by Ally Condie
It had been a mistake to ask. She didn’t answer. Her face was closed off, a mask. It was obvious something had happened to Maura, but Milo doubted he would ever know what that was.
He had ruined everything. She had been willing to talk, at least a little bit, and now they were back to the beginning. The silence in the car felt even worse than usual, colder and more permanent. At least it felt that way to Milo. He couldn’t pretend to have any idea what his sister was thinking.
He rolled up his hoodie again and pretended to sleep.
Chapter 25
October
Phone conversation between Patrick Walsh and Jack Darling, four days after Jack’s birthday
Patrick Walsh: “Hello. I’m looking for Jack Darling. Is he there?”
Jack (suppressing a yawn): “That’s me.”
Mr. Walsh: “Jack, this is Patrick Walsh. I’m calling about my mother. She passed away yesterday evening.”
Jack: “She did? Oh, man. Oh, no. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Walsh: “It was unexpected. She died in her sleep.”
Jack: “I’m really sorry.”
Mr. Walsh: “It’s how she would have . . .” [clears throat roughly] “I’m the executor of her will, and I’m also in charge of the funeral arrangements. Jack, I know she would have wanted you and Milo to be pallbearers at her funeral. She only has two sons and two grandsons, but I know she thought of you and Milo as surrogate grandsons. Would you be willing to be a pallbearer at her funeral this Saturday?”
Jack: “Of course. Anything for Mrs. Walsh.”
Mr. Walsh: “Thank you. I haven’t been able to reach Milo Wright. Could you contact him and ask him too, please?”
Jack: “Sure.”
* * *
Dad, we have a weird question to ask you,” Milo said. Next to him, Jack shuffled his feet. They wished they weren’t asking this question—they wished there was no need to ask it—but it was the day before Mrs. Walsh’s funeral and they both had agreed that they needed to know.
“What’s that?”
“Can you help us practice for Mrs. Walsh’s funeral?” Milo rushed to get the rest of the words out. “Neither of us have ever been pallbearers before, and we don’t want to screw up. It’d be awful.”
Milo’s dad looked at him for a minute. Milo went on. “I know it sounds stupid, and kind of morbid, but we just don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Of course, son.” Milo’s dad stood up. “They’ll tell you at the mortuary tomorrow, but we can practice now too. We’ll pretend like the coffee table is her casket.” He walked to one side of it. “How many pallbearers will there be?”
Milo looked at Jack. “I think six,” Jack said. “Us, her two sons, and her two grandsons.”
“So three of you will be on each side. There will be handles, and you’ll all reach down to pick it up at the same time. Watch the older guys for the cue.” Milo’s dad nodded, and they all lifted the table. “You’ll hold it up like this, and you need to keep it level.” The table dipped for a minute, on the side where Jack was standing alone.
“Sorry.”
“Then you walk, slowly, trying not to bump anything,” Milo’s dad said. “Let’s try walking the table over to the other side of the room like this.”
They had only gone a few steps when they heard Milo’s mother come into the room. “What are you doing?” she asked. “I liked the coffee table where it was.”
“The boys wanted to make sure they knew what they were doing for tomorrow,” Milo’s dad said quietly.
It took her a moment to figure out what they meant, but then her eyes filled with tears. “Of course.”
They walked over to the end of the dining room and set the table down.
* * *
They drove down Mrs. Walsh’s street on the way to the funeral. Milo looked out the window at her house. Her garage door was closed, which was not the way she usually kept it. She liked it open. Strange cars were parked in her driveway, belonging to family members staying in the house for the funeral. He recognized Patrick Walsh’s red Audi. At least he had seen that in the driveway before. Milo hated that her house already looked different.
Then he noticed the planters where the summer flowers had been. The flowers were dead now, blackened curls and wisps overhanging the edges of the planters. Milo wished they’d thought to clean them out and put them away when they had done the fall clean up just a few days ago.
But they hadn’t. They’d been in a rush, and they’d missed a few things. Taking away the dead flowers, a cup of hot chocolate.
They were slightly early to the funeral. Milo was relieved to see the casket was closed. He and his family sat in between Jack and his family and Eden and her father. Jack wore a suit with a tie.
He tried not to look too much at the closed casket, but his eye was drawn to it. It was, after all, out there on display for everyone to see, the centerpiece of the funeral: one wooden box with Mrs. Walsh inside, a blanket of flowers covering it. White roses, Milo noticed. According to Eden that meant remembrance, so that seemed right.
So that was it. There she was. In that box. The end. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it, and he was glad. If he fully realized what had happened, what it meant for every single person on the planet, then he didn’t know how he would be able to carry the casket out the door.
He heard people behind him and turned to see Mrs. Walsh’s family entering the chapel. He saw Patrick Walsh, who looked exhausted and sad, and thought about how he must be feeling. But mostly, he couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Walsh, and how this had all come down to nothing.
Jack shifted in the seat next to him, and Eden did too. The funeral was about to begin.
