by R.S. Grey
“I didn’t go to his funeral either,” she admits with a soul-crushing wail that reverberates through the small room.
“I hated him,” she screams.
I don’t move a muscle.
“I hate him!” she cries, lashing out and hitting her hand against my chest. In a flash of limbs, our bodies collide. I tug her into my lap and her hands clench my shirt into tight fists. She thrashes against me and cries out, letting the tears wreck through her. She has so much pain stowed away. I know how it feels to implode from within. She pushes against me, slaps my arms, my chest, my cheek. Her pounding feels like beautiful caresses though; it means she’s opening up and letting her demons see the light of day. She’s finally facing the past.
“He left me!” she cries once more before collapsing into in silent sobs.
We sit there rocking back and forth for hours.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Charley
Jude didn’t leave me once last night. I didn’t think he would come; I didn’t let myself truly wish for his presence until he was pounding on the door outside. When his loud yells broke through the silence in my apartment, the tears started pouring down all over again. He came back, he ignored my stubbornness, and he wasn’t going to give up where so many others had before him.
After he made sure I wasn’t physically injured, he just laid there with me, never pressuring me to talk. Mrs. Jenkins brought me tea and soup, and Jude fed me bite by bite. I fell asleep with him on the floor, but I stirred when he carried me up onto my twin size bed and wrapped himself around me. I let myself soak in everything about him. His intoxicating aroma, his soft words wishing the darkness away, his strong arms wrapped around me telling me he’d never let me go.
I’ve never slept so peacefully than cradled in his arms on that tiny twin bed.
But he left ten minutes ago and I’ve used those few minutes to assess the complete mess that is my apartment. Hopefully all of the acrylic paint will come off the wood floor or I’ll owe Mrs. Jenkins a fortune.
I thought I wouldn’t be able to look at the canvases in the light of day, as though the dark secret was better kept in the night. But I don’t glaze over them. I lay in bed, flicking my eyes from one to the next, taking them in from the distorted angles of my horizontal position. They’re truly haunting, but so magnificent. I don’t have any idea what I’ll do with them.
Suddenly my door crashes open. “Up and at em’!” Jude commands, storming into my room just like he stormed into my life: fast and uninvited.
I jump back against my pillow. “What? Why?” I ask as he strides across the room and places two bagels and two small coffees on the nightstand by my bed.
“Up. Get dressed,” he demands, leaning down and kissing my hair. His hand strokes down my cheek and I glance up into his earnest blue eyes. He’s the one I always dreamed of. A dream I can’t possibly possess.
“Jude… I don’t know. I think I just want to res…”
“Charley. I will drag you out of this room or you will come willingly. It’s up to you.” He grips the sides of his waist in a predatory stance. His broad shoulders tug on his dark green shirt that he’s paired with grey pants. His brow is raised in a cool arch, as though he welcomes the challenge of dragging me out of bed.
I groan and crawl out of my warm blankets to throw on some clothes.
“There’s a bagel here for you. Sesame or blueberry?”
“Who eats sesame bagels?” I glare over my shoulder teasingly as I tug on my jeans.
“A lot of people.” He smiles, leaning down to kiss me with strong, tender lips. I arch my neck to kiss him back. It’s such a natural feeling to open up to him and I’m tired of fighting it.
“Blueberry, please.” I smile wistfully.
I’m absolutely ravenous now that he’s here.
“I picked up some cream cheese as well,” he offers with a contented sigh.
We’re not out of the storm, more like we’re in the calm eye of a hurricane. Jude and I didn’t have a heartfelt discussion about how much we’ve missed each other; it’s written all over our actions. When I wrapped around him with every inch of my body last night, I gave him every apology I could muster. I don’t know where we’ll go from here, but we’re in it together. That much is clear.
After I’ve dressed in a sweater dress, cashmere scarf, and warm boots, he pushes me out of the apartment and locks the door behind me.
There, on the ground beside my door, are the first clues to where Jude is taking me. My breathing shallows.
Jude
I picked up a New York Times and some red roses from the shop across the street, but I left them all outside of her apartment, lest she catch on too soon. I don’t know how she’ll react when I tell her we’re going to her father’s grave, but I know no matter what, I’ll try to persuade her to let me take her. There’s no way of knowing how it’ll affect her, but it’s clear that she’s built a wall of guilt around her heart in the past four years. Hopefully today she’ll begin to break away some of it, enough for her to start letting love in.
The moment her eyes fall on the contents outside her door, her posture straightens and her coffee pauses mid way to her mouth. Her eyebrows furrow in thought and then her eyes slowly scan up from the newspaper toward me.
“Do you know the address of the cemetery, Charley?” I ask calmly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her tongue dips along the edge of her bottom lip as she examines me, trying to read between the lines.
“Yes,” she offers simply. The plastic wrapper around her bagel crinkles as she moves to tuck it under her arm. With her spare hand, she reaches down to grab the fresh roses. Their fragrance wafts through the air and the ends of her mouth curl up gently when she gets a whiff.
“Here, let me get your coffee so you can get the newspaper too,” I offer, already reaching for her drink.
