The House of Good Intentions | Chapter VII
Title: The House of Good Intentions
Author: lemon_bar
Chapter VII:
Word Count: 7,020
Chapter VII:
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Joan does not make lists. She doesn't need them. What has to be done is always quite plain to her and she moves through each thing systematically and methodically. Her memory isn't such that she ever forgets or loses track.
She hits the ground running. The moment she walks through her own front door she takes one look around and then picks up the phone. The Goodwill isn’t answering.
Cursing, she hangs up and then calls back a minute later. The same message plays. This time she actually listens to it, glancing at the clock in irritation only to realize that, of course, they're not open yet. Nor should they be.
Briefly, Joan contemplates going to bed but she's not tired and really, she'd prefer to wash the sheets first. Jack had spent the majority of his last few days in that bed. It doesn't feel like a space for the living anymore.
Pulling open the curtains in the master bedroom she finds herself once again surprised by the lack of sunlight, is reminded that it is still very early morning, that there is no reason why it should be bright. She opens the window, lets the bracing winter air spill in and chase away the stale scent hanging in the room. She strips the bed and the pillows and empties the laundry hamper, and then stuffs everything haphazardly into the wash, pouring in the detergent. It takes all of ten minutes and then she's back in the front hall.
She can't make any arrangements because everywhere is closed. Jack boxed most everything up already, trying to make things easier she supposes, though standing in her hallway with nothing to do, she certainly isn't going to thank him for it. Not that she can, now…
Joan pours herself a glass of gin, takes a moment and then realizes that she no longer has to hide her liquor behind the cereal boxes. If she wants, she can put it in the liquor cabinet where it has always belonged and not have to worry that it will be gone the next time she goes to get a glass. There is no one here to drink it but her.
She marches her bottle of gin to the cabinet, sets it proudly down on the shelf and then locks the door. Through the glass of the cabinet she sees the tall clear bottle of gin surrounded by the murky, stout brown bottles of whiskey. It looks as if the gin is about to be ambushed.
She stands there staring for a moment, and then hurriedly unlocks the cabinet again, saving the gin from an undoubtedly grizzly fate and carrying it to the coffee table, where she places it beside her glass.
She picks up her phone again. Dials. "Claire," she says. Joan knows it is a mistake to call the moment Claire takes a long shuddery breath and says, "Mommy?" but by then it's too late.
She manages to cut the call off after twenty minutes. Claire is still sobbing but Joan can't sit there and listen anymore. "I thought you should know," she says, followed by an abrupt farewell. She hangs up.
Sitting back on the couch, she sips her gin and watches the light creep into the room.
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The loft feels empty. Uninhabited, abandoned. The only thing missing is Justin and Brian thinks that the blond has truly gone, now. He suspects that he should feel something about that: disappointed, bereft. Brian doesn't feel a thing.
At the hospital he had felt regret, turmoil, loss. He'd waited outside while his mom spent some time in the with his dad, though why she wanted to sit beside a corpse was something he didn't understand. Maybe she was in there trying to avoid the paperwork. Still, she seemed a little more settled when she had come out, not that she had said anything.
He'd driven her home and she had hesitated, sitting in the front passenger seat of his Jeep with the door open. "There is a lot that needs to be arranged."
Brian had nodded. "I'll take care of it." He has no idea why he said that.
It's early morning and there isn't much light filtering through the loft windows. Inside, the oven light has been left on, the blue fluorescents above the bed. He looks at his watch and realizes that yes, a few hours ago he'd been drinking at Woody's, wondering where Justin was. Thinking that the blond was likely avoiding him, that they had things they should probably talk about.
He's tired. Exhausted bone-deep, utterly spent, but when he climbs the steps to his bedroom he looks at his bed and all he can think about is Justin lying in it, his wings draped across the sheets, or sitting up and sketching, or dropping his head back into the pillows and saying "Okay" and that deep, surprised gasping sound he made when Brian had pushed into his body.
Abruptly, Brian turns and walks back down the steps. He pours himself a glass of Beam and thinks about the things that have to be done. Tries to decide what order he should set about doing it. For all that his mother seems to be expecting him to take care of things, she hasn't told him what exactly he should be doing. He doesn't even know if his dad wanted to be buried or cremated.
A part of him tries to offer justification: Jack just died. It doesn't seem like a good enough excuse. After all, these things need to be done. Putting it off doesn't accomplish anything. He waits until a suitable hour and then phones into work, explains the situation. The sympathy and condolences are entirely unwanted. It makes him feel as if he is somehow lacking, makes him feel guilty, like he should feel more upset than he is.
Brian is perfectly calm, he's not hurt or grieving, he's not distraught. He accepts the time-off gratefully, though. He has no idea what timetable his mother has in mind for this.
The next thing that occurs to him is that someone should probably let Claire know. After he ends the call with work, though, he realizes that his phone somehow got switched to silent, and he missed a few calls. When he checks the numbers of the missed calls they're all from his sister. There's a voice message from Claire that he doesn't listen to. One glance at the time the message was left makes him certain that Joan must have taken care of that particular notification.
