Her mind wandered to the summertime, and she knew this area would be packed if it were July. The scorching sun and baby blue sky would brighten the scene. Pigeons would chirp to one another and land in front of the benches and nibble on fallen food from workers’ lunches. Energy levels would be up. People would be smiling, laughing, and singing along to a stranger strumming a guitar, a young idealist with hopes of getting discovered. Joggers would stomp through the pathways, and locals would stretch out in the grass for a picnic or to read a book, the scorching sun beaming down on their faces and backs. Nearly every seat and patch of grass would be occupied.
But that wasn’t the case on this night. No one sat on the benches that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since September. Uneven lumps of thick white circles of bird poop streaked with dark green lines lay on the cracked wood. She shook her head and picked up her pace, left the park, and was on Locust Street.
With Christmas just two days away, the streets were festive. Windows of homes and businesses displayed lights, tinsel, Santa hats, sleds, nativity sets, miniature trees, and snowmen that laughed and lit up when someone walked by. The spirit of Christmas always touched her heart. Something about the way it brought people together, beyond human, something spiritual and soulful. The wind still swirled and smacked at her face, but she’d be at her place in a few blocks, just off Locust.
She passed a few old, rare brownstones and thought how much she loved her neighborhood but pondered if she would move now that she’d been offered partner. Maybe she’d finally buy a home, a lifelong dream of hers. She was the breadwinner, made twice the amount her boyfriend did when he could find employment, but she loved him. He was trying, she hoped. But, in reality, she couldn’t care less about her boyfriend’s financial situation because it didn’t drive her. Money never drove her. She worked hard for her own fulfillment. The neighborhood was perfect for her when she first started the job at Fratt & Johnson, just four blocks to work, best commute in America. But she was in her mid-thirties now, wanted to move on, wanted to live the adult life that was so valued and “normal” in the world’s eyes. She’d fought it off for too long. The surrounding blocks of her apartment were mostly young professionals who were rarely home—doctors, lawyers, nurses, young businessowners. And the rent wasn’t cheap. She paid for location. Monthly, the cost was $3,200 for a one-bedroom apartment. During her mid-twenties and up until her early thirties, the neighborhood was exciting, like an extended dorm atmosphere. Everyone was young, active, and living their dreams they had worked so hard to achieve. She partied in her spare time and worked out at the local gym in the proper and stylish tight pants, tank tops, water bottles, Nike running sneakers, hair ties for a perfect ponytail. She drank coffee at all the hot spots in Center City and gossiped and talked with her girlfriends about men and work and music and clubs. She ate in trendy restaurants and cafes.
But now, she wanted more, maybe a home, maybe marry her long-time boyfriend, maybe even start a family and have children. And it was all possible as partner. She could afford a nice house in the suburbs for less than the price she was paying for her one-bedroom. She’d have more time, more freedom, more money, potentially even enough so that her boyfriend could be a stay-at-home dad. Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, she always liked to tell her friends.
Cold moisture licked her nose, and she tilted her head at the sky and watched white decimal points swaying and falling toward the ground. The first snowfall of the season. The wet specks hit her like light mist of shower water, and it was happening right before Christmas. She felt twelve-years-old. And something about the precipitation stopped the wind gusts and leveled out the atmosphere to still air. The temperature was still cold but manageable. The steady movement of flakes washed over the foggy yellow street lamp lights and white dots freckled her black peacoat. The snow wasn’t sticking to the pavements, but the silver of the cement dampened and turned dark gray, almost black.
About a half-a-block away from the apartment, a car halted at a stop sign and let her cross. The vehicle’s rear lights shrank and faded the farther it drove away. The streets were quiet, no vehicles, no pedestrians, just the flurries, her high heels poking at the cold ground, Christmas decorations glinting light off homes, and an occasional chuckle from an electronic snowman on someone’s windowsill. Ah, the first day of her new life. All the hard work had paid off. She smiled and shimmied to herself, but blushed and shot a glance around, checked that no one had seen her, felt like the biggest dork in the world.