We don’t say a word on the cab ride over, but her shaking hand squeezes mine every now and then, reassuring me of my decision. She scans the road outside as the autumn leaves swirl like tiny tornadoes across the asphalt. Her head swivels as her gaze locks onto the people we pass on the sidewalk. She follows their movements until they’re out of sight as if their small cameos in her life is worth the effort. I don’t think that will ever change; I think Charley will always be tucked between two worlds, daydreaming and thoughtfully watching life move around her. Her gut instinct isn’t to participate, but then again, for the past four years, mine wasn’t either.
As we pass through the elaborate wrought iron gates of the cemetery, suddenly, I wish I had brought her in spring. Autumn hasn’t been kind to the cemetery grounds. The grass is dying and most of the leaves are falling off the trees, leaving them haunting and bare. It’s quite a bleak sight and since we’re early, no other visitors have arrived. The cemetery is quiet and completely empty, as though even the resting memories haven’t awoken yet.
“I know where the plot is. I’ve looked online a few times. They have a map of all the different sections, but I’ve never actually made it this far,” she mutters as the taxi begins to slow to a stop next to the first section of graves.
“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. “We’ll find it.”
With one last timid smile, we hop out of the cab. I’ve got a pack of tissues in my back pocket and a silent plea that I’m doing the right thing for her. I hold the newspaper, she clutches the red roses, and we link our spare hands, stepping onto the desolate landscape in search of Charley’s peace.
Tombstones pop up every now and then. Gold and crimson leaves cover most of them, but we don’t bend to unbury any until we arrive in the section where she knows her father is buried. There, we start meticulously cleaning each stone, reading the name and moving on.
“Do you think he’d have a statue or anything?” I ask, trying to narrow down our search.
“No. He wouldn’t have wanted that,” she declares, scanning the bleak horizon for any tombstones that stand out.
I nod and cont
inue searching, inspecting each tombstone we pass. Names and dates are etched in marble, commemorating the lost lives beneath us. Most of them are much older than the time frame we’re looking for and then it hits me that I don’t even know her father’s name. I’ve just been looking for a 2009 year of death.
“Charley, what was your father’s…” I begin to ask, but then I look up and see her slowly slide to the ground in front of a glistening slab of marble.
Beneath a giant oak tree, on the border of the cemetery, is a single tombstone: her father’s. The oak’s branches wind over our heads and a few of the heavier limbs bend gradually toward the ground. It hasn’t lost its leaves like many of the other trees in the cemetery. The blanket of leaves funnels the light in intricate shadows, cocooning us in a sliver of natural paradise.
Her trembling hand reaches out to brush away debris, and the movement catches my attention, drawing me toward her. I keep my distance at first, wanting her to process everything without my presence. But when her hand cups her mouth, and she reclines back onto her heels in silent study, I step closer, hoping my slow steps won’t disturb her.
When I’m a few feet away, I can finally discern the words written on the marble. The epitaph is much less elaborate than I was expecting, simply his name and years of life.
Charles Lock III
1957-2009
“His death made every single headline,” she begins softly. “My senior year of high school, it came to light that his company was participating in countless criminal acts: accounting fraud, insider trading, embezzlement. He got caught up in the riches, in providing for his family and having it all. He started out as mid-level management, and I remember noticing that he was under more and more pressure. His stress and irritability only worsened with each new promotion, but he never lost his temper with me. I’d hear snippets of hushed phone conversations that would turn into brutal yelling matches between him and the rest of the board.”
“Everything he did, or approved of, at least, cost a lot of families their livelihood. I had to change my name when I went to college, but I didn’t want to leave him behind.” Her voice descends into a soft murmur by the end of her sentence. She pauses to rebuild her courage.
“I loved him so much,” she continues. “He was the only real family I had, and I wanted to keep a part of him. So, I changed my name from Clarissa Lock to Charley Whitlock, and for the most part, people from my old life have left me alone.”
She pauses, tilting her head to the side and reaching out to run her pointer finger along the sunken script. Her finger carries away a layer of dirt that had settled over Charles— cleansing his name and her soul all at once.
“The media tore him to shreds, and I listened to every single word, hoping their image of him would tarnish mine, but nothing they said could take away the memories he gave me. He was the most loving father I could have ever asked for. I don’t know why he took his own life instead of going to prison, but I have to believe it was because he was sick…”
“I walked in as he was about to kick the chair away. He hung himself in our garage. I was going in to grab my sneakers.”
Her eyes glance up to me as she clutches her hands on top of each knee, gripping them as if her life depends on it.
“I had run in the rain the morning before and my sneakers were muddy, so I left them in the garage to dry out. I can still picture it in my mind as clear as this gravestone in front of me. But he didn’t stop when I walked in; he was already too far gone. He’d made up his mind a long time ago and nothing I said could have changed it.”
“When we locked eyes as he toed the edge of that chair, he had a tortured expression across his features. He knew how much it would hurt me to witness him take his own life. By that point, I was the only thing he had left to live for. Which is why I’ve never been able to comprehend how he still kicked the chair away.”