Closing his phone, Brian has a hot shower, brushes his teeth, and then changes clothes. He shaves, staring at his reflection in the mirror, the circles under his eyes, something haunted in his expression that no false smile can mask. It's bone deep. Maybe a permanent part of him now.
When he's done he empties a miscellany of his fridge contents into his blender, takes one sip of the concoction and calls it breakfast, then he grabs his keys and heads out. Halfway to his mother's house, formerly his parents' house, Brian realizes that he probably could have used a coffee. That maybe he shouldn't be behind a wheel right now, but he's not worried enough to pull over.
He parks the Jeep in the driveway, takes a moment to sort through what he needs from the house in his head, the questions he needs his mother to answer. He promises himself he will be in and then out, as quickly as possible.
Joan answers the door with a cagey look, like she expects a vacuum salesman or a bunch of girl scouts to try and trap her into a purchase. Catch her when she's off-guard. Not that Brian's mother is ever off her guard. "Brian," she says, holding open the door and stepping back. "I've been trying to think of what passages to have the priest read, at the service."
Brian wasn't sure what to expect, had thought he was prepared for anything, but he is having trouble understanding his mother's statement. He says as much to her. "Well," she huffs, like it should be perfectly clear. "Obviously there will be a service. Your father might have skipped more Sunday masses than not, but he was Catholic. Is there a passage you want the priest to read?"
He stands there and tries to figure out if his mother is actually serious. When he realizes that she is, he shakes his head. "I don't care, mom."
She rolls her eyes. Apparently his response hasn’t surprised her in the slightest. "Well, why are you here?"
"I need pop's papers. Birth certificate, all of that. I've been in touch with the hospital already, the funeral home is going to pick him up today, but I need to know if you want him buried or cremated. I need to know what to tell them."
She frowns, like this hasn't occurred to her. "Buried. Don't you think?"
Brian really doesn't care, one way or another. Joan tells him where to find the paperwork he needs, and he goes to collect it. While he's rummaging through his father's desk his mother wanders in with a mug of coffee that she sets down for him. "I've been taking care of the notifications where I can," she says. "But it occurs to me that he should have an obituary. In the newspaper."
There is a small stack of papers that Brian is accumulating, papers he knows he will need, and some that he thinks he might need. He'd rather take everything now so he won't have to come back. "Probably."
"I've tried to come up with something…"
"I'll do it." He appropriates a folder filled with old receipts and fills it with the papers he needs and anything else he thinks might be useful. He tries not to think about how apparently his mother has been as eager to get things moving as he has been. Brian doesn't appreciate the similarity.
He sits at the kitchen table and writes his father's obituary with a ballpoint pen on a piece of lined paper, with his mom checking over his shoulder periodically as she prepares something for lunch. It's like high school all over again.
"Don't make it so long," she says, eying the paper. "Be concise."
"I'm summarizing the man's life, mom," he says. She raises her eyebrows in that way that perfectly and succinctly asks, 'and your point is?'
When Brian asks if she wants to take things slow, have some time for all of this to sink in a bit before they have the funeral, Joan shakes her head. "I don't like the idea of him just lying around like that, waiting to be buried."
As much as Brian endeavors to avoid his mother and her home, he finds himself there more often than not. She takes care of notifications, with the exception of Jack's friends: "They're foul-mouthed old goats and I won't talk to them. It would be preferable if they avoided the funeral altogether." She makes arrangements with the priest and the church, selects the readings and the psalms to be sung during the service.
In turn, Brian phones every one of his dad's foul-mouthed friends; writes the obituary and sends it out, makes arrangements with the funeral parlor and the cemetery; selects the suit in which his father will be buried. In the beginning, he tries consulting Claire but she invariably breaks down over the phone, inconsolable. Brian stops trying.
"You're not going to get anything else out of her," Joan says. "I've already tried."
"Yeah, well. She isn't the only one who lost a father," he says, though he isn't sure why. He's not grieving. He doesn't really feel a loss. Mostly he's pissed at the unfairness: that his sister can just throw up her hands and sob and leave everything to him.
Joan pats his shoulder, and then pours him a glass of gin. Her expression is flat, her eyes sharp. "Yes. Well. We're all very distraught." For some reason this makes Brian snicker into his glass. He's not certain, but he thinks he might see his mom actually crack a smile.
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On the morning of Jack's funeral, Joan showers and puts on her make-up. She dresses and goes downstairs and forgoes breakfast in favor of walking through the main floor of her home, which has already been re-arranged in preparation for the reception.
If it were left to her, there would be no reception. Nor would there be a visitation before the service. She is confident that, in her new black dress, she can stand very still and look appropriately somber during the church service, but she does not wish to speak to anyone and can't decide which will be worse: receiving condolences from people who barely knew Jack or felt fondly about him, or receiving condolences from people who were perfectly aware what a piece of work the man was. She doesn't want to be judged by anyone. She doesn't want her family to be judged. She wants everything to be perfect, because maybe that will shut everyone up. She wants there to be lots of food, because then maybe no one will start talking.