It was a short funeral, which was apparently how Mrs. Walsh had wanted it. Patrick had told Eden’s father that she had written down the names of several songs she liked and requested that her two sons say a few words. And that was all. When he was speaking, Patrick Walsh mentioned that his mother had always felt that the kind things should be said before the funeral. His voice broke as he said that he hoped he had said enough nice things in time, that he hoped he hadn’t left anything out.
After the final song had been sung, it was time to carry Mrs. Walsh out of the church and into the waiting hearse. Milo and Jack stood up and walked to the front of the chapel together.
Mr. Walsh, Jack, and Milo took their places along one side of the coffin. Mrs. Walsh’s other son and her two grandsons were on the other side. They all lifted together, holding onto the brass handles.
It felt much too heavy, and he was just her friend. He didn’t know how her sons or grandsons could stand it. He closed his eyes for a second and kept hold of the casket. It felt lighter when he didn’t think about who was inside, but he thought Mrs. Walsh deserved for him to think about her as he carried her casket. He owed her that, at least.
The blanket of white roses slid a little as they carried it, but it was held on by a cord or something. Milo looked at the flowers. They were beautiful, but he started to think about how maybe yellow would have been more appropriate. Mrs. Walsh was a great friend to everyone in the neighborhood, young or old. And if her husband had survived her, would he have chosen red instead?
He wished Eden hadn’t told him about the roses. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about them and how Mrs. Walsh’s blanket should be different colors. Remembrance was fine and all, but what about everything else? What about all the other colors? Had anyone fallen in love with her at first sight? Should there be a purple rose mixed in there somewhere? Did anyone here know that?
Maybe it didn’t matter if it was all over anyway.
They slid the coffin into the back of the hearse. It was time to go to the gravesite, where they would carry it one last time.
* * *
At the cemetery, he wa
tched as they all put shovelful after shovelful of dirt on top of Mrs. Walsh’s coffin and thought about the grass that would be planted to cover it. He wondered who would mow it for her, and wondered if that was a weird thought. He didn’t know if he would like to be the one mowing lawns at the cemetery. He much preferred mowing lawns for people who were alive, but it tugged at him to think of someone not even knowing who was under this particular patch of grass. Mrs. Walsh deserved better than that.
He noticed that someone had removed the blanket of white roses before they’d lowered the casket into the ground. Now even remembrance was gone.
Chapter 26
End of October
The Last Will and Testament of Milo J. Wright
I, Milo Justin Wright, being of sound mind and health, do hereby leave the following personal items to the following people upon my death:
To my mom and dad, I leave all of my personal belongings except those specified below. To my dad especially, my fly-fishing rod, the one we built together back when we both had time to fish. To my mom especially, the stuffed penguin I used to sleep with when I was little. She thinks I’ve thrown it away, but she can find it at the back of my closet, underneath the clothes I don’t hang up. His name is Flippy, in case she has forgotten, but I’m pretty sure she’ll remember.
To my sister, Maura, I leave my half of the car our parents let us use. I hope she has somewhere to go.
To my best friend, Jack, I leave my share of the lawn mowing equipment, and also my bike, which he can sell, since it’s in pretty good shape and almost new. Then maybe he can finally get a riding lawn mower, especially now that I won’t be around to help. I hope he will keep the name J&M Mowing even when I’m gone. In fact, if he reads this, maybe he should consider that a dying request. You have to honor those.
To Eden, I leave any campaign funds left over, or any money I might have left, with the stipulation that she use it to fund her own presidential campaign someday. She also has permission to use me for political gain if it helps her get some kind of sympathy vote, but I don’t think she will need it.
To Paige, I wish I could leave you a motorcycle, but I don’t have one to give. I leave Paige all of my music and all of my video games, except Madden Football (that one should go to Jack).
To Patrick Walsh, I leave my baseball bat, for old time’s sake, even though I wasn’t the one who hit the ball through the window. I want him to have it because though we’re different, we’re both still kids who grew up playing ball in the same neighborhood.
To Mr. Satteson, I leave my collection of biographies of Presidents of the United States. I wish I’d had time to read them.
To the soccer team, I don’t really have anything to give, but I wanted to say thanks for letting me be a part of the summer camp program and coaching the kids. I hope you guys keep that up.
To Spencer, I leave my computer. I know it’s pretty worthless, but maybe you could sell it or rebuild it or something. I wish it weren’t such a piece of junk.
Finally, I hope everyone will remember me. I don’t mean everyone has to be sad about me all the time or worship my grave or anything. I just hope people will think about me sometimes, when they see something that reminds them of me, or remember things we used to do. Don’t let me be forgotten. Don’t let me be nothing.
* * *
You drive.” Maura threw the keys at him, smiling.
Milo caught the keys. The serrated metal edges cut into his hand with the force of the impact, but he smiled back. “What? Is that even legal?”
“Of course it’s legal. You have your learner’s permit, right?”
“No, I don’t.”
She made a sound of exasperation. “You’ll be sixteen in just a couple of months! How can you not have your learner’s permit?”
“I’ve been busy.” He realized how lame that sounded. He was supposed to have gotten it during the summer, but things had gotten crazy and he hadn’t made the time.
