Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “You want a card?” the shopkeeper asked, unfazed by his silence.

  “Yes,” Aidan said quietly, paying her for the tulips. She pushed a small rectangle of dyed cardstock over to him, along with an ink pen. With a quick scribble, Aidan wrote: Na-Na, someone stole your hairbrush.

  Chapter Four:

  A Casual Internment

  They were all drunk. Every single last one of them. So drunk, in fact, it was a small miracle none had followed the dearly departed into his grave.

  “What’d ye make of that, Paddy?” Arthur asked, shifting the lifting gear away from the hole in the ground where now lay Thomas Michael Johnson, aged 45.

  A few feet away, Patrick rolled back the green canvas, revealing the pile of earth to be returned to the grave. The deceased had requested that on his passing, his friends “party like it’s 1999.” It was safe to say they’d tried their hardest to oblige.

  “Well, I think it’s grand,” Patrick said. He grabbed both spades from the barrow and passed one to his fellow groundskeeper, along with a cheeky grin. Arthur chortled.

  “Grand, you say? Folks could learn a lot from you, young Patrick.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow; he wasn’t so sure about that. Sometimes he wondered if his constant cheeriness might come across as being insensitive to the mourners, but he meant no disrespect.

  Starting at the end where the headstone would eventually go, he began to back-fill the grave, recalling, as he did every time, the very first time he’d done this, when his mam was still fighting the cancer and the chemo, and Patrick didn’t connect her demise to his actions—not that he needed to in order to understand that this, here, was a person, loved and lost.

  “I overheard his brother earlier,” Arthur said, taking a pause from the labor to catch a breath. “By all accounts, Mr. Johnson was a man who liked his spirits, so he did.”

  “Oh, right,” Patrick remarked, still toiling away.

  He was a lot younger than Arthur, perhaps as much as twenty years, which made his fellow groundskeeper around the same age as the man in the ground. Patrick was also a good few inches taller than Arthur, and very fit. Not from the work: the digging was the only really physical part of the job. No, he lived in an apartment over the gymnasium run by Maxine, his best friend since school. He opened and closed the place, and his presence offered added security. It meant being home at ten in the evening and seven in the morning, but with no one special in his life, it was no hardship at all. Patrick worked out, showered, went to bed. It suited him just fine.

  The two men worked on in silence, appreciating the mild heat of the late afternoon sun on their backs. And it was a beautiful afternoon, with clear blue skies, leaves whispering blessings in the gentle breeze. When the grave was filled, Patrick walked back to fetch the truck, whistling quietly to himself and brushing the muck from his hands onto the rag he kept in his coveralls pocket.

  Spotting movement in his peripheral vision, he looked in that direction, to the row of graves where the weary young man—Nadia Degas-Minor’s sad visitor—had been yesterday. Sure enough, it was the very same fellow. Today he was wearing a fitted shirt: still gray, but a lighter shade. His hair, now Patrick could see it, was a rich dark brown, like freshly ground coffee beans. His head was bowed, shoulders moving slightly, hands gesticulating as if he were holding a conversation.

  What a crying shame, Patrick thought, and continued on his way, once again trying to fathom the connection between Nadia and her visitor. So much sorrow.

  <<< >>>

  It didn’t take long to pack up and get everything stowed away. With just half an hour before lock-up time, Arthur took his usual route around the east side of the cemetery, Patrick the west. Since they’d finished up the burial an hour or so ago there had been very few visitors, which was the usual daily pattern. A few stopped by on their way home from work. Those who had more recently lost a loved one were there all the time, and Patrick quickly got to know them, offering a polite greeting and no comment, knowing that with time their pain would ease and they would find it within themselves to move on. And even though they were wracked with grief, seeing the groundskeeper lingering near the gates was usually enough of a hint, at which point they would bring their visit to an end.

