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Gus, Beltane
Downstairs was packed withbodies.
The blue room and the mauve room and the chapel. Spilling out into the grand and gleaming mahogany-paneled foyer of Smythe & Company Mortuary.
At least they were all live bodies, thank God.
Though today, I probably would have been able to breathe easier in a room full of caskets than at a party.
Thisparty.
They all meant well, those bodies. But they were here for me, and I wasn’t used to this kind of suffocating attention.
All the talking. The laughing. The cheek-pinching and back-clapping. The low roar of conversation punctuated by a sudden barking laugh, of forks scraping across fine porcelain.
My carefully arranged smile was as frozen as if it had been embalmed in place.
I was born in this house. I had descended from generations of morticians, I only knew what it was like to exist quietly. Always on the periphery of death.
From an impossibly young age, I’d known all the right things to say if I accidentally ran into a grieving guest on my way out to play ball with friends. I knew to ask questions and get people talking about their deceased loved one, because even as a kid, something inside me understood that people just needed a warm body to tell their stories to.
But no matter how hard I was grasping for that same quick compassion I’d always had for others, when it was time to apply it to myself, it eluded me.
A carrot just out of reach.
The whole time Mrs. Drakos had been talking to me, I’d been eyeing the main staircase, waiting for my chance to bolt. I could only joke, and charm, and keep people at bay for so long.
I balled my hands into fists behind my back when there was no one to see me do it. My shoulders ached from the strain of holding them erect for so long. I’d exhausted all the ways to covertly wipe coffee and half-masticated graduation cake spittle off my cheek.
Finally, Mrs. Drakos stopped cooing about her lovely granddaughter, who’d be “just right for me,” and turned to acknowledge something her husband said.
There it was. The lull I’d been looking for.
“Mrs. Drakos—” I placed a hand on her shoulder. Lovingly, gracefully. I hoped.
“Marina.”
“Marina. Would you excuse me for a minute? I… need to check on my father.”
Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me. A liar.
“Bravo, Kosta. I’m so happy we have men like you in the church. Time to get married now, yes? I’ll bring Anna next Sunday. You don’t want to waste such a handsome face.” She patted my cheek again.
Her Greek accent was the same as my Yia-Yiá's. It should have comforted. Instead, her words slithered in the pit of my empty belly and dug deep.
When I entered seminary, it certainly hadn’t been my intention towaste my handsome faceon celibacy. I thought I’d be married by now; entering the priesthood side-by-side with my wife, my presvytera.
I’d never expected I’d end up a monk. I liked women. Liked fucking. Way too much. I was good at it.
It was fucking ironic.
It made sense for Ma to throw this party here at the mortuary. My old life was ending.
This was my wake.
I backed away, trying to look nonchalant while inside, my heartbeat thudded in my throat. Checking one last time to ensure no one had been paying attention, I turned the corner and flew up the staircase, my black robe billowing behind me.
If I could get a minute to myself, I’d be okay.
