by Nan Higgins
“Mrs. Morgan? Marsha?” London took two steps, reaching out, and Mrs. Morgan seemed to come out of her trance. Her head snapped to focus on London, who stopped short of touching her. Mrs. Morgan turned and walked toward her front door, and when she pulled it open, Grant spoke.
“Mrs. Morgan, do you want me to pick you up tomorrow for your son’s funeral?”
She turned back to them, not closing the screen door. “I don’t have a son. And my daughter died last year. I’ll never see her again because when I leave this world, I’m going home to my father, and my daughter is rotting in hell.”
In that moment, something broke inside London. She felt too full all of a sudden. For years, she and Tate had lamented all the things they’d like to say to their mothers to somehow make them understand who their children were and how little they wanted from them. A little bit of acceptance and understanding, along with some unconditional love, was all either of them really yearned for. Now London’s mother and Tate were both gone, and London was overcome with words they’d never get to say and fractures that would never heal.
“How dare you!” London gasped, not even realizing she was going to speak until the words burst from her lips. “You didn’t deserve Tate. You never did.”
“Come on, London.” Grant pulled her by the arm. “Don’t do this.”
Even as she let Grant guide her off the porch, she couldn’t stop her rage. “You aren’t worth one speck of Tate’s ashes! Not one goddamn speck!”
Mrs. Morgan stepped inside the house and closed the screen but did not leave the doorway or close the inner door that would’ve blocked London’s voice. Grant had both hands on London’s shoulders, pushing her to the car, and just before she got in, she yelled, “This was your last chance to be a mother, do you hear me? Your last chance to be any kind of a mother to him, and you have to live with that.”
She got in the car, and before she could say another word, Grant shut the door and crossed to the driver’s side, started the engine, and whipped out of the driveway. London caught one last glimpse of Tate’s mother, still standing at the screen door, watching them go.
Chapter Nine
The sky was bright blue on the day of Tate’s funeral, and the air was cool and crisp. Tate had requested a service outside, weather permitting, and while people needed to have their jackets on to be comfortable, most didn’t need to have them zipped up.
They were at Schiller Park, in the center of German Village, one of Tate’s favorite places. An amphitheater took up the southeast corner of the large park. During the summer, one of the local community theaters put on Shakespeare productions; this past summer, it’d been a month of Macbeth, a month of Hamlet, and a month of Midsummer Night’s Dream, which was the one London had dragged Tate and Reggie to see twice. The amphitheater was also a popular place for weddings, but since it was the end of October and Ohio’s weather was so unpredictable, nothing was on the schedule for this late autumn day.
The wake was informal, mostly people milling about and exchanging Tate stories. “Remember how he rode his bike everywhere, even in the winter?” And, “Were you there the time he put everyone’s name on the list to do karaoke?” And, “He had the best taste in music. Any time I wanted to step up my playlist, he was the one I’d ask for new bands. I never would have discovered Chop Shop if it hadn’t been for him.”
London smiled as she threaded through the crowd, listening to the memories of the people who loved him. Every person here had been touched by his presence, and she felt as if his energy was moving through all of them.
People began taking seats as the funeral began, and Tate was in every detail. They faced a smiling, poster-sized photo with the Columbus skyline behind him. London sat in the front row along with Reggie, Grant, Thomas, and Jasmine. Reggie’s parents had opted to sit directly behind them, and when the first synthesized strains of Tate’s favorite 80s song, “Forever Young” by Alphaville (not that garbage from the same name by Rod Stewart, Tate had been fond of saying) came on, Herb and Betty leaned forward and squeezed London’s shoulders.
After the song faded away, there was nothing for several moments besides the sounds of people sniffling. London gathered herself up and moved to the front to speak. She stood beside the poster and gazed at it, then turned to the mourners. Her shoulders were tense with the pressure she’d put on herself to make this the perfect day for Tate and the anxiety that she might not be able to pull it off. When she began to speak, though, the words tumbled out naturally if not gracefully. She’d been waiting days to say everything she’d been storing up about her best friend.
“Tate and I grew up together. We met when we were five on the first day of kindergarten. When I thought about speaking today, I wanted to think of stories that really captured who he was, and he was a funny, compassionate, original person. There are so many stories to choose from.
“Like the time when we were eight, I got chicken pox and had to miss the field trip to Amish country, and I was devastated. Tate rode his bike to my house that night, put a black bonnet on his head, pulled out three apples from his backpack, and juggled them…well, tried to juggle them. He got hit in the face with an apple more than once. At the end, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a jar of apple butter and said, ‘Ta-da! That’s how they make it!’” She paused as the audience chuckled.
“A few days later, Tate didn’t come to school, and when I called him that night, he said he’d be out for a few days with the chicken pox. He knew he’d catch it, and it didn’t occur to him to not come and try to make me feel better.”
She paused to wipe a few tears away. Reggie handed her some tissues, and when she regained her composure, she continued.
