The Red Strokes - Chapter 9

Chapter 9 of my latest release, 'The Red Strokes', available on Amazon.

CHAPTER NINE

 

 

I begin hearing Val and Michelle stir about the time I try on my fourth outfit. Val was never one to put much thought into what she wore and Mia always put too much thought into her appearance. I give my appearance just enough thought to realize that everything I own loses its appeal somewhere between the hanger and my body. I practically tear my closet apart in search of every black piece of clothing I own, but not for the obvious reason. Now that everyone knows of my father’s passing there is sure to be a photographer or two looming among the fans outside the gates of the cemetery and even I know that the ten pounds the camera puts on, only looks like five in black.

* * *

It has rained every day since my father died, making my trek through the cemetery as difficult as riding a bicycle through sand. But as hard as it is, pushing past the huge crowd that has swarmed the main entrance is worse. Only now do I fully understand my father’s wish to keep his funeral quiet.

I seem to be the first of my family to arrive. While I wait, I lose myself in the conversations that swirl around me. ‘I hear he had an autobiography in the works’, spoken by a small man with Benjamin Franklin spectacles. A well-dressed man and his wife argue about the exact number of books my father had written and which was his best, while a woman with hardened features and too tight clothing looks from her watch to the gate every minute or so.

In an attempt to keep my emotions in check I watch the people who are wandering between the gray stones that stand like dominoes, erect and in perfect rows for as far as the eye can see. I can’t say that I know many of my father’s friends. Most of them are either peers or colleagues, erudite types that prefer the company of words and scotch to people. One man in particular catches my attention. His dress is ordinary enough, black trousers with a pressed pleat, a white dress shirt, and gray tie. But there is something about him that makes him look decidedly English. I study him a little longer and realize that he is the only man in view wearing a Bowler. Although I’m not sure that that alone would indicate British, along with the pearl-handled cane he holds off the ground, halfway up its shaft makes him look like a spectator at a polo match. As I watch, I notice that people are stopping in front of him, some to shake his hand and others to lean in and speak directly into his ear. After a brief exchange, they move on only to be replaced with another single person or couple who repeat the interaction. The scene looks like a condolence line, a stream of mourners paying their respects. Even more bizarre, he seems to be watching me although he’s too far away to see his eyes clearly. Like one of those creepy paintings found in old castles and horror movies, his eyes seem to follow me as I walk toward the casket.

Val and Michelle startle me from behind. Happy to have a diversion I ask the first random thought that comes to mind, “Where did you park?”

“The back gate. If I had known we were going to have to wade through mud I would have taken on the crowd out front. Where’s Doriah?” Val asks.

“Still with Bryan.” I look to their shoes, which true to Val’s word are covered in mud. “I didn’t know there was a back entrance, but trust me, pushing through the crowd was no picnic either.”

Val surveys the mob that didn’t make the guest list. “I do my best to avoid this type of thing and here these people are plastered against the gate as if it were the social event of the summer.”

“You do your best to avoid all types of things, but especially the unpleasant.”

We turn in unison to find Mia standing with an arm linked through Roger’s, Rowan and Stevie standing off to the side. Playing the part of the grieving daughter to a tearful audience, Mia sports a black pencil skirt and waist-hugging jacket with a wide-brimmed hat, the only contrast to the outfit being a string of pearls draped around her neck and a white, silk hanky to accentuate her grief, I’m sure.

“Hey kiddo.” Val reaches out to touch Rowan’s arm. “Don’t you look nice? And Stevie, you’ve gotten at least three inches taller since I last saw you.” The boys offer limp smiles and Val turns her attention to Mia. “How did you get from your car here without getting mud on your shoes? Did you make Roger carry you?”

“Your levity is ill-timed sister dear.” Although Mia’s word choice shows sarcasm, her tone is surprisingly even.

“Speaking of ill-timed, you wouldn’t happen to know who tipped off the media would you?” Val asks.

“I can’t say that I do, but I’m certainly not upset by the fact. This is the way it should have been from the start.”

Val opens her mouth, but before a word makes its way out Michelle grabs hold of her hand, and says, “Father Reams just arrived. Maybe we should join him now.”

I take a deep breath and head toward the group that is slowly encircling the casket hoping my sisters will follow behind silently. As much as I love them and look forward to their visits, today I find myself reminded of why I’m thankful that I rarely have to see them at the same time.

As I approach the casket, I spot Bryan and Doriah on the other side and motion with a four-finger wave. The gathering of people parts like the Red Sea offering my sisters and me a place next to the elderly priest. All eyes seems to be on us, some filled with tears, others offering short, sympathetic stares.