Briefly, she considers having Brian tell the guests that in her grief, she has taken a temporary vow of silence. It seems a little extreme so instead she pours herself a glass of bourbon. "Mother would be so proud," she says to the empty room, to the buffet table loaded with food. Everything is perfect.
The Funeral parlor feels a bit like a hotel, or a new home before it is fully settled: pristine wood floors, wide hallways, substanceless artwork of trees and lakes. The employees are dressed in crisp dark clothes, looking well pressed and vaguely attractive, sympathetic and pleasant at once, and they are more than happy to direct her to the large room where Jack is waiting.
Joan had gone with Brian to select the coffin. "I don't care what the man is buried in," she had said, meaning at once the coffin and the suit. It didn't matter. The suit and the coffin both would decompose. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Brian had looked at her blandly, and she had relented. The casket would, of course, be viewed and judged, just like everything else. They had selected a dark, shining black coffin with white silk. "It will be a closed casket visitation," she declared. "Anything else is just macabre."
Inside the room, Claire is already holding court. She and the boys have made large poster boards cluttered with photographs: Jack and the family at Christmas, Jack as a little boy, Jack and his parents. Jack and his baby daughter. Jack, Jack, Jack. "How thoughtful," Joan says. Claire gives her a hug, which Joan returns, but then Claire heaves a sob and collapses a little, and Joan pushes her back. "Please. Pull yourself together."
She goes up to the coffin and stands there, numb. While she is perfectly aware that this is a moment where she should say her final good-byes, Joan cannot think of a single thing to say. Instead, she begins working her way through the rosary. She is still praying when she settles down onto one of the wingback chairs.
People begin to stream in, the room filling up with faces. Brian's friend, Michael, brings her a cup of tea. He has put too much sugar into it. She holds it, relieved that it gives her hands something to do. She continues to recite the rosary.
People come and offer sympathy; some sit down in the chair across from her and share their memories of her husband before moving along. A few try and engage her in conversation, and are soon discouraged. Not even forty minutes in, Claire collapses into a chair and sobs uncontrollably. "What am I going to do?" she asks no one in particular. "Daddy, oh daddy!"
From across the room, Brian turns and looks at her. Joan raises her cup to her lips and takes a long sip.
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The decision to give Jack a Catholic burial is just about the best idea Brian thinks his mother has ever had. For one thing, it neatly cuts out the opportunity for a lot of people to stand at a podium and blubber on about his dad but still, by the time they make it to the cemetery he is worn thin. For one thing, Claire hasn't stopped crying.
Crowded around the coffin, snow just starting to fall around them, Brian amuses himself by watching his mother shoot irritated glances at his sister, who tries unsuccessfully to stifle her sobs. The atmosphere is oppressive: a swarm of black-clad figures, most of who are crying though none as loudly as Claire. Their small huddle is the only indication of life. Pressing, pressing, pressing, close around the rectangular slice in the earth.
Everything is black and white, and stifling. Brian breaks away, fumbling in his pocket until he finds the tissue inside which he has tucked a joint: sweet salvation.
He lights it as he picks up his pace, cutting away from the group, uncaring if his mother is frowning disapprovingly at his back, or if people are scandalized by his funeral etiquette. Fuck them. It's his dad's funeral; he can act however he damned well pleases.
"Hey," Michael says, catching up to him. He's tentative. He's been tentative and oozing sympathy since Brian told him that Jack was dead. It's been driving Brian slowly up the wall, but he appreciates that Michael is there, that all of his friends are there, so he doesn’t mention it.
"Hey, Mikey," he says, dismissive, only to be pulled to an abrupt halt by the hand that Michael is gripping his shoulder with. Those big brown kicked-puppy eyes are looking up at him. So fucking earnest, like Michael really understands.
Bullshit. No one understands. "Want some?" Brian pulls the joint from his mouth and holds it out.
"No." Michael looks disapproving but Brian is beyond caring. He takes another draw and worries in a generalized sort of way about how numb he's been feeling. Perfectly, exquisitely numb. He considers asking Michael if that's normal, if it's shock or something, but Brian figures that Michael will just worry and smother him more, and there's only so much of well-intentioned smothering that Brian can take.
It's the name that catches him at first because consciously or not, that name has been circling in his head consistently for days now. 'Justin'. He stares at that name, carved deep into the stone marker. For the first time Brian doesn't feel frozen.
But then his eyes drift down, find the little oval photograph inset at the heart of the marker: brilliant, wide smile, bright eyes. It's not just some person who happened to be named Justin. It's actually Justin's grave. An almost life-sized stone angel collapsed forward over the dark-onyx marker, sitting beneath the naked, outstretched branches of a snow-covered tree.
Brian pulls the joint from between his lips, lets it drop into the snow.
"Brian," Michael asks, his voice oddly distant, his tone urgent. "What? What is it?"
Brian worries that he might actually be sick in the cemetery. Might just curl over and vomit where he stands because he is suddenly nauseous. He remembers how Justin looked, standing in the hospital hallway, balanced on tiptoe so he could reach up and touch Brian's cheek: "It's going to be okay, Brian. No matter what happens, or how it feels. You're going to be okay."
