Funeral with a View

by Schiariti, Matt

  “Daddy?”

  My hand paused over the light switch. “Yes?”

  “Are you gonna leave again?”

  Catherine swallowed. I rubbed her back then sat next to my daughter. Yes. My daughter. Always was, always would be. Being there with her again after the time away felt right, natural. I’d loved her as my own, and still did. Nothing would change that.

  “No, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” I kissed her forehead. “Now get to bed, pumpkin puss.”

  “Daddy! I’m not a pumpkin puss!”

  “Are too.” I made google eyes.

  “Not!” she giggled.

  “Too!” I countered with buck teeth.

  “That’s enough of that, you two.” Catherine, the official referee for our bouts of immaturity, finally stepped in. “Bed time.”

  “Aww, Mom,” I whined.

  We bore the full force of ‘the look.’

  “Guess we can’t compete with that, can we?” I whispered to Celeste, and she shook her head.

  “Nuh uh.”

  “See you in the morning, then?”

  “See you in the morning, Daddy. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Celeste.”

  Later, Catherine and I lay in bed, silent and content to be together again. No wild make up sex, no teary-eyed make out session like you’d see in a movie. We simply held onto each other in the dark bedroom.

  “Do you forgive me?” Cat asked, ending the silence.

  “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  She nodded against my shoulder, and the mundane sensation on my bare skin felt like the best thing in the world. Maybe the time for words was past, but I couldn’t leave it at that. I had to say something else, something more.

  “I’m not going to make you pay for one mistake, Cat,” I said. “Am I still hurt? Yes. There’s no sense in lying about it now. But it hurt more to be away. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Celeste. Smiling, laughing, dancing, lisping. She was around every corner, with me in every room. I couldn’t stay away.”

  She paused before saying, “So that’s really why you’re here? For Celeste?”

  “Yes … and no. I’m here for both of you, Cat. As much as I tried to force it from my mind, I couldn’t help seeing you, too. You’re my family, and this is where I belong no matter what.”

  “You don’t know how much I want to take it back, Ricky. All of it. How you can let something so awful go is something I don’t think I’ll ever understand.”

  “It’s not important that you understand it. It’s just important that I’m here with you and Celeste now. We all made mistakes. There are things I wish I could take back, too, but I can’t. If nothing else, the time away forced me to take stock of things. I wasn’t especially supportive when you hit the wall after you lost the second baby. You were right about that. I helped push you away.”

  “Like I pushed you away. I know where you were, Ricky,” she said after a time. “And even though I don’t want to know, I can’t help it. Did …”

  “Did anything happen between me and Sandy?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t have the right to ask, but I can’t not know.”

  “Cat, you have every right to ask. You’re my wife.”

  She held her breath and I felt her eyes on me in the dark.

  In that span between heartbeats, I was transported back in time and place. Our queen bed became Sandy’s king, its four tall and elegant posts draped with a cream canopy. The walls expanded to a space almost twice the size. Beige carpet and tan walls dissolved into dark hardwood and burgundy paint. Sheer curtains transformed into thick drapes. My wife, who lie next to me with the question awaiting an answer in her hazel eyes shape-shifted into Sandy beneath me, her piercing blues filled with want of a completely different answer.

  Sandy had me in the palm of her hand. Literally. I was poised above her, my hands pressed deep into her mattress from bearing the full force of my weight. We were so close that her panting breath tickled my throat.

  “One last time, Rick,” she’d said, one hand working between my legs, the other caressing the side of my face. “I’ll ask you one last time. Is this what you really want? Part of you doesn’t work for me. I want all of you, but you have to truly want it, too. Settling isn’t an option.”

  Her stroking hands were forgotten, and I paused. She was so gorgeous, inside and out. I wanted her body so badly. The problem was, I didn’t want her. As hell bent as I was on finally throwing caution to the wind and losing myself in lust, this wasn’t what I wanted. Sure, the blood rushing to my small head made me think that having wild revenge-driven monkey sex with Sandy would solve everything, but the deeper part of me knew it would serve only to make me feel like shit once the deed was done.