The snowflakes soaked her building’s exterior, seeped into the facade. She eyed the four concrete stairs that led to her front door. But before she took a step, a cold piece of metal jammed into the back of her skull. Her eyes stung from the sudden, violent impact. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She trembled. Her teeth throbbed. Metallic, salty, thick liquid burst on her tongue until her palate detected blood. She mentally checked if her skull had cracked and felt if she moved an inch the bone would crumble into tiny pieces. Her head swelled, numbed, as though a hundred pounds—her thin neck struggling to hold it up—her hair follicles like tiny balls of fire. Adrenaline jolted through her body like she’d gotten an electric shock, twitched the nerves. Warm, thick blood slowly coursed through the veins. Sweat drenched her forehead, and the beads dripped into her eyes. Only fear could make a person hot during a winter storm.
“Don’t move,” a man whispered.
She shrieked, but only a whisper of air left her mouth. Her eyes popped to the size of golf balls. She wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but couldn’t. Fear turned her into a statue, but her heart pounded hard against her still body. She managed another whisper, her voice shaking, “What…do…you…want?”
Her skin flushed red and hot after her words and she almost fainted but stiffened her calf muscles, which shook against her efforts, and kept her balance.
The man didn’t reply but instead wrapped a finger around the trigger and fired one shot into the back of her skull. A cloud of gray gunpowder hung in the air and mixed with the flurries, the aroma like someone cut off a grill and let the fire burn out on charcoal. He shifted his head back and forth and whistled to himself, searching for witnesses. There were none.
Desiree Jones collapsed. Her bones smacked the sidewalk, the impact like someone dropping a bag of bricks, as if the fall may have killed her instead of the gunshot. The man bent over her and inhaled deeply. Maroon blood oozed onto the ground, and white snowflakes fell into it, the liquid swaying and dimpling like a puddle during a rainfall. He stared at her deformed skull and laughed, his chuckle as cold as the temperature. Her head lay on the cement, the right side of her face visible, bloody, the eyeball on that side wide open. She was clearly dead. The man shoved the gun into his jacket pocket and calmly strolled away like he had just left a movie theater.
3
T
he priest curled his right hand, cut it through the air and drew a perfect imaginary cross. He dug his chin into his chest and whispered a prayer, then raised his head poking out of his black and white collar. He flashed a liquid frown, scratched the wrinkled skin of his cheek, and brushed a hand over his thin silver hair. The morning air was brutal and relentless and never stopped howling. Temperatures had dropped below twenty and were predicted to steadily decline as the day progressed. Frostbite warnings had been issued that morning, as the weatherman wagged a finger and told Philadelphians that they’d end up in a hospital if they stayed outside too long. But life had to carry on for Steel, regardless of the weather.
The forty or so guests at the burial site followed the priest’s lead. So far, he had read a letter from Paul to the Corinthians, said a few kind words, and recited a prayer.
Benjamin Steel sat, lost in his thoughts. He loved her. And she was dead, gone, a lifeless body in a casket just twenty feet from him. His sweet grandmother. What a wonderful woman.
Steel sucked at the frigid air and inhaled deeply. The cold rushed through his nostrils an
d lungs and chilled his chest, his breast bone like a solid block of ice. Warm tears bubbled behind each eyeball but he fought back the pressure. He clenched his jaw hard and gritted his teeth, his chest now tightening and squeezing and aching from pain, melting the block of ice. He wanted to vomit, wanted the sadness to stop, a grown man’s best attempt at bravery, at pride, but his quivering chin and sharp ache near his gut revealed a failed attempt. He was doing so well lately, too, handling the clinical depression he was diagnosed with after he’d seen a psychologist two months earlier, but now this. He’d need the cognitive behavioral therapy he was learning more than ever.