Michael is talking but he's a thousand miles away. Brian hadn't believed Justin then, but he thinks maybe he does now. Maybe everything will be okay. Finally, finally it's all sinking in, everything he's done in the past few days, weeks. He's faced some of his deepest fears, and he's still here. He made it. It floods in like sweet salvation, so perfect and shiny and overflowing with possibility and fucking optimism.
Then, just as quickly, it floods right out of him. Because what's the point? Ultimately, everything's all the same, isn't it? He's still alone.
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Claire hasn't been able to catch her breath. For a brief moment when she woke up, she thought she might make it through the day. She gets the boys out of bed, feeds them, and then chases them back up the stairs: "Hurry up. We can't be late!" She makes it into her room and has a shower, and then loses track of everything.
Has she already put on makeup? No, she doesn't think she did, but when she goes over to the vanity her compact is open and maybe she just left it in disarray, or maybe she already put on her makeup. Glancing into the mirror she thinks: no, obviously no makeup.
But first, earrings. She picks a pair because they were her dad's favorite, starts crying as she puts them in, and has to rifle around to find a small packet of tissues. Good idea. She tucks some tissues into her purse.
Is she dressed? Her dress is lying on the bed. She pulls it on, and then spends a half hour trying to decide between two pairs of black pumps. She's put her make-up on, right? Is she forgetting anything?
"Mom, keys," John says, rolling his eyes at her.
She is pulling into the driveway of the funeral home when she realizes that she hasn't put on any makeup. "We have to go back home," she says. "I forgot something."
John scowls and rolls his eyes. "Jesus, mom. What happened to not being late?"
"You're right. Never mind."
At the parlor, people come up and complement her on the boards she made, all the photographs. Everyone talks to her about when she was little, the last time they'd seen her, or seen her boys. How sorry they were to hear about the divorce. How is she doing?
Claire is not doing well. Obviously. She is, in point of fact, at completely loose ends.
This is her father's funeral. No one is talking about Jack. The most she gets is a man she vaguely recognizes as one of her dad's bowling teammates shaking his head and saying, "He was a mean old bear. I'm gonna miss that bastard."
Claire clears her throat pointedly. "He was my father," she says, and then goes and sits down and cries because, Christ, is she the only one here who is sad?
"Pull yourself together, Claire," her mother says at one point. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."
"What am I gonna do, mom? I'm so sad," Claire says. Joan shakes her head and walks away.
During the church service everyone is silent, and the more Claire listens to the Bible verses, the more she feels at sea. By the time she pulls up into the driveway of her parents' home for the reception, she's more numb than anything, but she can't stop crying.
"Christ," Brian says when he sees her. He hands her a Kleenex and a bottle of water. "Haven't you dehydrated yet?" He quirks an eyebrow. "You know dad would shit himself if he saw you carrying on like this."
"I know." It only makes her cry harder. "I can't stop."
Everyone is standing in her parents' home, piling food onto plates and sipping strong coffee and drifting around like nebulous black clouds and no one is talking about Jack Kinney. No one seems to care. It makes her feel terrified because during the church service while she'd been trying to listen to the verses, all Claire could really hear were all the things her father used to shout at her. Every time he ever raised his voice to her became a rushing monologue, strung together and playing like a bad soundtrack in her mind. She can't remember anything good. She knows it wasn't all bad, but she can't remember.
"I thought," she says, stepping forward. "I thought it would be nice if we could all share some memories of daddy…" She thinks she should probably start out since this is her idea, but she can't think of something appropriate.
Nobody has anything to say.
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Brian isn't stoned enough for this shit. He has a back-up, emergency joint in the Jeep, which he retrieves and then lights, sitting on the back-steps of the house. Michael's retarded revisionist history of the Great Bowled Strike Triumph had made Claire frown, looking mildly confused like even she could smell bullshit. It made Joan snort into her glass, "What a lovely story Michael."
It never fails to amuse Brian how much his mom just can't stand Michael Novotny. Debbie fucking terrifies his mom, which is also hilarious. "I'll be thinking of you, honey," Debbie had said. "But for your mother's sake, I probably shouldn't go to the funeral."
"There you are," Michael says, poking his head outside. "You know, people have started to head out."
Fucking finally. Brian stands up and stretches, follows Michael inside to where the gang has clustered, anxiously awaiting his return so they can make their good-byes and escape. Slowly, everyone begins to drift out the front door. Michael helps tidy some of the mess away before he, too, makes an exit.
"Leave the rest of it," Joan says airily.
"I'll take these in the Jeep, return them to the caterers on my way back," Brian says, indicating the tables and other supplies they had rented especially for the reception.
"Suit yourself."
"Mom," Claire says, her voice hoarse. She's slumped in a chair in the living room. "I can't remember daddy."
Joan rolls her eyes. "Oh, Claire. The man's been dead less than a week."
Claire shakes her head. "No. I can't remember the good things." Brian would scoff, but suddenly he feels regressed a solid decade or more. He almost wants to sit at his big sister's feet and cling to her leg. "There were good things, weren't there?"
