Next thing I know, a nice warm body’s crawling into bed with me. I don’t ask her where she’s been or why she didn’t call, and I certainly don’t protest when she wiggles into my arms, licks the side of my neck, and goes for my fly. Then she licks my busted chin, sending sharp pain through my jaw.
“Ow, dammit,” I mumble. Too drunk to work up more of a protest, plus she’s doing a good job of distracting me from the pain. Still, she continues to lap at it, probing her tongue into the cut. “Damn, girl. You are all kinds of kinky, aren’t you, sweet pea?”
She laughs low and quiet. For a second, I’m pulled out of my drunken haze. It only lasts long enough for me to register that there’s something more aggressive about Heather tonight before I give in and let her do what she wants. She buries her face between my legs and I swear this is the best drunk blow job I’ve ever gotten, even though she doesn’t let me finish. In the dark, I see the outline of her slim figure loom above me as she straddles my hips and sinks down onto me. A bright light dances in front of my eyes. Pretty sure I pass out as soon as I come.
Chapter Thirteen
In the morning, I reach for Heather and find her hovering on the edge of the bed.
“The sun, it hurts,” I mumble, and throw an arm over my eyes while the other one runs the length of her body. “Why are you dressed already?”
“Hmm? I never got undressed from last night. Sorry I got back so late. Looks like I missed a good time.”
“Huh?” Despite a dry mouth and fuzzy brain, I’m aware enough to know her words don’t add up.
“You reek of beer, and when I came in you were naked and spread-eagled on the bed. It was quite a sight.” She snickers and snuggles closer. “Do I even want to know how you cut your chin? Probably should have gotten stitches.”
“Excuse me.” I untangle myself from her arms and the sheets, bolt for the bathroom, and lean over the toilet just in time to empty my stomach. Dry heaves follow. When those subside, I take the longest piss of my life. Finally, I flush it all down and stand with both hands flat on the wall, trying to process what the fuck is going on.
“Let’s take a shower, big guy. We need to leave for the church in an hour,” she says.
“Right. Yeah. The funeral.”
I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth as she strips out of the same clothes she wore to the funeral home last night, and I know I should ask where she was, but my brain is still trying to make sense of our strange encounter. Maybe it was a drunken dream, or else she got dressed afterward and denied it happened to mess with my head. Not sure what her motive would be, but I wouldn’t put it past her to do something so odd. Maybe she really is crazy.
The water and her expert hands help clear the fog, but it’s replaced by a cloud of melancholy that threatens to overwhelm me. If I can just hold it together a little while longer, be strong for my family for another twenty-four hours, then I can fall apart on my own time.
“Isaac?”
“Hmm?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“So, you always stand in the shower for five minutes after the water’s turned off?”
“What? Oh.” She holds out a towel and I run it over my hair before wrapping it around my waist. “Guess I’m a little out of it this morning.”
“I noticed, but it’s understandable. I’m going to get dressed. You’ll be okay in here?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off. “Fine.” She tiptoes barefoot across the bathroom to kiss my cheek before heading toward the bedroom. Once she’s gone, I inspect the gash on my chin. There’ll be no hiding it at the funeral, and shaving around it is going to be a bitch. Might have to grow a beard to cover the scar. The razor shakes in my hand. I make a few tentative passes, but more than once it clatters into the sink.
I pull the accordion shaving mirror closer. “Get it together, Ike. Now is not the time.” Despite my best efforts, I nick myself in a few places, and each time I think of Heather probing my cut with her tongue and licking up the blood. It was like being seduced by a vampiress intent on delivering pain along with the pleasure she gave. I shiver, but relax when warm arms circle my waist from behind and Heather rests her cheek against my back.
“Your suit’s laid out on the bed. If you don’t like the tie, you can change it. I just need to dry my hair when you’re done in here. What did you do to your face? Good grief.” She plucks the razor from my hand, rinses it in the sink, and sits me down on the edge of the bathtub. “Do I need to keep sharp objects away from you?”