  Somehow, in spite of the need to go home and shower off the grottiness of digging earth for half a day, Patrick didn’t feel he could take his usual subtle approach. Nadia’s passing was not recent; her grave was not new; yet here was this young man, kneeling at her feet, his eyes closed, hands resting in his lap, oblivious to the sun’s slide from the sky, the increasing briskness of the breeze, Patrick’s presence…

  “Hello there,” he said quietly, stopping on the path a few feet away. The man was too far into his own mind to startle. Instead, he slowly came to, his shoulders lifting slightly as he twisted to see what had disturbed his meditation. Patrick smiled and stepped a little closer. “I’m afraid we’re locking up for the evening.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s going on for seven o’clock, sir.”

  “Seven…” The man’s voice petered away, his expression indicating he had no idea how long he had been kneeling there. If he doubted Patrick’s word, the confirmation came when the man tried to stand, and staggered, numb-legged. He automatically reached out to steady himself, catching hold of the front of Patrick’s coveralls, and then almost collapsed again, unable to bear his own weight.

  Without a second thought, Patrick quickly grasped the man by the forearms to steady him. “There’s no rush now. You just take your time. All right?”

  The man nodded and swallowed hard. “Thank you. I only came to leave the tulips.” He gestured toward the vase of closed tulips in front of the grave and next to the red and white carnations.

  Patrick kept his hold on the man and looked down at the flowers. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “Really lovely.”

  “Thanks. Nadia loved flowers so much.” A glimmer of a happier time lit up the man’s features for just a second, before it was blotted out once more by the heavy cloud of sorrow.

  Patrick felt that sorrow in his heart. He wanted to offer comfort, warmth, security, to soothe with his touch, his kiss… Oh my—no, no, Patrick. You’re way over the line. You’re standing at the grave of this man’s wife, and all you can think of is kissing him? But it wasn’t that sort of kiss he had in mind. It wasn’t about passion, or lust; just a desperate desire to take away the pain.

  The man seemed a little more steady on his feet and Patrick gently released him. “Okay now?”

  “I think so.” He took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Thank you for your patience. I’m sure you’re eager to go home. It can’t be fun working here.”

  Patrick shrugged and smiled. “I love my job. Fresh air, peace and quiet—”

  “But it’s a cemetery.”

  “Well, yeah,” Patrick said, the slightest hint of a chuckle in his words. It was enough to prompt the other man to lift his head. For the first time, his eyes met Patrick’s, and something blossomed inside, a heat radiating from somewhere he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It rose up through his chest, into his throat, filling his mouth and his nose, as he gazed into those incredible steel-gray eyes. There was so much pain there, and loss—anger—and yet there was more, so much more, that Patrick could almost hear the emotion, like a distant cry for help from someone who was drowning.

  Drowning, yes.

  This man was being sucked under the surface of his grief and he was ready to give up. It was his final struggle and Patrick was in danger of being pulled under too. He resurfaced and took a step away.

  “Sorry. Daydreaming,” he blustered and averted his eyes, aware of the heat now coming straight from his cheeks, and, being a redhead, boy, did he blush.

  “It’s…okay,” the man said uncertainly. “Are you all right?”

  “Err, yeah.” Patrick nodded and chanced a glance back at the man. “Yeah,” he repeated, this time sounding more like he meant
it. The last thing this poor man needed was the cemetery groundskeeper developing a crush on him. A crush. Ah, shit. “I sometimes get lost in my own thoughts, working here and everything. Not much company…” He stopped himself from saying, well, there is, but they’re never any trouble. That kind of black humor came with the job, and it was one thing to say it to the lads he worked with, but never to a grieving widower.

  “I’ll go now,” the man said. “And thanks again for your patience.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  As the man stepped off, Patrick fell in step beside him, and received a questioning frown.

  “I’ll walk with you to the gate,” Patrick explained. “I’m about to lock up.”

  “Ah. Okay. Yes.” They strolled on in silence for a few seconds. “Have you worked here a long time?”

  “A few weeks. I transferred here from Craven Hill Cemetery. I’ve been in the job for almost six years. I did an apprenticeship first.”

  “Really? You don’t hear about apprenticeships much. So does that mean you’ve had this job since school?”

  “More or less. How about yourself? What do you do?”