Joan's chin raises up, her eyes darkening as her mouth straightens out. Tightens. Brian knows the look well. Braces himself for something cold and cutting. "You and your father used to build forts in the living room," she says. "You too, Brian, when you were old enough." Joan shifts, one arm wrapping around her chest, the other bent upward, her hand resting on the side of her neck. She looks far away, lost in memory.
"I'd come home from picking up groceries and there would be blankets draped everywhere and the curtains would be closed, and I could see a flashlight on under there and hear you all laughing. Sometimes he would read to you." She catches herself, shakes her head, waves her hand, dismissive. "I don't know what you'd do in there all day, I didn't stay and listen. But I'd hear you all laughing. Right up until dinner, when I had to call and tell you take the fort down."
Brian has absolutely no memory of building forts with his dad. Apparently, neither does Claire, but their mother does and that means that it must have happened. Brian isn't sure how he feels about that.
"I'm sorry I didn't help more," Claire says. "With all of this."
Joan raises her eyebrows, says, "Well," and waves her hand again before returning it to the side of her throat. Brian waits, watches, and a second later, the hand moves, picks up the ever-present gold crucifix and slides it, back and forth, along the chain. Then Joan turns and heads back into the kitchen.
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Raw. That's how Brian feels over the next few days. Like every barrier he ever had has been torn down, like his skin has sloughed off and is growing again, brand new. Every sensation, every scent, every emotion is tangible like he can't remember it ever being before. It's overwhelming. "I guess your mission was a success, Sunshine," he whispers into the wind.
He's been handed a fresh start. A chance to heal, a chance to rebuild and grow however he wants, jettisoning the agony of the past and stepping forward. A brave new world.
The only problem is, Brian's entering that world on his own. The press of expectation is almost suffocating. Emmett and Ted perpetually making reference to age and impotence because Brian has been finding less and less consolation in the backroom of Babylon. Debbie's pleased little chuckles, followed by the inevitable defense as Michael says, "Leave him alone. He's grieving." Brian is grieving he realizes, but not for his old man.
Finding his way back to the grave isn't easy considering he didn't know where he was going when he stumbled on it in the first place. It's the tree that finally lets him know that he's in the right place. It's the collapsed stone angel that brings him to a halt.
The marker reads: "In loving memory of Justin Taylor, beloved son, loving brother. Artist." And, beneath that, "The angels weep." It makes him wonder if any angels actually did weep when Justin died. Makes him wonder about the life Justin had, and about how it must have been afterward, waking up an angel. How does that work, exactly?
Really, Brian just wonders if there's a chance he'll see the blond again because there's a hollowness inside him that is almost a breathing thing. He worries it might be a permanent fixture, now. Making a home there in his chest.
He's brought flowers because that's what you're supposed to do when you visit a grave: bring something. Brian has brought six white roses and one red, he vaguely recalls reading a rhyme about that somewhere.
…one for sorrow…Seven for a secret never to be told…
He doesn't know what he's doing, standing here. It feels like maybe he's trying to lay something to rest, but whatever that might be he doesn't have the words. It's cold, there's snow covering most of the ground and, collapsed forward a little but still resting in the little hollow made by the stone angel's left wing is a small plastic figurine of Gonzo the Great, complete with red cape and helmet and hooked nose.
It makes Brian pause, glancing back down to the words on the marker and recalculating the dates. It feels a bit like a cold-shock but he doesn't know why. Justin seemed timeless but he'd made it clear that hadn’t always been the case. That he'd been alive, been human once, and that meant he had dates just like anyone else. Birth date, death date. An entire life framed.
As Brian tries to integrate this new information he becomes aware of a figure making its way through the tombstones. Her presence makes him feel exposed; vulnerable in a way that gives him pause. He's not doing anything wrong, but it almost feels as if he's been caught-out. There's really no reason for him to be here because Justin's been gone for a long time. He's not even dead, not really. He's something else. Brian turns, starts walking away, cutting through the markers toward the narrow roadway.
"Excuse me," the woman says. There's no one else nearby. She can only be addressing him and so he turns, expecting to be asked for directions, or maybe for a helping hand.
She's timeworn. Wrinkles marring her face, laugh lines and smile lines etched around her eyes and her mouth. Thin, but there's nothing frail or tired about her. She gives the impression of iron wrapped in steel, though that might have something to do with her greying hair, pulled back in a loose bun. She's standing perfectly straight, a long dark purple coat over her shoulders, and bright purple leather gloves over her hands. Brian notes, his heartbeat stuttering, that she is pointing to the flowers he's just placed on Justin's grave. "Excuse me," she repeats. "Did you…?"
Licking his lips, Brian says, "Yeah."
"You knew him?" There's a kind of hopeful disbelief in her voice. Like she knows it's impossible that he ever knew the man whose grave he has just placed flowers on, but she still wants to believe it. She wants to live in that possibility. Someone else who knew Justin Taylor. Her desire to talk is almost painfully apparent. Still mourning, after all these years. Apparently, Justin just has that effect on people. "He was my brother."
