“Dearly Beloved Friends,” the notice under the black wreath on the door reads, “Welcome to the Coven Funeral Home.” Inside, mourners sign the registration book, sit on the two tasteful couches under the Kandinsky print, and stare at the far wall where a body is lying in state. A dozen large floral arrangements ring the room, and the air is fragrant with the smell of gladiolas, mums, and carnations. The corpse appears to be female, well into her golden years, with red lips, tight black curls framing her face, and, um, hairy arms. Dressed in an elegant black cocktail dress and big money pearls, the body lies in repose on a small white pillow in a satin-lined coffin. The skin glows under the special pink torchere lamps. A bow made out of 20-dollar bills is on the casket, along with family photos, tiny American flags, an ashtray, and a solitary Bloody Mary minus the celery. “Don’t Cry Out Loud” wails Melissa Manchester over the sound system as a man with a cigar prays at the velvet padded kneeler.
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The Coven is a group of eight men, all close friends, identifying themselves as “the gay Rat Pack.” They’ve known each other for nearly a decade, and they all like to party. A lot. “I guess we have at least one a month,” says Mike, who’s hosting tonight’s funeral. “We just get together, have dinner, and throw parties.” Not all the parties are in drag, although the “most memorable ones certainly are.”
This evening’s theme holds special meaning because everyone in the Coven has eagerly awaited the death of Rose Kennedy. “When she died, I smiled to myself,” Mike recalls, “not because I was glad–but because we could finally throw this big old Irish wake. It’s in dreadful taste, isn’t it?” John remembers where he was when he learned of her demise: “I was having a reconciliation weekend with my boyfriend. No phones, no nothing. Then we heard the news. I had to call [the Coven]. My boyfriend said, ‘You are ruining our relationship over this party!’ I called anyway–we were already going to break up. I certainly wasn’t going to miss this.”
Ricky the undertaker introduces Eunice, who describes Rose “not only as a mother, but as my old, old, old, old friend.” Presiding from her coffin, mommy dearest flicks her ashes and trains a video camera on the mourners, who recite the Lord’s Prayer twice. A cardinal blesses the crowd with water from a turkey baster, and the lobotomized Rosemary falters midway through “Yes, Jesus Loves Me.” When Gloria Swanson begins to speak, Rose picks up a knife. Swanson, played by Chuck, speaks in the well-rehearsed cadence of the the-a-tah. “Her strange fascination with auto shows might begin to explain her children’s behavior,” Gloria says. “Still, I salute you, Rose, for everything you stood for–and laid down for.” A bearded Christina Onassis leads one and all in a rousing chorus of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” and “The Rose.” But the crowd is getting antsy: the bar is beckoning. “Disco,” hisses Peter Lawford to Daryl Hannah, who’s bending over the stereo in her mermaid costume.
As the evening progresses and the music becomes more insistent, the guests begin to pull up their skirts, drop their tops, form kick lines, and generally let down their synthetic hair. At one point a caterer squeals, “This is the party of the year,” as she clings to her dance partner, Maria Shriver.