Unlike last night, she’s careful and tender with my face, skillfully finishing the shaving job I botched so badly. She runs a washcloth under warm water and pats my face and neck, while the deep groove between her eyes returns. I watch as she rummages through the cabinet near the door and retrieves a tube of something I didn’t realize I owned. She dabs it on my cuts, then applies a generous amount to my split chin.
“Don’t get this on your shirt. Just let it sit there until we go. Then we’ll wipe most of it off.”
“Yes, little mama,” I tell her. Instead of smiling, her frown deepens.
“You’re done. Go, I need the bathroom.” She lightly pushes me toward the door.
Just like she said, my best suit is on the bed. It’s charcoal gray, and she’s paired it with a lighter gray shirt and matching striped tie and handkerchief. She even picked out my black leather dress belt. Only thing she overlooked are my daddy’s monogrammed cuff links, which I locate in the top drawer of my dresser. I turn them over in my hand, studying the ALB engraved in the platinum. Aside from my memories and genetics, these are pretty much all I have left of my daddy. I hope Uncle Robert doesn’t fade away as easily.
The hair dryer shuts off and the house is bathed in silence. Heather steps into the doorway looking immaculate in a tight black dress with black lace sleeves. Her now-dry hair is pinned into a low chignon and in her hand is a gray-and-black hat. Inside my chest, my heart completes a full somersault. She pads over to the bed, holds out her hand, and I deposit the cufflinks in her palm. First she fastens the left, then the right. She slides my tie until it’s even and straightens the knot.
I listen to what she says with her actions, absorb the strength and support she offers. When she holds out her hand, I take a page out of Dave’s book and kiss the top, but instead of letting go, I hold it to my lips before flattening her palm against my cheek and leaning into it.
“Oh, Isaac,” she whispers.
Together we make our way downstairs. Since I’ll be riding in the hearse, she drives us to the church. The leaves on the live oaks wave us through the traffic lights, while school busses lumber along in the slow lane. The world continues despite the heaviness weighing me down. Today will be the first time I’ve been inside Chamberlain Episcopalian Church since I was let go as its organist and music director, the result of the fiasco with Julianne. Uncle Robert wanted to shepherd me back into its flock—and he succeeded, just not in the way he’d planned.
Even though we’re an hour early, half the parking lot is already filled. Heather pulls in next to the minister’s car and turns off the ignition. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this,” I tell her.
In the narthex, a group of old women surround Mama, patting her shoulder and offering their condolences. In the corner near the doors to the sanctuary is Uncle Robert in his casket, surrounded by the flowers from the funeral home. Standing directly in front of him is little Jayne, her shoulders slumped in her long black dress, while adults pass her by like she’s invisible.
“Wish I could be a pallbearer,” she says when I nudge her.
“Why’s that?”
She shrugs. “You get to do something instead of standing around being sad.”
“You know what?” I do a quick count in my head. “We need one more person. You ask your mama if it’s okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She darts between bodies until I lose h
er in the crowd.
“You’re very good with her,” Heather says. “You seem to have a special bond.”
“She’s just like me,” I tell her. “Restless. Quiet. Feels things deeply. She’s mighty good on the piano, too. Uncle Robert was giving her lessons until his stroke, then I took over for a bit, but my sister sent me away when all the crap with Juli hit the fan.”
“Speaking of…” She trails off.
This time when I see her, my pulse barely speeds up. Okay, maybe a little, but nothing like the avalanche of feeling that plowed me under when I saw her in Uncle Robert’s parlor that day. Amazing that things can change so much in a short time.
Actually, she kind of looks like hell compared to last time I saw her. She’s sallow again and her eyes are red, I assume from crying. Dave’s arm rests protectively around her waist, worry lines etched at the corners of his eyes. Behind them is Conrad pulling at his collar and looking like Ichabod Crane, all arms and legs and unruly dark hair accented by a rather prominent nose. They make quite a trio, and a bit of a commotion as they make their way over.