It feels like an answer to a question Brian didn't realize he'd ever actually given voice. Apparently, Justin is still working his magic, bringing unlikely souls together. Giving Brian what he needs, whether Brian realizes it or not. He finds himself coming to a stop beside her. "Brian Kinney," he offers.
She smiles. "Molly Taylor." Reaching forward, she runs a gloved fingertip over the little plastic Gonzo, setting it upright again. Whether in response to Brian's gaze or her own introspection, she says, "He used to sing that song to me, from the Muppet Movie. You know, 'I'm Going to Go Back There Someday'?"
Brian tries to picture it and finds himself smiling. "He struck me more as a Miss Piggy than a Gonzo."
Molly's laugh is bright and careless. She tucks a hand into her pocket and pulls out a plastic figure of Miss Piggy, and then raises her eyebrows. "Oh believe me, he had his Miss Piggy moments, but I was more the opinionated tyrant. He was the one who always knew where he was going, was always willing to give anything a try, no matter how terrifying or ridiculous."
"A true blue weirdo."
She tips her head back and laughs. "So you did know him," she says, pleased.
Maybe it's the way she says it, like she still doesn't fully believe it, or like she hopes it might be true but fears to ask, Brian finds himself giving voice to one of the questions he has been stifling since the moment he found out Justin had been human. "How did he die?"
Molly Taylor glances over at him briefly, then away. She places the Miss Piggy beside the Gonzo and then she steps back, clearing her throat, like she's trying to dislodge something that might be stuck there. "It's cold," she says. "Would you like to get a cup of coffee?"
There's a coffee shop just across the street from the cemetery, and they make the walk in silence. Brian buys them coffees as Molly settles into a booth at the front of the shop, right by the large picture window. When he joins her at the table she's in the process of working her gloves off her hands.
"My brother was murdered," she says abruptly. Like it's taken her this long to work-up the courage to say it, and she has to blurt it out before that courage leaves her again. It isn't what Brian was expecting. Certainly it's not what he had been hoping to hear. Granted, he had figured that since Justin was young, his death was likely violent in some way: incurable disease, or car crash maybe, but not … "It was a hate crime," Molly continues, relentless. "Not that it was treated as such…"
Brian nods to himself. "Because he was gay?"
She sighs, more relief than disappointment or sadness. "Yes," she says, a little emphatically. "It was a very different time. Back then."
She grits her teeth, her jaw flexing, and then the fight goes out of her, and she leans back in her chair, shaking her head. "Before he died, all our parents did was fight. My dad wanted to forget Justin's sexuality, wanted Justin to settle down, act straight, and go to business school, and my mom wanted Justin to do what he wanted, which was go to art school. They argued all the time, and Justin and I were pretty sure they were headed for a divorce."
Her smile turns bittersweet. "After he died, though, it was like my dad forgot that Justin ever came out, or sent a rejection letter to Dartmouth. I'd never seen my father cry, but that's all he could do for a while and then, after the funeral, my parents just never talked about Justin anymore. Like I had always been their only child."
Molly releases a whooshing exhalation, rolling her eyes as she shakes her head, sheepish. "Clearly, I still have unresolved anger-issues about the entire thing."
"It's difficult to let someone like that go." Brian has no idea why he says it; he's off-balance and not thinking straight.
The sharp, knowing look Molly shoots at him is so much like her brother's that Brian almost chokes on the coffee he's drinking. "It is," she says. "Almost impossible."
She leans forward a little. "You know, they say it's normal just after you lose someone to feel like they're still around, but I still get that sensation sometimes. Like he's right there beside me, in the periphery of my vision." Her smile is a little self-mocking, like she's perfectly aware of how crazy she sounds but likewise, just doesn't care. "I always try not to look right away because of course, he's never there. But I invariably end up giving-in," her eyes cut sharply to the right, toward the window and the street, like she might actually catch a glimpse if she just moves fast enough.
She smiles ruefully, and then sets her empty mug down and reaches for her gloves. Her movements are smooth and precise, elegant and demure. Standing, Molly says, "I'm not a religious woman, Mister Kinney, but I believe that my brother checks in on me sometimes, just to see if I'm okay." She shifts her purple gloves to her left hand and drops the right one down onto his shoulder, squeezing once, firmly. "Maybe he'll do the same for you."
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Justin doesn't remember being human. Not really.
He has memories of his life: his mom and dad, his sister. First time at a fair, first kiss, first disappointment. Maybe he has more memories of his life than he would have if he were still mortal, or maybe they're clearer, he isn't quite certain. It doesn't matter. What does matter are the things he can't remember: the absolute high he got when he opened his acceptance letter to PIFA. The sheer pride and terror because he knew his dad wouldn't be happy, but Justin had spent so much of the last year just wanting this that he couldn't bring himself to care. How utterly miserable he'd been for those two weeks when he and his best friend, Daphne, weren't talking to each other. It had felt like the end of the world.
For Justin, sex with Brian had been nice. Pleasant, enjoyable.