  My body tensed. I tingled from head to toe. Not with desire, but with shame.

  Abruptly, I rolled off Sandy, startling her, grabbed a down pillow and screamed into it until I was out of breath. Screamed until my stomach, sides, and chest hurt. Screamed until I thought I’d hyperventilate.

  “Shhh,” she said, prying my fingers from the pillow, her beauty distorted by the flood in my eyes. “That’s the answer I expected. It’s okay, Rick. It’s all going to be okay. Good God, what happened to you?”

  Sandy rocked me back and forth as I cried with my head buried against her chest, whispering soothing words for hours.

  What? You thought I’d gone through with it and had sex with her? Shame on you for thinking the worst of me. A dead guy, no less!

  “You don’t want to answer,” Cat said, bringing me back to my own room, my own bed, my own wife. “I understand.”

  “No, it’s not that. Listen. Nothing happened, Cat. It almost did, but didn’t. When I went over there, all I wanted was payback. I wanted to hurt you like you’d hurt me. Hardly mature or rational, but there it is. We smoked some pot, watched goofy movies, and she listened to me cry the whole week. That’s it. God’s honest truth. Sandy was a move made out of anger. The part of me that thinks like that, reacts like that, that could do something like that … it’s gone now.”

  Anti-Ricky, angry, self-centered, thoughtless asshole that he was, effectively died in my boss’s arms that night. Good riddance.

  “Do you want me to quit?” I said.

  “Your job? Because of her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not unless you think you need to. I wouldn’t ask you to do something like that.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, which is why I brought it up.”

  “Only if there’s something there, Rick. You love that place. You have friends there. But, if you feel anything toward her, it wouldn’t upset me if you left.”

  “There’s nothing there, Cat.”

  “Are you sure?” she said, looking away.

  I turned on the bedside lamp so she could see the conviction in my face as I said my next words.

  “Cat, I’m not in love with Sandy Colbert, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s my boss and a friend. Nothing more. There are only two things in this world I love more than my own life: you and Celeste. There’s no room in my heart for anyone else.”

  “Not even your mother?”

  “Well, yeah. Her, too.”

  “What about Jude?”

  “Now you’re pushing it. Wait a second. You’re busing my chops, aren’t you?”

  A grin formed. “Just a little.”

  “Catherine Maddox Franchitti. You truly have been around me way too long.”

  “Not long enough,” she softly kissed me, “not nearly long enough.”

  “That’s good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

  “This isn’t going to be easy, Rick,” she said, turning serious once again. “We can’t expect this to be swept under the carpet and forgotten when we wake up tomorrow morning.”

  That fact had been perched on my shoulder the entire night. No, the road
ahead wouldn’t be one easily traveled. It would be pitted with bumps and potholes. I wasn’t going to let it deter me. There would be no more running away when things got difficult. No more checking out.

  I was all in.

  “She really is yours, Ricky,” Cat said. “Celeste. In every way that counts, you’re her father, and she’s your daughter.”

  “I know it.”

  “Do you? Really?”

  “Really really.”

  “Does this still hurt?” she asked, running a finger lightly underneath my eye.

  “A little.”

  Her finger moved to my hand, where it grazed my bruised knuckles. “What about your hand?”

  “It’ll heal … in time.”

  Just like everything.

  CHAPTER 71

  The next sixteen months flew by.

  If only I’d known my thirty-second year would be my last among the living. Would I have done anything differently if I had been aware my end was lurking over the next rise in the road? I think the answer is “yes”. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time dealing with certain issues that, as of yet, remained unresolved.

  Things between Catherine and I were shaky at first, but we made it through the murky waters of uncertainty. We withheld nothing from each other. No secrets ... except for that one time I’d eaten all the Oreos and claimed ignorance. Okay, maybe it was more than just the one time.