“But now I realize that for him, it was the only outcome he could reconcile— the only option that truly set me free from his mistakes. He didn’t want me to watch him get dragged through the mud, rotting away in prison for the rest of his life. He didn’t want me to spend my weekends and holidays in the visitation room of a federal penitentiary.”
She pauses, allowing a few shallow inhales to pass. For a moment I think she might not continue, but then her brows furrow in frustration.
“For the past four years I’ve clutched onto my mother’s guilt like a lifeline. She was already planning her next marriage to his best friend, Brad Temple, before the charges against my dad were even investigated. She broke his heart. She didn’t give a shit about him or his arrest. He busted his ass and broke the law to provide her with the kind of lifestyle she demanded, and in return, she left him without a second glance.” I cringe at the hatred in her tone as she continues, “I’ve wished every day that I found her hanging there instead of him, but I know that wish will get me nowhere. It’s been eating away at me for the past four years.”
Her heels collapse and she sinks down to sit on the soles of her feet as her hands splay open. The red roses roll out of her palm and scatter against the bottom of her father’s gravestone. They’re the only color against a bleak grey backdrop.
“I have to forgive him and forgive her, or I’ll rot away just like they are. For four years I’ve let my wounds putrefy…” Her words spill forth as her eyes cast up toward the heart of the tree. The golden leaves rustle in the wind and I let their song comfort her rather than trying to stumble over some shitty condolence. She looks utterly spent, but the tears and the breakdown don’t come.
I stand a few feet away, studying her intently. Small particles of dust swirl around her, visible only in the beams of light that break through the tree’s canopy. The entire scene makes her truly look like a fallen angel, never meant for this world.
“Will you tell me more about him?” I ask, stepping forward and taking a seat next to her. My gut tells me that she’s kept him tucked away in her mind for the past four years. If it were me, I’d be brimming with untold memories.
Her eyes don’t meet mine, but she falls back onto her butt and wraps her hands around her knees staring wistfully toward his grave. “He was really silly when it was just us. To the rest of the world, he was a strict business man, but around me he had the best sense of humor. His laugh was the first thing I let myself remember. It was so deep and passionate. He didn’t hold anything back. If he was going to laugh, he wanted the entire world to laugh with him.”
I smile, thinking of her infectious laugh. “You have that affect as well when you let yourself laugh.”
Her eyes narrow and she rocks her body gently on top of the ground.
“I got most of my identity from him. You hear about children getting their features from one parent and their personality from the other, but not me. I’m the spitting image of my father in every way.”
We sit at that cemetery the entire day. There must have been other visitors, but we didn’t see or hear them. We stayed in the private shade of that Oak tree as I listened to Charley talk about her father. Her words were like the trickling of a faucet, slow and steady. She had so many memories to unravel and her eyes lit up each time she remembered another happy time.
“The Country Club had a father-daughter dance each year.” Her mouth curls into a sly smile as the memory overtakes her. “My mother insisted we attend, and every year my father and I would dress up in obnoxious matching outfits, take pictures at home… and then skip the whole thing entirely. We’d go see a movie or just sit in his car and share hamburgers and a milkshake. I don’t know which one of us wanted to avoid the dance more, but it was clear that we were in it together.” She fiddles with the stem of a rose, twisting it between her fingers and then placing it down in front of his grave once again.
“Did your mother every find out?” I ask with a crooked smile, wishing I had been fortunate enough to meet her father— to shake his hand and thank him for being the love of his daughter’s life when she needed him
the most.
“The fifth year we skipped, one of her friends finally mentioned that she didn’t see us ‘in attendance’. My mother was livid and wouldn’t stop huffing around the house for weeks. We tried to take it seriously, we didn’t want to make her more upset, but we just couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. You know when your whole body turns into a tight coil of laughs and the moment you glance at your accomplice, you laugh even more? That’s how it was for weeks. God, we made her so mad.”
Charley
The day turns to night and we finally pull ourselves up from that dry cemetery grass. It’s strange that the world continued to pass around us, that dusk still fell even though we stood still in that moment of profound relief.
By the time we reached the cemetery’s gates, we still hadn’t called a cab.
“Can we just walk?” I ask, glancing up with a newfound contentment behind my gaze.
Jude’s bright blue eyes flicker down to me. “We can, but it’s a little over four miles. Is that okay?”
“Sounds perfect,” I sigh, and reach to lace my fingers with his.
We don’t say a single word during that walk home. After speaking for so many hours, my thoughts are finally calm and silent. Cold wind whips my hair and rich autumn smells fill the air as we pass the coffee shop he took me on our first date. His hand squeezes mine in silent recognition, and I tilt my body against him as we keep walking, wrapped around one another.
The farther we walk from the cemetery, the livelier the city blocks become—bright lights flicker through windows, groups of teenagers huddle in front of stoops, their voices clamoring over one another to be heard. Each step away from his grave offers one more bit of peace, like I’m a snake shedding the skin that had weighed me down since his death. I’ll never agree with my father’s decision, but I can’t wrestle with the past forever. My pace picks up as my lungs fill with deep, hopeful breaths. I can’t go back now, and that knowledge spurs me forward, away from my darkest days.