For Brian, it had looked earth shattering. Amazing, incredible. Justin can't remember feeling anything that strongly anymore. Wonders what it would be like to love something absolutely, loathe it utterly, or yearn for it constantly. Time doesn't matter when you're an angel but it feels like he's been doing this forever; even if the others like him smile fondly and call him young.
Justin likes this after-life. He's content and so full with this beautiful, unnamable thing that it pours out of him, sometimes. He has wings and he can fly and he can help people and that makes him happy. Every time he comes down to earth to assist someone they're so full of hurt and fear that he can't help but love them, if only because they hate themselves so thoroughly and Justin firmly believes everyone deserves to be loved.
He wonders, though, is it love?
On some level, Justin understands there are different kinds of love. Between a parent and child, sibling, friends, spouses. Each type of love has a different flavor, a different balance to it. Justin only loves things one way. With his limited experience of emotions, maybe he's only capable of loving things one way.
It's good. It's fine, really. He's happy, he's doing good things and he has friends, sort of. He has a purpose, though, and it's a good one. He aches sometimes for the people he helps but he doesn't hurt, doesn't feel grief, doesn't break apart with the pain of it all. Ultimately, everything has a purpose and no matter how he aches for someone, his faith is stronger. "You'll get through this," he says, and he means it absolutely, because he knows that it is true.
Justin knows better than to tell any human that, "This is happening for a reason" or "this is for the best" because no human would understand it. They can't. Their understanding is limited to the finite: their human life that ends in death. Justin sees the world in terms of the infinite. He knows that there is truth in his words; he can feel it, even if he can't feel much of anything else.
There's a beauty to this existence and he cherishes it. He's grateful and he's brimming with that unnamable feeling and his own brand of love that he has for everything: for the poetry of the world that no one who actually lives in it can really understand, can really appreciate. But Justin sees it, and he loves it.
He stands from his crouch, stretches his wings, feels the breeze ruffle his feathers and he says, "Thank-you," into the wind. Means 'thank-you for everything': for his human life, for his angelic afterlife, for the opportunity to help, for being allowed to see the world in this way, for the chance to remember that life isn't just hurt and pain and one disappointment after another. He means 'thank-you' for the wings, for the ability to fly, for the people he has been able to help, for the opportunity to help them. For the steady consistency of his faith and the realization that his prayers have always been answered, even when it felt like he was being patently ignored.
"Thank you for everything," he says. But it isn't enough anymore.
So he lets himself fall.
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|<< { END CHAPTER SEVEN }
masterpost
Author: lemon_bar
Chapter VII:
Word Count: 7,020
Chapter VII:
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Joan does not make lists. She doesn't need them. What has to be done is always quite plain to her and she moves through each thing systematically and methodically. Her memory isn't such that she ever forgets or loses track.
She hits the ground running. The moment she walks through her own front door she takes one look around and then picks up the phone. The Goodwill isn’t answering.
Cursing, she hangs up and then calls back a minute later. The same message plays. This time she actually listens to it, glancing at the clock in irritation only to realize that, of course, they're not open yet. Nor should they be.
Briefly, Joan contemplates going to bed but she's not tired and really, she'd prefer to wash the sheets first. Jack had spent the majority of his last few days in that bed. It doesn't feel like a space for the living anymore.
Pulling open the curtains in the master bedroom she finds herself once again surprised by the lack of sunlight, is reminded that it is still very early morning, that there is no reason why it should be bright. She opens the window, lets the bracing winter air spill in and chase away the stale scent hanging in the room. She strips the bed and the pillows and empties the laundry hamper, and then stuffs everything haphazardly into the wash, pouring in the detergent. It takes all of ten minutes and then she's back in the front hall.
She can't make any arrangements because everywhere is closed. Jack boxed most everything up already, trying to make things easier she supposes, though standing in her hallway with nothing to do, she certainly isn't going to thank him for it. Not that she can, now…
Joan pours herself a glass of gin, takes a moment and then realizes that she no longer has to hide her liquor behind the cereal boxes. If she wants, she can put it in the liquor cabinet where it has always belonged and not have to worry that it will be gone the next time she goes to get a glass. There is no one here to drink it but her.
She marches her bottle of gin to the cabinet, sets it proudly down on the shelf and then locks the door. Through the glass of the cabinet she sees the tall clear bottle of gin surrounded by the murky, stout brown bottles of whiskey. It looks as if the gin is about to be ambushed.
She stands there staring for a moment, and then hurriedly unlocks the cabinet again, saving the gin from an undoubtedly grizzly fate and carrying it to the coffee table, where she places it beside her glass.
She picks up her phone again. Dials. "Claire," she says. Joan knows it is a mistake to call the moment Claire takes a long shuddery breath and says, "Mommy?" but by then it's too late.
She manages to cut the call off after twenty minutes. Claire is still sobbing but Joan can't sit there and listen anymore. "I thought you should know," she says, followed by an abrupt farewell. She hangs up.
Sitting back on the couch, she sips her gin and watches the light creep into the room.