Dave dips his chin in a nod before surprising me with a hug. He swipes at his nose and steps back, takes Juli’s hand, and gently leads her over to the casket. I move away to give them some privacy. I can only imagine how tough this is on her, considering all she’s been through the past few months and how close she was with Uncle Robert. In many ways, she’s mourning a father figure as well. Despite everything that went down and all the damage we caused each other, we’ll always have his positive influence linking us.
I shake Conrad’s hand as we both try to ignore the open sobbing Julianne is unable to stifle. “You, uh, sleep well?”
Conrad nods. “For the most part.”
“You at the Casquettes’ too?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for coming, man.”
“No prob–” He’s cut short by Juli’s loud keening sound. We both glance over, then back at each other, neither of us sure how to handle the situation. Let Dave take care of it, or step in to offer support? When I see her rifle through her purse and come up empty-handed, I can’t keep my inner gentleman from peeking out. It’s what Uncle Robert would have expected of me, so I pull the handkerchief from my suit coat pocket and hand it to her. She takes it without making a big deal, while I note with just a touch of satisfaction that Dave is kicking himself for not having thought ahead.
Conrad snickers, but I shoot him a look and he puts a lid on it. “Let’s be adults, shall we?”
“Whatever you say, man,” he replies. “You okay?”
“Yeah, hanging in there. Hasn’t really hit home, you know? Been too busy with everything going on.”
“Oh, I can see you’ve been busy,” he says, and nods toward Heather, who’s chatting with our old Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Green. She seems to have recovered from last night’s fiasco, but I’d bet my baby grand she’s drilling Heather for information on her mama’s antics.
“Behave, Conrad.”
He holds out his palms in feigned innocence. Then I watch in horror as he quickly makes a V with this pointer and middle fingers, brings it to his mouth and sticks his tongue in between, all the while surrounded by old ladies in pearls and hats. God, I’ve missed him.
“What, are we eighteen again?” I can’t hide the smile on my face.
“Just keeping you real, Ike.” He winks and wanders off. I notice he pulls Jayne’s ponytail as he passes, and she giggles. I shake my head and pray that when she gets older, Jayne never runs into the likes of my friends.
Dave shrugs when he guides Juli toward the sanctuary to find a seat. Hope he’s able to leave her to do pallbearer duties. I jerk my head toward the section reserved for family and he nods. I look around for Heather and she’s still deep in conversation with Mrs. Green, or appears to be, so I find Mama.
“Morning, Mama. You look great.”
“Thanks, dear,” she says, but her eyes dart all over the room. She doesn’t even see me.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine, fine. I think we’re missing a flower arrangement from the people at the Music Teachers Association, but I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Dotson to walk off with it.”
“Not a big deal, Mama. Wouldn’t Uncle Robert be pleased with how many people are here?”
“Yes, you’re right. That’s what matters, not some silly flowers. It’s just…I want everything to be right for him. I want–” Next thing I know, she’s boo-hooing too. I already gave away my handkerchief, so I put my arm around her shoulders and kiss the top of her head.
Mr. Dotson scurries over, thankfully diverting Mama’s attention. “We’re about to begin, which means we’ll be closing the casket before wheeling it in. Now would be a good time for the family to say goodbye.” His words are heavy, but I can’t stop staring at the nicotine stains on his teeth and the permanent cloud that follows him. Guess it’s better than formaldehyde and embalming fluid.
My sisters suddenly appear out of the crowd and flank me and Mama as we make our way over to Uncle Robert. The music has already begun in the sanctuary—no idea who the new organist is—so the other mourners take their cues and find seats. I spot Heather near the back sitting by herself, flipping through the bulletin.
The entire room falls silent when Mama approaches the casket. She lays her hands on Uncle Robert’s and smiles down at him with a fondness only a sibling can provide. I think of their squabbles and inside jokes, decades-old memories and undeniable shared family traits. My first official piano lesson springs to mind, when I was three and couldn’t reach the pedals, but my unusually long fingers—a Cline hallmark—were a source of pride for him. Within a half hour he’d taught me proper hand and elbow position, fingerings, and a simple one-octave C Major scale. All I knew was I had his full attention and I could do something my sisters had attempted and failed.