  “Right now I’m just kind of looking after my apartment building. I took a break from med school when Nadia…” He half-glanced over his shoulder and sighed heavily. “So now I check through the mail, and if any of the tenants have a problem, I fix things or call in the serviceman. Stuff like that.”

  “Okay. That makes sense. So, this is you.” They had arrived at the gate and Patrick stepped aside to allow the man to pass through to the road beyond. And there again was that pause, waiting for one of them to say something. Patrick sensed it was his turn, but for the first time in his life he couldn’t find the words.

  The man turned back and attempted a smile. “Thanks, again.”

  Patrick nodded and raised his hand, watching the man walk away, back to his car. Oh, come on, Paddy, say something to the fella. You can’t just let him walk away. Can you? “By the way, the name’s Patrick, for next time.” He grimaced at how terribly obvious that sounded.

  The man looked back again and this time the smile was just that bit stronger. “Hey, Patrick. I’m Aidan. For next time.”

  Patrick laughed at himself and shook his head. He locked up and watched through the gate as Aidan drove away.

  “Well, Aidan, it’s a pleasure to have made your acquaintance today.”

  Chapter Five:

  More of the Same

  Harry Howard nodded as Aidan came up the tree-lined walk toward The Grand Heights Luxury Apartments. The old doorman’s face was set, his eyes alert and ready for any who might approach, but he kept his smile tucked away. His friendliest service was reserved for the well-to-do apartment owners. When they weren’t around, Harry was like an automaton whose key had not been fully wound. He only managed the most basic movements.

  “Evening,” Aidan said politely to Harry, expecting—and receiving—a chuff in response. It was their script, performed nightly, and it was a miracle the man pulled the door back for him at all. Someone had wound the key just enough tonight, Aidan supposed.

  The lobby was brightly lit when he entered. The teardrop pendant lights suspended from the ceiling cast the whole space in a rich orange. There was no one in the wide-open space or lounging in the plush chairs near the obscenely large television. The lounge was used most often in the morning and after the dinner hour.

  Probably hearing the door, Jill, The Grand Heights’ concierge, appeared from her office and walked quickly past Aidan, scooping that morning’s paper off the table as she went. She tossed back her blonde head and cast him a where the hell have you been? look. “Mr. Miller called for his mail three times in the last hour, there’s a leaky showerhead in 307B, and Miss Jenner has written a formal complaint about Bryan. He’s your friend, deal with him or he’s out.”

  Aidan didn’t think the college kid that had the unfortunate luck of living above Miss Jenner was actually his friend. It was only that when things got really bad in Aidan’s head, and all he could think about was how unfair it was that Nadia was gone, he found it easier to visit Bryan and help him study for exams than sit in his tiny efficiency apartment behind the stairs and think about his twin.

  But he wasn’t about to argue with fire-eyed Jill. She was hard as steel when she wanted to be, though brilliant at her job. There was nobody on the planet who could make a reservation at Berringer’s happen at the last minute, or mysteriously acquire front-row seats to the hottest events in town, except for Jill. She was included in the price of rent, and without Jill, residency at The Grand Heights wouldn’t be worth quite as much.

  “You said you wanted to work nights on Thursday,” Jill reminded him with a well-manicured hand on her hip. “That means actually being here, in the lobby, ready to get on with it at seven.”

  “I’m sorry, Jill. I was visiting…someone.”

  For a single moment, it wasn’t Nadia’s cold marble marker, covered in too-cheerful flowers that Aidan remembered. Strangely, it was the gravedigger, Patrick, who hadn’t let him fall when his legs gave out. What kind of accent was that? English? Or Irish? Probably Irish. He’d never been good at understanding accents—but Patrick’s was melodic. And he’d been kind. And—

  “I don’t care if you were having coffee with the president,” Jill said. “I need you to do your job or you and Bryan will be looking for a new place to live together.”

  “Okay,” Aidan said quietly. “Can I just go put my stuff down in my room?”

  “Hurry. I’ll get the fire going.”

  “No, I’ll do it—just give me a second.”