  Sandy kept things on a professional level. The days I’d spent with her became a special, if not regrettable memory. Regrettable in regard to what brought it about and not being able to provide her with the human connection she deserved. Special in that Sandy, along with my mother, helped get my head straight. She aided me in recognizing where my true place was: home with my wife and daughter. Nothing happened between us ever again. Not even close.

  And I can’t leave Celeste out of the picture, now can I?

  She grew like a weed and absorbed things so quickly; a human sponge. She also had a preternatural ability to amass a fine collection of bruises. One thing she hadn’t inherited from Catherine or her true father was athletic prowess. But it didn’t matter that she was a klutz. She’d either grow out of it or she wouldn’t. She was on her way to being the person she was meant to be, and we loved every quirk and personality foible, with one exception: her propensity for stealth. I never did get around to fixing the damn lock on the bedroom door. As a result, our pint-sized ninja walked in on many a wrestling match between Mommy and Daddy.

  My mother continued to treat Celeste as if she were her true flesh and blood granddaughter. And speaking of Mom, if anything, the lack of Franchitti blood running through Celeste resurrected the gyrations and chants of ‘Baby Making Machine.’

  I promised her we’d do our best.

  As far as final days go, I can’t complain. Sure, there were ups and downs. Trials and tribulations are part of the human condition. Unavoidable. But compared to what we’d already been through? Small potatoes. The important thing was I had my wife and daughter back. I had a second chance and was thankful for it beyond measure. My life was mine again.

  At least, most of it.

  There was one thread left dangling, one that went by the name of Bill Henly. My best friend, and the man I considered a brother. The person who hurt me above all others.

  Despite my capacity for forgiveness, I couldn’t bring myself to let him off the hook for what he’d done. Illogical? No doubt. But men are odd like that. He’d broken every rule in the Book of the Almighty Man Code, and I had a hard time forgetting that. I completely cut him from my life. Mention of his name would bring about shades of Anti-Ricky, something I fought against tooth and nail. No matter how much Celeste asked after Uncle Bill’s whereabouts, no matter how many times Catherine would ask me if I’d ever get in touch with him again, I remained stubborn.

  If I were going to forgive him, it would be my decision, and I’d have to be all in.

  It took a while to swallow my pride, months in fact.

  And I had a little help along the way.

  CHAPTER 72

  “How much again?”

  The cashier with the filthy glasses, bulbous nose, and awful combover repeated the register’s total. I balked at the number. I only had three purchases.

  “And that’s for some food, a few plastic plants, and,” I held up a cellophane bag with a sticker which read ‘Davey Jones’s Chest O’ Pirate Booty,’ “a rubber treasure chest?” The guy nodded. “That’s highway robbery.” He shrugged.

  People in line behind me started to grumble, so I handed the guy my credit card.

  “Serves me right for not checking the price tags,” I mumbled.

  He smiled disingenuously, handed me my bagged items, and asked to see the next in line. I hoped they were more conscientious shoppers than me.

  I walked into the late July sun, wondering why the hell keeping fish was so expensive and how I’d gotten involved in the keeping of said fish in the first place. I knew the answer, though.

  Celeste.

  I had a hard time saying no to her.

  My ‘We’ll see’ stall tactic worked for a time, going so far as to ebb her fish request throughout the summer months and into the winter, only to lose its efficacy as she began her pre-birthday push once spring had sprung. It started with subtle hints such as library books filled with colorful sea life left open on our bed, and blew up into full-on pleas for fish—“Please, Daddy! Can I get some for my birfday, pretty pretty please?”—to a chant that put Mom’s Baby Making Machine ravings to shame—“Fishy, fishy, fishies, I want some fishies.” The chant came complete with a dance where she’d run around the house, hands flapping about her neck like gills, her mouth opening and closing like, well, a fish’s.

  Catherine and I caved, giving her a ten gallon tank and a pair of pretty orange-and-white-striped swimmers for her sixth birthday that April. Celeste had named them Charley and Farley. She loved them and their tank, although she didn’t think they had enough to play with, thus my trip to the pet store to buy overpriced decorations.