Mama kisses the tips of her fingers and places them on his lips. My sisters lose it. First Christie, then Tiffany, each turning to their husbands, who step up and comfort their wives in a way that years of companionship and intimacy have taught them. I’m envious. I’d love to know someone that well and have them know me in return, have them know exactly what I need at any given moment.
And it hits me. Of all the places and times, it hits me in front of my uncle’s casket, just before they lower the lid, that I already have half of that wish and she’s sitting in the last row of the church. It’s up to me to make sure the second half is fulfilled. It’s up to me to step up like my brothers-in-law. I vow right here and now in this house of God that I’ll match Heather’s amazing gift with my own. If I should be so lucky, I’ll pledge it to her at the front of this church on a much happier occasion.
Until then, I make it my mission to comfort Mama as she moves aside to make room for the rest of the family. I hold out my arm and she takes it. Together we walk through the open doors to the sanctuary to take our places with the family, but as we pass the last pew I pause, hold out my hand, and pull Heather into the aisle with us. Her eyes get big, but she links her arm with my offered one, and with two of my best girls flanking me, we walk to the front of the church to celebrate the life of the best man I ever knew.
I pray nothing happens to ruin it.
Chapter Fourteen
Because Uncle Robert had most of his funeral planned out, I know very little about what’s supposed to happen. I do know, however, that he’d be turning over if he could hear the piano soloist. The sanctuary is filled with some of the most prestigious musicians in the South, yet the yahoo at the bench insists on torturing us with his mediocre attempts. I open the bulletin and sigh with relief when I see the names of some of the guests who will be playing in tribute to him today…but there’s one missing. Mine. Guess it didn’t occur to me before now, but what kind of grateful nephew would I be if I didn’t play as well?
Pastor Landry surveys the packed pews and welcomes us to the celebration. His first duty is an official reading of Uncle
Robert’s obituary, which I forgot to look up in the newspaper or online.
He clears his throat, tugs on his collar and swipes away a drop of sweat as it trickles down the side of his face. “Robert Charles Cline, sixty-five, of Mobile, Alabama passed away April 30, 2012. He married the love of his life, Angela Carter Cline”—next to me, Heather gasps—“on May 28, 1970. Together, they spread their love of music to all they touched.” I don’t hear the rest of the reading because Heather is staring straight ahead with her eyes wide open, lips moving but no sound coming out.
“Everything okay?” I whisper. She nods a little too quickly. “You sure?”
She gives me a small smile. “I’ll tell you later,” she says.
I have no idea what her deal is, or why hearing my uncle’s obituary would cause her distress. Her foot jiggles, shaking the pew. I place a hand on her knee and she stops, but instead of letting go, I keep my hand where it is and gently rub my thumb over the sensitive skin on the back. She blushes. I smile, knowing I’ve managed to distract her from whatever’s bothering her, at least for the moment.
Next, my brothers-in-law read Scriptures, followed by a solo from a music professor at the University of Mobile who studied under Uncle Robert. That’s followed by a guest organist and a soprano who sings “Be Still, My Soul,” his favorite hymn. Across the aisle, Juli loses it again. As the chorus soars, I realize why—it’s based on one of Sibelius’s most famous compositions. In addition to Rachmaninoff and Mozart, guess whose stuff she played for her New England Conservatory audition?
Christ, I’m sick of crying women.
When the music winds down, it’s my turn. I still have no idea what I’m going to say, but I’m confident I know how to give him a proper goodbye. Several hundred pairs of eyes pierce my back as I lumber up to the lectern, adjust the microphone, and shift from one foot to the other. Despite the packed house, the central air kicking on is the only sound as I, the town misfit, stand in front of my accusers for the first time since the debacle with Juli. These are the people who cast stones at me from their lofty glass houses, but these are also the people who loved my uncle, and for that reason only, I clear my throat and begin.
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