“Okay,” she said, straightening herself up. She tugged her arms from both Jason and Ryan. “Give me a minute, boys, okay? I’d like to spend a little time with him alone.”
They stayed back while she took the last few steps to the coffin by herself. She didn’t make a sound, but her shoulders shook as her head bent down. The minutes passed long and hard while Jason resisted the urge to go to her. Chris took a half step forward, then back. Ryan kept his head down with his fists curled up tightly at his sides.
A lump, horrible in its finality, grew in Jason's throat.
We shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here.
Jason tried, but he couldn’t hold in the tears. They fell down his cheeks, far too cool for the twisting pain inside his chest. It wasn’t right. His father was too young. The words echoed in his head and drowned out the music.
Dad, I still need you. Everything isn’t okay now. I need you to ask me the question because I’m not okay. Not now. Not really.
Their mother finally motioned them forward, and Jason closed the distance with heavy feet. The flowers pushed out their cloying scent, making the back of his throat itch. Up close, they were as strong as Shelley’s perfume. His father's face appeared calm, restive, as if he was asleep, not dead.
But he was. It wasn’t a bad joke or a nightmare. He was gone.
Jason reached out and touched the casket, the wood slick under his fingers. Reaching forward, he touched his father’s stiff, unyielding arm, and the coldness of his skin pressed through the fabric to Jason’s fingertips and shattered the illusion of sleep. The tears ran down. Blurred his vision. Jason put his hand atop his father’s. For one quick instant, Jason had an image of his father rising up to pat him on the head, and he wanted to roll back the years, capture the feel of his father’s hand when it was warm and alive and tuck it in his pocket so he would never forget.
I won’t ever forget him, but I can’t remember how his hand felt. Now it’s just cold—cold and gone.
He was vaguely aware of his brothers next to him, of his mother not so far away, yet he didn’t reach out for any of them. The sound of a sob cut through the music. His mother’s? His brothers’? His own? He didn’t know. Jason pulled his hand away from his father’s and gripped the edge of the casket, holding on until his fingertips ached, with an ache in his heart a thousand times worse.
I didn’t tell him I loved him. I thought he would be okay and I forgot to say it. Why didn’t I tell him? I was there with him, and I didn’t say I loved him.
10
An endless stream of well-wishers filed into the funeral home. Family, some Jason hadn’t seen in years, and friends, all whispering ”I’m sorry” and ”let us know if there’s anything we can do.” He knew the words were spoken with sincerity, but by eight o’clock his head pounded with a steady throb, and he wished the night were over.
His mother’s face showed the strain of the day, and Ryan took a smoke break every fifteen minutes. Chris’s replies were little more than monosyllabic murmurs. Jason kept his eyes away from the coffin. It was safer that way. If he didn’t see his father, he could almost convince himself it was all a dark dream. Almost.
When Shelley walked in the viewing room, Jason stifled a groan. He hadn’t been expecting her to show up. She’d sent flowers, wasn’t that enough?
I can deal with her presence for a little bit. For the sake of my mom. And my dad.
Shelley went to his mother first. At first she stiffened when Shelley put her arms around her, then she smiled and leaned into the embrace. They spoke in soft tones, too low for Jason to hear, then Shelley said a few words to Ryan and Chris but embraced neither. As she walked away from them, toward Jason, Ryan rolled his eyes, and Chris shook his head. She gave Jason a brief hug, and the smell of her perfume made his head throb anew. When she pulled back, she smiled and the ring on her right hand gleamed very blue in the overhead lighting.
“I’m very sorry,” she said.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
“Thank you.”
She looked around the room and gave him another smile, one he knew too well. His hands tightened into fists, tight enough so the edges of his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms.
“I’m surprised your new friend isn’t here.”
His nails pressed in harder.
Why would she do this? Why here?
To a casual observer, the question wasn’t cruel. A simple query. But he knew Shelley, and he knew what the smile meant. At the bookstore, he’d made her feel small. She hated that. This was her way of getting even, of getting in a last, little dig. She wouldn’t stick the knife in too deep, just enough to sting. Even here.
“Or hasn’t she met the family yet?”
She made a face of disdain that turned her face ugly.
“Thank you for coming,” he finally said through clenched teeth and walked away.
11
When Jason stepped out of the limousine, the impossibly green color of the cemetery grass gave him pause, even through the lenses of his sunglasses.
Of course it’s green. Good fertilizer here.
Jason shuddered and helped his mother step out. In the five days since his father’s death, he thought she’d lost at least as many pounds. Always thin, she now verged on skinny, the sharp ends of her collarbones jutting out from beneath a veil of flesh. Jason and his brothers took her out to eat after the funeral home viewings, and she’d simply picked at her food. After a while, she stopped pretending and set her fork down. Maybe when the funeral was finished, she’d eat. There was plenty of food at her house.
Jason understood the corollary between death and food, making sure the loved ones left behind didn’t have to worry about something as mundane as cooking. When he’d opened his mother’s refrigerator this morning, it was crammed full of casserole dishes, pies, cakes and a large tray of deviled eggs. Neighbors and friends, she said when Jason asked. The eggs were from her sister, Betty, for after the funeral. Out of curiosity, he’d peeked in the freezer and found more dishes there. The handful of people coming to her house after the funeral would not even put a dent in the food.
