashes seemed wrong. I’d held a handful and what remained of Marc (after most parts of him were vaporized by the furnace) was more akin to sand, but grayish white sand. They felt rough to the touch and small bone particles were visible and a little larger than the ‘sand’ of him.

  I’d been squeamish at first, but the remains had become a comfort to me. Looking at them and holding them was a way for me to be in physical contact once more with Marc. I decided I would withhold about a teaspoon of them to, I don’t know, put in a pendant or maybe a small piece of glass art.

  No matter what, going forward I wanted him with me in at least a small way. He was an undeniable and important part of my personal history. Our years together wouldn’t evaporate, even over something as final and omnipotent as death.

  Death never erases our bonds with one another; those live on in hearts primed with memories and love.

  I placed Marc’s remains into a silver Nordstrom shopping bag and went downstairs to wait for Hunter. He’d arrive any moment.

  III

  Hunter and I sat on the beach for a long time before I wanted to do anything with the remains. We’d spread out a couple of beach towels and lounged in the sand, legs outstretched, simply watching the ebb and flow of the waves and how the sunlight shimmered on the slate gray surface of the water.

  At the south end of the beach, a woman with two kids, boy and girl, tossed a beach ball back and forth. We watched them as they played. Being kids, they’d rolled up their jeans and dared each other to wade into the icy water. They would scream when they did and dash back to the safety of their mother once the water’s icy embrace touched them.

  A young guy with longish honey-colored hair, cargo shorts, a Green Day T-shirt, and Vans, frolicked with a German Shepherd. He’d toss a Frisbee into the water, which the dog would catch expertly in its mouth even as the water splashed up all around him.

  Distractions.

  I knew what I was doing.

  Avoidance.

  I wasn’t sure, now that Hunter was by my side, a warm and comfortable presence indeed—that I wanted to share this very private moment with him, especially given his connection, however innocent, with Marc’s death.

  Why bring him along, then?

  I think it was because I hadn’t really examined my motive, not with this grief hanging over me. Not with the loneliness pressing in, especially with Mom back in St. Clair. I wanted someone with me, and he seemed like the only person in the world who would truly understand and empathize with what I was going through. Other friends and acquaintances had suddenly made themselves unavailable, barely responding to the usual forms of contact—social media posts and texts. I didn’t blame them. My situation had become bizarre. Not knowing how to respond was understandable. Perhaps one day, they’d glide back into my life, once recent events had paled into the background.

  Hunter had been very supportive, though, taking my calls and texts at all hours and trying, in his own way, to let me know I was seen and cared for. Given his history with Jeb and Keith Walker, this was no small thing.

  But I think the real reason I wanted him here was to ask the question that had been needling me for months now. I’d never had the courage to ask. I don’t know why. Maybe I feared embarrassing him when he’d actually bent over backwards to demonstrate to me nothing but kindness. Or maybe it was me who was fearful—of what his answer might be.

  The man with the dog abruptly left and we were essentially alone at the north end of the beach. There was a soft breeze off the water. A few puffy clouds had rolled in, adding drama to the sky and big shadows to the beach.

  “I need to ask you something.” I stared out at the water, almost afraid to look at him. I dug in the sand with my hand and let it flow through my fingers. I stopped when I realized that the sand reminded me of Marc’s remains.

  Hunter touched my arm. “What is it? You know you can ask me anything.”

  Can I?

  “Well, I’ve wondered why you came to me as Jeb. Why didn’t you just come as yourself? Why did you feel the need to pretend?”

  He said nothing for several minutes, and then, “Look at me.”

  I turned my head and Hunter waited until our gazes met. “Don’t be creeped out. At least not more than you already are.” He smiled. “But I’d been watching you for a while, actually, since the previous winter when Keith, Jeb, and I moved to Chicago from LA, where we’d been before.