“That kind of selflessness didn’t end when he got older. I remember only a few years ago, Tate was…” Her eyes overflowed. She gazed out at the people who had loved Tate and shook her head. “I’m sorry, this is just…it’s so surreal to talk about him in the past tense. Isn’t it? He isn’t a was. How can that be?
“I want so badly to honor him with you today, to honor his memory…except that I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that he’s a memory now. I can’t understand that the memory of him is all I have left. Can any of you?”
London looked from face to face and saw people shaking their heads, many crying along with her. She was moving far from her prepared speech, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was speaking from the heart, rather than from notes she made, and it felt so much better and authentic.
“It’s just not fair that there’s no tomorrow with Tate, that he and I won’t spend Thanksgiving together eating fried chicken because he doesn’t like turkey. It’s not right that we won’t take our awkward Christmas photos together so we can send holiday cards to all of you.” Through her tears, she smiled when the crowd laughed.
“He should be here. That amazing human being should be here. Tate is an is, not a was. Tate is all about now, the present, this moment. Nobody was better at living in the moment than him. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to understand that he’s part of the past now.”
She had to pause, burying her face in one of her tissues and letting herself weep. Reggie went to stand beside her, wrapping an arm around her and holding on tight. London struggled to regain her composure and slow the tears that never seemed to fully go away. Finally, she was able to talk again.
“People think funerals are the end, that we’ve come to say good-bye. I’m not ready to say good-bye to Tate yet. I don’t think that’s reasonable. My entire life has been so closely intertwined with his. To say that I now have to let go is to oversimplify what he means to me, as if saying good-bye was as easy as snipping a tag off a new shirt.
“Our lives are woven together. It’s going to take time to figure out what parts I’ll have to untangle myself from so I can let him go and which parts will continue on, sewn together with everything I do from now on. I don’t know if anyone else feels like that, but if you do…” Tears threat
ened to overtake her again, but she fought them away, stood straighter, and pushed her shoulders back. “If you do, give yourself permission to take that time.
“Tate taught me more about family than anyone I’m related to by blood. One of the things he was better at than almost anyone was taking time. Taking time to enjoy the day, taking time to feel what you’re feeling, taking time to live in the moment you’re in because that’s all you truly have.
“Those are things I struggle with, and I know I’ll never be as good at them as he is. Was. But I’m going to try. I think it may be the only way I can find my way through this world that no longer has him in it.”
She began to walk back to her seat, and Reggie wrapped her in a tight hug. Reggie’s parents, Grant, Thomas, and Jasmine came forward and formed a cocoon around her. She saw others begin to join them. She felt more and more pressure and warmth from the crowd surrounding her. Although she could only see a few rows of people, she knew everyone at the service had left their seats to support and hold each other. And somehow, despite the wrongness of Tate being so viciously taken from this world, there was a rightness to this. A gathering in which his loved ones helped each other stand is exactly what Tate would have wanted.
* * *
A few days after Tate’s funeral, London returned to Hell in a Handbasket despite Jasmine’s protests. “Diego will help me mind the shop. Stay home!”
“I would, but I’m even further behind on the spring designs.”
“So work on them at your house.” Jasmine wrung her hands as she watched London take her place on the floor in the back room at Hell amidst the mess of fabric, paint, and cardstock. “You don’t need to be here today.”
“Jasmine, I can’t stay at home anymore,” London said. “I need to come in here with my creativity and close the door on everything else.”
“Okay, I understand. I just worry about you, sugar.”
“I know.” London tried to smile. “I need to try to be okay for a little while. Not happy or normal but just okay for a couple hours.”
“Tell me if you need anything?”
“I will.”
Several hours later, as she was just finishing the designs for a set of LGBT-themed playing cards, there was a knock to the door leading from the shop to the back room, and Jasmine popped her head in.
“There are two detectives here asking for you.” Jasmine looked at the jumble of London’s creative mediums which were taking up even more space than usual. “Do you want me to send them back?”
“Are there any customers up front?”
“A few, yeah.”
London raised her hands. “Sure, send them back, I guess.”
“Ms. Craft.” Detective Harper entered the room and stopped short when she saw the mess. O’Connor walked into her, bumping her a little farther in. They carefully stepped as close to London as they could without stepping on sequins or silk. “Sorry to bother you at work.”
“It’s okay.” London stood and followed a narrow path, hopping from blank spot to blank spot on the floor until she reached them. “What’s up?”
“We followed up on the lead you gave us,” O’Connor said. “The woman from Tinder is Amanda Alexander.”
“You talked to her?”
“We did,” he said. “In fact, we did more than that. We arrested her.”
“And two of her friends,” Harper added. “Tate joined them for a hike, and it seems they all felt things were going well. They were having a good time, drinking water and a little beer. It had been several hours, and Amanda and Tate were hitting it off. Amanda’s friends, Karl and Dave, got hungry, so they stopped at a picnic table to eat. Amanda wanted to see a waterfall less than a mile away, so she and Tate hiked over there.”