Off to the right, I spot a young girl of no more than nineteen looking on. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her in the distance if it weren’t for her brightly colored flower-print dress and white cardigan sweater that stand out against a sea of black and gray. Too young to be one of my father’s friends and out-of-place among his colleagues I assume that she’s a fan who managed to sneak through the gate with one of the invited guests. Since she’s not causing any harm or even trying to mingle with the others, I decide to ignore her presence. I’m not sure if it’s her rigid posture or her unblinking stare, but something keeps drawing my attention back to the young woman even once Father Reams addresses the gathering.

Surprisingly, few tears fall during the priest’s heartfelt words. Although sadness hangs in the air, my father’s many friends seem to find solace in having known him rather than sadness in having lost him. If I’m honest, that sums up my feelings, too. I’m sure I’ll pick up the phone more than a time or two wanting to share news with him or ask him for his opinion about one thing or another, but I’ll catch myself and swallow the lump that forms in my throat when the realization hits. For me the time for tears passed about the same time he finished his last chemo treatment without any signs of improvement. I think I began the grieving process before he died and am slowly learning to accept what couldn’t be changed, as I know he did.

Just as Father Reams blesses the casket, I feel the first drops of rain unleashed by the blackened sky. Several of the women begin inching their way toward the gate, heads down in an attempt to shield their makeup from ruin.

“Michelle and I were going to come back to the house before heading home, if you’re going to be there,” Val says.

For a reason I can’t explain, my attention is drawn back to where the young girl stood alone, but she’s gone. I search the crowd that is now moving toward the gate at a faster pace in a futile attempt to beat the rain. I spot her just as she slides into the driver’s seat of a blue Ford.

“Lilah, are you going home when you leave here?”

I watch the car slip into the line of traffic heading toward the exit. “Yes.”

“Who are you looking for,” Val asks.

“No one,” I reply, as the car disappears. “I see Doriah and Bryan talking to Father Reams; I’m going to go over and see if she’s coming home with me or staying with her dad.” I notice Mia and her family moving closer to the casket, and say to Val, “I’ll be right behind you.”

Val rests a hand on my shoulder. “Listen; don’t get into it with her. Media or no media, it’s over. She’s not worth it.”

I appease her with a nod, wave her off, and head in Mia’s direction. I watch as Rowan and Stevie remove their boutonnieres and lay them on top of the many flowers left by friends and family. Once they step aside, Mia removes her corsage, kisses it, and lays it on top of the boutonnieres, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with her hanky, which she then lays with the corsage. She slips one arm through Roger’s and rests her free hand on Stevie’s shoulder before looking past the few people who remain. She holds that pose while flashes from the other side of the gate burst like fireworks and then, one-by-one, Mia and her family turn and head toward me. I’m certain she knows that more than one reporter is hovering at the gate, each with a telephoto lens just waiting for what our father always called the money shot, the one that will make the front page of all of the syndicated newspapers and the covers of at least three or four national magazines under the headline ‘Best-selling author, Thomas Fahning, dies at 73’. And there is no one who recognizes the value of a money shot better than Mia does.

People battle the mud as they race to their cars. I feel like the tortoise among hares. The cemetery is clearing out so fast that no matter how soaked I get or how much my mascara runs, within a few minutes there won’t be anyone left to see it.

I finally reach the cement sidewalk just outside the main gate, the first solid footing I’ve had since I arrived. There are only a few cars left in the parking lot and even fewer on the streets. I don’t see Bryan’s car and assume that he has taken Doriah back to the house. I’m just about to slide into my car when I look up and see the Englishman standing alongside his car. He isn’t attempting to get into it; he just stands facing me, his cane held waist-high in front of him. I’m frozen, one leg in the car and one leg out, the rain coming in what now feels like shards of glass. Beating my decision to approach him by only a second, he flicks two fingers against the brim of his hat and disappears inside his car. I watch his brake lights glow and then dim as he pulls away. I’m left with a handful of strangers, most of whom are huddled underneath umbrellas while talking to others.

Once in my car I don’t immediately start the engine. I look past the iron fence where fans have erected a flower memorial in my father’s honor. It seems silly the way people show their respect. Among the many bouquets and wreaths are cards, the words inked on their envelopes rain-smudged beyond recognition. Others left books. Copies of my father’s books. I admit I’m clueless when it comes to the proper way to memorialize a deceased idol, but something tells me that leaving cards and used copies of his books in the pouring rain for someone else to have to shovel away at a later time isn’t the way.

Past the gates, beyond the stragglers and the makeshift shrine are a few men, cemetery employees who are working to close off my father’s grave faster than the ground can soak up the rain. That’s it. In an instant. He was here, larger than life and even after he was gone in a worldly presence, he was here with us spiritually, summoning those who knew and loved him to share in his last appearance. And while I watch the men gather their equipment and leave the spot where Thomas Fahning’s final audience stood, I realize that somewhere among the emptiness that fills the space between the soggy earth and the burnt sky, there is a red stroke.