Margret Steel was eight-two years old but lived a good life, raised two boys, one of whom Steel’s father, and was married to Steel’s grandfather until he had passed five years prior. She died after suffering a stroke while home alone, sudden—she’d be missed by many, greatly. Steel would miss her. His thoughts raced. Why didn’t I make enough time to visit? I practically stopped going to see her after my grandfather died. I thought she’d be around forever, he shook his head, took her for granted. I’m so sorry, Grandma, I love you. I love you. The last “I love you” choked him up. A hard knot pressed into his Adam’s apple and cut off the airway. He coughed twice to catch his breath. He shuffled in his seat and lowered his head, didn’t listen to the priest’s words as he began to speak.
Steel glanced across the others in attendance, seated in white chairs dug into grass, tress hovering over the coffin, and a grayish-red sky hanging in the backdrop. All the mourners faced the mahogany casket. He stared out at his father and mother, two brothers and two sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, and his dear grandmother’s friends from the church she so faithfully attended. The elders seemed okay, almost desensitized to death, as if most had probably seen enough, realizing their own was not far away. He spotted his father, who sat with his head craned toward the ground, staring at the worn cemetery grass. But he was tough, his father, Steel knew, but losing your mother still hurt, even if she had lived until old age.
Steel squeezed his eyes tight, and the skin creased on the tops and sides and left divots. He daydreamed and could actually smell the pasta and fresh garlic that had sizzled in an oily pan every Sunday afternoon when he and his family had gone to his grandparents’ home for dinner. His grandmother was the only Italian-American member of his family and could cook an entire menu in one morning, and all from scratch. When he was a kid, she’d make him special bite-size meatballs as a side for his pasta. What he wouldn’t do for one of those right there, the garlic and meat meshing together and the flavor exploding on his tongue. He also remembered going to his grandparents’ home in South Philadelphia when he was young, before they had moved to Northeast Philly. His grandfather was old-school. He smoked cigars and his fingers always smelled of nicotine, played cards with his buddies once a week while they sipped on cold, sweaty beers and glasses of whiskey with ice cubes that rattled in the cups, did crossword puzzles with five-dollar reading glasses from the drug store, wore a white T-shirt and black slacks daily, called jeans “dungarees” and shorts “short-pants,” saw through the bullshit that politicians talked and voiced his own opinions fearlessly, had worked as a salesman for thirty years at the same company before retiring, owned his home and did the small repairs himself, and had earned every single thing in his life, was proud that no one had ever given him any help. He’d taught Steel always to be honest, to be kind to others, to work hard and take care of your family, to love and respect your wife, to never take advantage of people, to build a person up instead of break them down, and to be a good neighbor and friend. He was a good man—hardworking, loyal and honest. Most family members said that Steel reminded them of his grandfather, and Steel noticed the similarities but was too humble to admit it.
One vivid memory always stuck out in Steel’s mind. He was about twelve, the year 1993, and the Phillies were playing against the Toronto Blue Jays in the World Series. His siblings were in the kitchen finishing up dinner, and he and his grandfather were alone on the sofa watching the game.
Steel’s favorite player on the team was Mickey Morandini, the second baseman—Steel always wanted to play second base as a kid. Morandini stepped to the plate and Steel and his grandfather zoned in on the television and were discussing his statistics and value to the team just when his grandmother walked into the living room carrying a warm cup of steamy coffee, the carpets and walls smelling of burned garlic bread from the meal moments earlier. After handing the saucer to Steel’s grandfather, she flipped her towel over her shoulder, a small cloth with a flowered pattern she used to dry off dishes, and said with a smile that was a permanent fixture across her face, “I hope those Phillies win.” She glanced at the TV with her soft hazel eyes. “I’ve been watching every game with your grandfather. Morandini, I like him…isn’t he the coach?” Steel and his grandfather smiled at one another, without ego or malice but like family members who shared unconditional love and embraced each other for who they were, everything, the faults and strengths. But that was his grandmother, sweet, kind, selfless, sometimes oblivious to the outside world because she thought so innocently. She’d do anything for anyone before her own needs, even watch 182 baseball games without paying attention to Morandini’s position in the field. Steel would cherish that moment and memory. Each of his grandparents genuine laughs that night replayed in his brain; he slightly smirked like the twelve-year-old boy he once was. His body warmed. Those times with his grandparents were routine while they had happened, so ordinary, but were now snapshots in time and fond recollections and yearnings to relive, recordings of his life-story.