Maura was laughing. “I don’t believe it. That’s so ironic. Here you are, running for president, and part of your campaign platform is giving teenagers more responsibility. And you don’t have your permit. Are you even going to be able to drive when you turn sixteen?” She pretended to look dismayed. “I’m going to be driving you around for the rest of your life, aren’t I.”
“I am taking driver’s ed, Maura. I just don’t have my permit, and I can’t drive without one. It would be even more ironic if I got arrested on my way to a campaign event.”
She groaned. “Fine. I’ll drive. Again.” She gave him a little smile as she climbed behind the wheel.
He was glad Maura was getting some of her spunk back. He was glad Old Maura wasn’t gone entirely. But he wondered what had happened to Old Milo. Something had happened to him after Mrs. Walsh’s funeral. Mrs. Walsh was so great. Life was so great. How could it all be over so fast?
“Do we need to pick up anyone else?” Maura started the car.
“No. Jack’s picking up Eden and Paige.”
“Why isn’t Jack driving you everywhere these days?” Maura teased. “Why am I still stuck with this job?”
“His truck only seats three, remember? And that’s if everyone smashes right together.”
Maura snorted. “And of course he’d rather give a ride to Paige and Eden. Two cute girls. That’s totally Jack.”
Milo smiled a little. “I know.”
They were driving to the soccer field for the big playoff game to see if the Sage High boys’ soccer team would make it to the semifinals of the state championships. Since the game would be held on Sage High’s turf, the coach had asked Milo to come and throw out the first pitch, so to speak.
“We’ll just have you give a little speech and then put the ball down in the middle of the field,” Coach said. “I want to capitalize on your celebrity. Maybe if you’re there, more people will come.” He grinned at Milo. How could he say no?
“They didn’t need me to draw a crowd,” Milo told Maura. “Look at this turnout.” Soccer was a big deal at Sage High—not as big a deal as football, but still pretty popular. And this was a playoff game, and their team had a winning record. The parking lot was full of cars and a long yellow bus from Red Hollow, the opposing team. They still had twenty minutes before the game was supposed to start, and already there were very few parking spaces left.
As luck had it, they were able to park right next to Jack, Paige, and Eden in one of the few remaining spaces. The three of them hopped out. “Big crowd,” observed Jack. “They must not have heard you’re going to be here.”
They were just in time. They had barely arrived at the stands when they heard Coach’s voice booming over the loudspeaker.
“We’d like to invite our local celebrity and presidential candidate, Milo Wright, to come out to the center of the field. Milo plays for our soccer team, but he took a break this year to run his presidential campaign. We’re glad to have him back on the field with us, even if it’s only for a minute.”
Milo knew that was his cue. He was supposed to make his way through the crowd and come to the center of the field. He thought back to the last time he’d been moving in front of a crowd in Sage. It had been Mrs. Walsh’s funeral, where he had shared the weight of her casket with her sons and grandsons and Jack. He started to push his way through the crush of people along the sidelines. “Excuse me,” he said, but no one heard him. Here he was, stuck on the sidelines again, in spite of everything.
He suddenly felt miniscule, insignificant, as though someone as tiny and small as he was didn’t matter one bit. And then the feeling grew to encompass the whole situation, and suddenly none of it seemed important at all—not the speech he was supposed to make, not the campaign, not the election. None of it meant anything. It was all pointless. He felt like sitting down and giving up. What did any of this matter?
Someday he would be packed into a box, too, just like Mrs. Walsh, and this memory would go with him, as would all his memories. Sure, he could tell his family about them, but the particularness of it all, the way he lived each moment, would all be lost. He was nothing. He finally understood how Maura must have felt all those months, standing at the abyss of something dark and not knowing how to step back. He didn’t want to think about these things, not now, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop thinking about how small he was, how little he meant.
It was the first time in his life Milo had felt so staggered by the insignificance of it all, by the futility of it all, and frankly, it had not come at a very good time. He tried again, without success, to move through the crowd. Why didn’t he just turn around and go home? Who cared if he was there or not?
Suddenly, someone was holding his hand. He looked over to see who it was, and it was Eden. Her hand was warm. She leaned in to whisper, “Are you okay?”
Milo didn’t know how to say that he wasn’t. And he also didn’t know why, right when he was feeling that nothing, nothing at all in the world mattered, Eden’s hand in his did matter.
He wasn’t sure how to tell her that, so he just held on. Together, they made their way through the crowd and to the middle of the field. He didn’t let go, and neither did she, until Coach handed him the ball.
* * *
“How bad was it?” Milo asked Maura. They were walking back to their car to go home, having watched the Sage High soccer team defeat Red Hollow 3–2. Milo had sat in the stands and cheered with as much enthusiasm as he could, which hadn’t been much at all.
“What do you mean? The game was fine. They won.”
“No, I mean the thing at the beginning. I can’t even remember what I said.”
“Oh, that. That was fine too. You just said something nice about how awesome the Sage High team was and how you missed playing, and then you wished both teams the best of luck and a fair game.”