  “A second,” she agreed. “You know Ms. Ashmore is going to come down here and want to sit in front of the fire.”

  Oh God. He’d actually let himself forget. How, he didn’t know, though Patrick’s face came to mind once again.

  He could actually imagine his ex-therapist telling him he was repressing the event. After all, he’d almost completely put it out of his head until yesterday, when she’d invited him up to her room again. He’d been delivering mail to the residents and he’d seen her. At first it was almost like he hadn’t recognized her face.

  “Aidan.” Ms. Ashmore had smiled at him from the stairwell and his heart seized in his chest. An idiotic piece of his brain had honestly believed they wouldn’t run into each other again, because…well, she’d been away vacationing since it happened. A summer in Greece, he thought he remembered Jill saying. But it was more than that. It was as if he’d tried to convince himself lonely older women who paid for male companionship simply vanished after the first encounter.

  “Good evening,” he’d said with the best smile he could manage. She was dressed in a smart peach-colored suit and pearls, but it was what was underneath the suit that assaulted him. Pale, powdered skin, hard nipples, the “come and get me” smile she’d worn that night. She was attractive, he just wasn’t…attracted. But he’d done it. Fuck. Why had he done it? Too much wine and so much that was unanswered. God, he hadn’t wanted it—why hadn’t he said no just a little louder?

  And now he couldn’t imagine her in anything but that smile and it was horrible. He hated himself for what he’d done that night. He hated that he hadn’t given her the money back.

  “Any packages for me?” she’d asked when last they met. She’d stared at him then, smiling coyly.

  “No.” Too brusque. He still had to remember his place as the building’s handyman and jack-of-all-trades.

  “All right then.” For a moment her gaze had just lingered on him and then she slowly turned and headed back upstairs. No invitation, no mention of that horrible night. Was that it? Were they done? Aidan released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and had almost completely relaxed when she said, “You know if you ever want to join me again for a drink, all you have to do is knock.”

  It wasn’t over. It was never over. And tonight she would come down to sit in front of the fire in the lobby. And Aidan st
ill had that money.

  <<< >>>

  Aidan tossed his jacket over the back of the armchair as he walked into his apartment. A flick of the switch flooded the small space with bright fluorescent light. It wasn’t much to look at with its laminate flooring and kitchen/living room/bedroom all rolled into one, but he had his own shower, and more than that, it was home. Plus, there was the fact that said home didn’t even come out of his paycheck.

  He wondered if he had time to check his emails, decided Jill would murder him right there in the lobby if he wasted any more time, and went instead to quickly wash his hands and face.

  It might have been a mistake.

  After he’d lifted his head from the sink, water dripping from his eyelashes, nose, and chin, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. For a moment he was so startled he jerked back. Who the hell was looking at him? It wasn’t Aidan Degas. It was a haunted stranger with dull gray eyes and deep circles beneath them. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, and such…unhappiness. Except when Aidan reached out, the stranger’s hand moved as well, so that their fingertips touched at the glass.

  He looked away. What had he done to his face? What had he done to the face he shared with his sister?

  A sharp rap on his door told him he’d taken more than the “second” he’d promised Jill, and he was being summoned to tend to the fire. He quickly dried his face and walked the ten whole steps across his cramped apartment, apology on his lips.

  Except it wasn’t Jill at his door at all.

  It wasn’t often that tenants visited his room. Most didn’t even know about the space behind the stairs, which suited the owner of the building—and Aidan—just fine. But there were a couple, so desperate for quick fixes (or more often, service now, screw the line of people in front of me!) that they sought him out.

  Mrs. Kimiko Wright was one of those people. Japanese-born, Mrs. Wright had married a businessman when she was young and immigrated to the United States with her husband. She spoke flawless English and had assimilated nicely into the midtown culture of expensive everything. Her haircut, her nails, her shoes, her purses, even the two Maltese show dogs she usually carried around with her, all reeked of the money her husband made. Mrs. Wright was a snapper. Aidan imagined even if she said please she would have snap-snapped her fingers at him afterward.