Steel peered over the priest’s head, still not listening to his words, and stared at his grandmother, at her closed eyes and soft, wrinkled hands folded over her ribcage, the veins like thin blue tubes under her pasty white skin, rosary beads wrapped around her fingers, so gentle, so peaceful, so beautiful inside and out. Maybe she was with God, he hoped. At those moments, Steel found himself shifting his religious views from agnostic to Christian. Maybe religion was a safeguard, or a longing to have some explanation of life, or hope that a heavenly father would take care of him. But, nevertheless, he wished her spirit was somewhere in paradise, forced himself to believe it, momentarily pretended she was in Christian paradise, but didn’t know about all that. He was a doubter, needed proof. He wondered where a soul goes in the afterlife, what eternity could possibly be, but stopped himself before his obsessive mind tortured him trying to find answers to questions he could never find solutions to.
A swift breeze rolled over his neck, and he shrugged for warmth. A white pigeon stared at him from afar, different than the usual black feathers he would see in Philadelphia, and he took it as a sign from the Creator, whoever or whatever it was, that his grandmother was all right.
The priest held his hand as straight as a shark’s fin and made the sign of the cross over the casket and said that Margret Steel was now in God’s hands. Steel hunched over and broke from his mental fog. Tears and sobs burst out from funeral guests and mixed with the wind, and the echoes swirled throughout the gravesite, whipping the collective voices off sharp edges of wobbly trees and branches, and Steel thought that we were all one, humans and nature, body and soul, the spiritual and physical worlds blending together, each a piece of a puzzle trying to connect back together. Maybe God was there, too, or maybe they were experiencing God as they all cried and mourned collectively out of shared love for Margret Steel, or maybe life itself was God, he didn’t know, brushed off the confused thoughts, didn’t have time or energy to think it through.
Two funeral workers in black suits slammed the casket shut and stared at the ground. A tear slid down Steel’s cheek and fell to his lips. He swiped his tongue across and tasted the thick salt, wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
Everyone rose and headed for his or her vehicle in the parking lot. A sea of black clothing battled the wind and strode with their heads down and shoulders slouched, carrying the deepest s
adness a human being could bear—the loss of a loved one.
Steel cocked his head back at the casket, as if expecting his grandmother to follow and smile and laugh the way he remembered as a kid. I don’t wanna leave her here like this, he thought. I feel like we’re abandoning her. The thoughts knocked the wind from his gut as if someone had jabbed it. He gasped for air but it didn’t fill the hole that death had taken.
A warm, soft hand cupped Steel’s, and Marisa whispered, “It’ll be all right. I love you.” Goosebumps bubbled over his skin and raised the hair on his neck. Marisa didn’t often say “I love you.” She believed in saving it for special moments. In fact, that was probably the tenth time she said that to him since they had met earlier that year over the summer when they were paired up as detectives to work that wild Thomas Hitchy case. And he rarely said it to her. But her words calmed his dread and anxiety momentarily, slowed his breathing. He puckered his lips and kissed her cold red ear, her hair tickling his nose, and told her in one warm breath that he loved her, too.
Steel met up with his father and mother at their car in the parking lot and told them he might stop off at their house after checking in at the station. Both his father and mother nodded and frowned, each of their eyes bloodshot. They didn’t say much. Steel understood. They were a close family, and a member had been lost. He waved at his two brothers in the distance before heading for his car, clicked his keypad and listened for a beep. He noticed one of his cousins he hadn’t seen in a while walking a few vehicles down and thought it was both happy and sad to see cousins he’d lost touch with, people he shared genetics with, shared relatives with, those who had similar outlooks on life from family traditions. And how there was something hidden and real that always bonded family, even if contact had been lost.
Divine (A Benny Steel Novel) Page 2