And why are you thinking about food right now?
They walked over to the gravesite in silence.
Because it’s easier.
The low quack of ducks startled him out of his thoughts. A pond not far away shimmered in the sunlight. Who put a duck pond in a cemetery? That took the whole let’s make the death of your loved one as nice as possible thing too far. A loose, rubbery sensation raced through his abdomen as they moved closer to the gravesite.
Dad, I’m really not okay. Not this time.
The coffin rested atop a metal frame and underneath, the waiting hole gaped mouth-like, waiting to swallow his father whole. In front of the coffin, a portable awning covered several rows of folding chairs. Jason guided his mother to one of the chairs in the front, and she sank down without a word. He tugged at his collar but didn’t sit. He couldn’t. It was too warm for a suit, even underneath the awning. Another duck quacked, and Jason sighed. He didn’t care how many ducks there were; it was still a cemetery, and his dad was still gone.
The minister, an old man with thick, white hair, bent down and spoke to his mother in a hushed voice. He’d married Chris and Lisa, but Jason didn’t know his name. He’d stopped going to church in high school, when he decided he didn’t believe in either God or the devil. It had upset his mother, but after her initial protestations she didn’t nag. His father’s doing, no doubt. Jason knew his dad went with her on Sundays to make her happy, not for any great spiritual reasons of his own. A memory returned, as vivid as the grass—the day he walked downstairs and told his father he was an atheist.
Of course I told Dad first. I told him everything first.
His father had put down his newspaper, gave him a small smile, and said, “Son, I believe every man has the right to make his own decision about politics and religion. You might not legally be a man ye
t, in the eyes of the law, but I think you’re old enough to know what’s in your mind and your heart.”
Jason could hear his father’s words as clearly as if he stood next to him right now, and he brushed tears away with the back of his hand. After a few minutes, the minister rose, smiling when his knees creaked in protest.
“How are you holding up?”
My father’s dead. How do you think I’m holding up?
“I’m okay.”
“Good,” the minister said. He reached out his hand, patted Jason’s left arm, then drew it back with a low hiss.
What the hell?
A wave of bright pain exploded in Jason’s arm, and he rocked back on his heels. It was like a million needles digging into his skin all at once, or a dozen razors scraping down deep. His breath rushed out with a small sound; the minister stepped back and looked down at his own hand with an odd look, then he looked back up at Jason and rubbed his palm on the leg of his pants.
The sharp pain subsided slowly, leaving a dull ache in its place. Jason tasted blood in his mouth, sharp and metallic, and fought the urge to spit. Soreness on the side of his tongue confirmed the source of the blood.
Good one. The minister was trying to be nice, now he’s looking at me like I’m the Antichrist.
Jason squirmed under the weight of the minister’s stare, but he turned the movement into a small stretch. He didn’t like the way the minister’s eyebrows had drawn together or the questions in his eyes.
What happened when he touched me?
Lisa walked over and put her hand on the minister’s shoulder, and Jason took that moment to turn his head away. He reached up and touched his arm. Heat pressed against his palm.
Of course it’s warm. You’re standing out in the sun.
No unexpected shock of pain, no screaming knives, only an odd ache. Jason sat down next to his mother. She had her head down and her eyes closed. Whatever had happened, she’d missed it, and Jason sighed in relief.
Just a muscle cramp. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to explain.
The minister finished talking to with Lisa, and when she sat down he began to speak. When his mother raised her head, her cheeks damp with tears, Jason reached into his pocket and handed her a small packet of tissues. He stared at the coffin as the minister droned on and on. When he started to read a passage from the Bible, Jason tuned out the words. They weren’t important, anyway.
12
The minister cornered him in the kitchen at his mother’s house. When he approached, Jason’s mouth went dry and he stepped back.
“I wonder if I could speak with you a few minutes, son.”
No.
“Sure.”
“I felt something very odd when I touched you at the cemetery.”
Jason bet it was nothing like he felt.
“I just got a tattoo,” Jason said. Neither a total lie, nor the total truth. “You happened to touch the spot where it is. The skin is still tender.”
“Oh,” the minister said, his features twisting in confusion. “I could have sworn, well it may sound odd, but your arm felt warm, son, almost hot. It was a little…strange.”
If you call me son one more time, I might yell. You’re not my father. He’s dead and in the ground. Remember?
And maybe Frank just doesn’t like you.
Jason smiled at the ridiculous thought. “Not really, sir. We were out in the sun.”
“Yes, that could be the explanation. That could be it exactly.” The lines on his forehead smoothed out, then he smiled. “Please forgive this old man’s fancies. I shouldn’t have troubled you on this, of all days. I’m not sure what I was thinking.”
Jason just nodded. What else could he say?
Yes, I felt it too. It felt like my arm was on fire.
The minister opened his mouth as if he had more to say, then closed it and shook his head. He offered a small smile. “In the days to come, if you need someone to talk to, to help you cope with your loss, my door is always open. I know you’re not a member of our church, but your parents have been for many years.”