  The sole of my sneaker hadn’t hit the strip mall’s steaming parking lot when I heard a commotion to my left.

  Three doors down, the pharmacy’s alarm tore through the air. An ancient man dressed in tatters and hobbling on a cane shuffled out into the world. A short, young guy wearing a Walgreen’s uniform chased after him, waving.

  “Sir? Sir! You’re going to have to pay for that!”

  The old man waved him off. “Bah. Already did. Now leave me alone before I go’n sue ya.”

  “Sir,” the employee said, taking who I’d instantly recognized by the arm. “Please don’t make me call Loss Prevention. I’m sure we can clear this all up if you’ll just let me take a look at your purchases.”

  A small crowd gathered. I worked my way through them.

  “Get your rotten hands off me,” the old man spat. “I’m a Korean War vet! If I said I paid for everything in this here bag, then I paid for everything in this here bag.”

  “Sir—”

  The cane rose in the air.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “There a problem here?”

  “Damn skippy, there’s a problem, not that it’s any business of yours,” the older one said without looking at me. “I ain’t no thief.”

  Jeremy, according to the nametag on the uniform, shook his head. “Nobody’s calling you a thief. No doubt this is all a big mistake, but I really need to look in your bag.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

  Spinning his head around, the old man finally locked eyes with me. “Will you just butt out already? I ain’t askin’ for your help, and I don’t need your help. Got it?”

  “Mr. Jameson, it’s me. Rick Franchitti. From next door. Remember?”

  Recognition dawned in his rheumy eyes, and he lowered his cane. “Ricky? That you? Hol-ee shit. Been a dog’s age. What’re you doing here?”

  I held up my shopping bag. “Fish provisions. You?”

>   “Well, I was trying to buy a few things for my various aches and pains, but someone,” he glared at Jeremy, “thinks I ain’t paid for it right. Kids got no respect these days, I tell ya.”

  “We’ll get this cleared up, won’t we, Jeremy?”

  “That’s all I wanted, sir.”

  “Please don’t call me sir,” I said, smiling in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Way too young for that. So, what’ve we got?”

  Jeremy explained while Mr. Jameson grumbled. A quick comparison between what was in his bag and what was itemized on the receipt showed that the alarm hadn’t gone off accidentally. I held up an Icy-Hot patch.

  Mr. Jameson shrugged. “My back gives me the business. But I swear I paid for that thing.”

  “Minor oversight,” I said. “I’ll pay for this, Jeremy.”

  “You ain’t gotta do that, Ricky. I got my own money.”

  I sincerely doubted that. “It’s okay. I want to. Consider it me doing my part to support our troops.”

  Mr. Jameson resumed an air of dignity and nodded. I settled up with Jeremy. Lickity split, everyone was happy.

  “Maybe my mind’s going in my old age,” Mr. Jameson said once Jeremy had gone inside. “Anyway, good seein’ you, Ricky. And … and thanks for the help. You take care now.”

  He turned away, struggling to carry his bag and support his weight on the cane at the same time.

  “I can take that to your car for you, Mr. Jameson.”

  “Ain’t got one. Bus stop’s only a quarter mile away. I’ll be fine.”

  Two strides later, I stopped in his path. “Let me give you a ride.”

  “Naw. Exercise’ll do me good.”

  “It’s a billion degrees out here. You’re so sweet you’ll melt within a hundred feet.”

  His eyes narrowed as he gave me a gummy smile. “Still a wiseass, eh?”

  “Always.”

  “All right, you win,” he said, handing over his bag. “But you’re gonna have a beer with me. I don’t like owin’ nobody nothin’.”

  “Works for me.”

  The ride home was quiet. And familiar. I felt the pull of my old neighborhood tug at me as I turned down streets and passed buildings I never thought I’d see again. It wasn’t until I was standing on his back porch that an overwhelming sense of nostalgia truly hit me.