“While they were looking at the waterfall,” O’Connor continued, “Amanda started to feel romantic. She leaned in and kissed Tate. Tate then informed her of his…” He trailed off and glanced at his partner.
“Of his transgender status,” Harper finished. “Amanda grew angry and ran to the picnic area to tell her friends. By the time Tate arrived, Karl and Dave had consumed a lot more beer and were ready to fight whether Tate wanted to or not.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted to,” London said quietly.
“Yes,” O’Connor said. “Mr. Morgan’s wounds were defensive in nature. You can guess what happened, Ms. Craft. They beat him extensively and left him there.”
London nodded, waiting for the tears she was sure were coming. Her eyes stayed dry and instead, that familiar cold numbness fell over her. “What now?”
“That’s up to the prosecutor,” O’Connor said. “They’ve all confessed. There will probably be a trial unless one or more of them work out a plea.”
“I see.”
“We’ll leave the prosecutor’s card with you.” Harper handed her a business card. “He’ll be able to tell you more about what happens from here.”
London stuck the card in her back pocket without looking at it. “I appreciate the update.”
Harper reached out to shake her hand. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Ms. Craft.”
“Thank you.” She tried to think of something more to say but couldn’t. After a brief silence, the detectives showed themselves out.
* * *
“We don’t have to do this tonight,” Grant said. He was driving them to Compass for their second volunteer week. “We can stay home in our pajamas and watch TV and drink mimosas.”
“I want to go.” London paused. “Shit, Grant, I didn’t even ask if you want to. I could’ve come by myself. I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry about?”
“You lost him too.”
In the dark, he nodded slightly. “I know.”
“Everyone has been so busy taking care of me, making sure I’m okay. You all are grieving too. What’s good for me right now is to stay busy. That might not be what’s good for you.”
“I’m glad to be going tonight. Don’t worry.”
Michael and Doris had obviously been informed of Tate’s death. London didn’t know how they knew, but she could see it on their faces as soon as she and Grant got there. “Hey, guys,” Michael said, “how are you hanging in there?”
It was so different from the practical joke greeting of their first night that London was mildly uncomfortable.
“We’re okay,” Grant said. “How are you?”
Doris gathered them, one in each arm, into a tight hug. “We were so sorry to hear what happened. So sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” London said.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind them. “Are we in the right place?” Two rotund, goateed men who could have been brothers stood uncertainly in the doorway.
“Kitchen duty?” Doris asked.
“That’s right,” said the one with the bib overalls.
“Yep,” Michael said. “Come on in. Doris and I will be walking you through your training tonight.”
London and Grant exchanged a look before Grant spoke up. “Excuse me, Michael, what about—”
“It seems we have too many cooks in the kitchen.” Joan appeared, and London marveled at her ability to show up with no warning. “London, Grant, you’ll be coming with me tonight. Why don’t you go ahead to my office while I get our new volunteers settled?”
“Okay.” Grant nudged London out of the kitchen.
“What the hell is going on?” She followed him down the hallway and glanced behind to make sure Joan wasn’t there. “I confirmed us to volunteer on the website today.”
“I don’t know. Why are you so freaked about it?”
“That woman is unsettling to me.”
“You’re intimidated?”
“Kinda.” She caught a glimpse of his smirk. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging, just surprised. I can’t remember the last time you were intimidated by anyone.”
They sat in the plush chairs opposite Joan’s desk. London made another qui
ck glance over her shoulder, and when she saw that the hallway was still empty, she said, “She reminds me of my mother a little.” Admitting that helped her put her finger on why Joan made her so uncomfortable. The relief at being able to understand why she was so uneasy any time she was in her presence was so palpable, London felt herself nodding in agreement with her own statement. “Not even in a bad way, necessarily, just…the way she commands a room. The way she expects people to do what she says without asking or even checking to see if they will. It’s not a negative thing, it’s just—”
“A little haunting?”
“I was going to say triggering, but sure, haunting works too. I need to get over myself, don’t I?”
“Sure.” Grant smiled and squeezed her hand. “But getting over ourselves takes time.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” Joan entered the office and closed the door behind her. She sat behind her desk, folded her hands in front of her, and smiled. “How are you?”
“Well,” London said, “I’m a little confused. We thought we signed up for kitchen duty tonight. Was there a scheduling mix-up?”
“No, not at all. I thought in the wake of what you’ve been through, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to schedule some other volunteers as a backup.”
“How do you know about what we’ve been through?”
“Regina let me know what happened. I am so, so very sorry to hear what happened. I understand he was like a brother to you both.”
“He was,” Grant said. “Thank you.” London gave a half-smile but didn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself to talk about Tate without breaking down yet, and she didn’t want to be that vulnerable in front of Joan.
“I wondered if you two might be willing to talk to the kids about what happened. Not tonight, of course, but soon.”
London’s mouth dropped open. “You want us to talk to a bunch of gay and trans kids about our trans friend who got murdered? What would be the benefit of that besides scaring the shit out of them?”