Sure, right. Just please go away.
“Thank you,” Jason said, breathing a sigh of relief when the minister finally walked out of the kitchen.
13
Jason called Mitch as soon as he left his mother’s house; when she answered the phone, tears burned his throat, trapping his voice inside his chest.
“Are you okay?”
He forced out a sound, his tears turning the streetlights into streaks of white light.
“Come over, please,” she said.
Jason found his voice. “Okay. I’d like that.”
She opened her front door before he had a chance to knock, and without a word she wrapped her arms around him and held him close. Her soft, coconut smell brought fresh tears to his eyes.
Later, in the dark, he whispered, ”I love you,” and she said the words back.
14
Jason’s shoulders slumped as soon as he unlocked his kitchen door Sunday night. He pushed the door open, stumbled into the kitchen, and tossed his keys toward the table. They spiraled down and landed with a clink on the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up. The twilight outside turned the corners of his living room into dark, secretive places, banished once he turned on a lamp and the television.
Dad is dead.
The words played over and over in his head and he flipped through the channels without thought, the actors’ faces passing in a blur. With a sigh, he turned it off, tossed the remote on the coffee table and put his head in his hands. His dad had been fine when he got to the hospital. Pale, tired, but fine. The damn heart monitor had chirped away, pronouncing everything well and good, but it lied, nothing more than a pretty illusion of happy ever after, like a seemingly perfect beach hiding poison shells in quicksand.
Jason swallowed, tasting tears. He cried into his hands until his palms were slippery. He cried until his throat hurt and he couldn’t see through the tears. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair.
It is what it is.
His father’s voice. He’d give anything to hear his dad say the words for real. Not this false ghost voice. When the tears stopped and his vision cleared, he stared at the darkened screen, catching a glimpse of his own reflection.
He rubbed his upper arms and winced, then pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. Bruises, five of them, marred the skin on his left arm, fingertip shaped and pale purple, almost concealed by the tattoo’s ink.
He grabbed me, right before he said his last words.
The look on his father’s face, the horrible, scared look was burned into his memory. And his words. ”I saw.“ What had he seen? Death coming for him in a gilded carriage? Jason’s mother living out the rest of her days alone? The knowledge that he wouldn’t see his grandchildren grow up?
Jason rubbed his arm again, and pain rippled just underneath the skin, reminding him of the sensation when the minister touched him.
No, I am not going to think about that. No way. Not tonight.
15
Jason was sitting at the kitchen table when his father, in a dirt-encrusted suit, knocked at his back door. He whispered his name with a wet voice (a wrong voice), the S nothing more than a gentle hiss of exhaled air, but Jason made no move to get up and unlock the door. It would be a mistake.
Because they can’t hurt you until you let them in.
Then his father walked through the door and came to a stop in the middle of the room, holding out his hands with something inhuman and awful in his eyes, something that shifted, liquid and loose, behind the irises. “Daddy’s home now, son.”
Jason tried to speak, tried to tell him he was dead and needed to go back, but as his father walked toward him with pale hands outstretched, the words fled. He ran upstairs, slamming his bedroom shut behind him and flipping the puny lock meant only for privacy, not protection.
His father’s steps on the staircase, each one heavier than the last, carried dark promise i
n each weighty thump, and when his hands scraped the door, Jason pressed his back against it to keep him out.
When he comes in, he’s going to tear me apart with those hands.
The slippery whisper of his name again.
It’s not my father, no matter how much he looks like him. My dad is dead. He’s nothing but worm food and this is just a dream. A dream.
A terrible pulling sensation ripped through his chest as his not-father walked through him. A foot and leg emerged first, between his own, then a shoulder and arm. One final pull, and the rest came through, reeking of grave dirt and rot, flesh turned foul and rancid. The not-father took two steps forward, turned around, and his features changed.
The cheekbones melted and reformed, high and sharp. The chin widened, exposing a gaping maw with hot, fetid breath. The nose stretched, elongating into a razor-sharp protuberance that dripped saliva and blackened red gore. The unrecognizable thing let out a high-pitched shriek and the dark suit ripped in two and fell to the floor as the rest of its bones shifted. A terrible creature rose from the ruins of the suit, something so terrible, Jason’s mind shrieked in protest. A dadmonster, all claws and fur and furious anger.
It opened its mouth, and his father’s voice screamed, “It is what it is! It is what it is!”
The dadmonster rose with the frenzied flapping of wings, pushing foul air into Jason’s face, circling over his head, higher, then back down again, moving close, then pulling back, spinning and screaming. Jason fell to the floor, covering his head with his hands as the not-father, the dadmonster, the thing, spiraled and descended again and again and again until finally, his mind rolled over and sent him elsewhere.
16
John S. Iblis reread the paper he held in his hands and smiled. He wondered how Jason was sleeping as of late. Not well, he presumed. Perhaps Jason even had strange pain in his arm. He wondered if Jason suspected anything at all. In his mind, good old Sailor (a clever nickname, he would admit) was nothing more than a tattoo artist.
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