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The loft feels empty. Uninhabited, abandoned. The only thing missing is Justin and Brian thinks that the blond has truly gone, now. He suspects that he should feel something about that: disappointed, bereft. Brian doesn't feel a thing.
At the hospital he had felt regret, turmoil, loss. He'd waited outside while his mom spent some time in the with his dad, though why she wanted to sit beside a corpse was something he didn't understand. Maybe she was in there trying to avoid the paperwork. Still, she seemed a little more settled when she had come out, not that she had said anything.
He'd driven her home and she had hesitated, sitting in the front passenger seat of his Jeep with the door open. "There is a lot that needs to be arranged."
Brian had nodded. "I'll take care of it." He has no idea why he said that.
It's early morning and there isn't much light filtering through the loft windows. Inside, the oven light has been left on, the blue fluorescents above the bed. He looks at his watch and realizes that yes, a few hours ago he'd been drinking at Woody's, wondering where Justin was. Thinking that the blond was likely avoiding him, that they had things they should probably talk about.
He's tired. Exhausted bone-deep, utterly spent, but when he climbs the steps to his bedroom he looks at his bed and all he can think about is Justin lying in it, his wings draped across the sheets, or sitting up and sketching, or dropping his head back into the pillows and saying "Okay" and that deep, surprised gasping sound he made when Brian had pushed into his body.
Abruptly, Brian turns and walks back down the steps. He pours himself a glass of Beam and thinks about the things that have to be done. Tries to decide what order he should set about doing it. For all that his mother seems to be expecting him to take care of things, she hasn't told him what exactly he should be doing. He doesn't even know if his dad wanted to be buried or cremated.
A part of him tries to offer justification: Jack just died. It doesn't seem like a good enough excuse. After all, these things need to be done. Putting it off doesn't accomplish anything. He waits until a suitable hour and then phones into work, explains the situation. The sympathy and condolences are entirely unwanted. It makes him feel as if he is somehow lacking, makes him feel guilty, like he should feel more upset than he is.
Brian is perfectly calm, he's not hurt or grieving, he's not distraught. He accepts the time-off gratefully, though. He has no idea what timetable his mother has in mind for this.
The next thing that occurs to him is that someone should probably let Claire know. After he ends the call with work, though, he realizes that his phone somehow got switched to silent, and he missed a few calls. When he checks the numbers of the missed calls they're all from his sister. There's a voice message from Claire that he doesn't listen to. One glance at the time the message was left makes him certain that Joan must have taken care of that particular notification.
Closing his phone, Brian has a hot shower, brushes his teeth, and then changes clothes. He shaves, staring at his reflection in the mirror, the circles under his eyes, something haunted in his expression that no false smile can mask. It's bone deep. Maybe a permanent part of him now.
When he's done he empties a miscellany of his fridge contents into his blender, takes one sip of the concoction and calls it breakfast, then he grabs his keys and heads out. Halfway to his mother's house, formerly his parents' house, Brian realizes that he probably could have used a coffee. That maybe he shouldn't be behind a wheel right now, but he's not worried enough to pull over.
He parks the Jeep in the driveway, takes a moment to sort through what he needs from the house in his head, the questions he needs his mother to answer. He promises himself he will be in and then out, as quickly as possible.
Joan answers the door with a cagey look, like she expects a vacuum salesman or a bunch of girl scouts to try and trap her into a purchase. Catch her when she's off-guard. Not that Brian's mother is ever off her guard. "Brian," she says, holding open the door and stepping back. "I've been trying to think of what passages to have the priest read, at the service."
Brian wasn't sure what to expect, had thought he was prepared for anything, but he is having trouble understanding his mother's statement. He says as much to her. "Well," she huffs, like it should be perfectly clear. "Obviously there will be a service. Your father might have skipped more Sunday masses than not, but he was Catholic. Is there a passage you want the priest to read?"
He stands there and tries to figure out if his mother is actually serious. When he realizes that she is, he shakes his head. "I don't care, mom."
She rolls her eyes. Apparently his response hasn’t surprised her in the slightest. "Well, why are you here?"
"I need pop's papers. Birth certificate, all of that. I've been in touch with the hospital already, the funeral home is going to pick him up today, but I need to know if you want him buried or cremated. I need to know what to tell them."
She frowns, like this hasn't occurred to her. "Buried. Don't you think?"
Brian really doesn't care, one way or another. Joan tells him where to find the paperwork he needs, and he goes to collect it. While he's rummaging through his father's desk his mother wanders in with a mug of coffee that she sets down for him. "I've been taking care of the notifications where I can," she says. "But it occurs to me that he should have an obituary. In the newspaper."
There is a small stack of papers that Brian is accumulating, papers he knows he will need, and some that he thinks he might need. He'd rather take everything now so he won't have to come back. "Probably."
"I've tried to come up with something…"
"I'll do it." He appropriates a folder filled with old receipts and fills it with the papers he needs and anything else he thinks might be useful. He tries not to think about how apparently his mother has been as eager to get things moving as he has been. Brian doesn't appreciate the similarity.
He sits at the kitchen table and writes his father's obituary with a ballpoint pen on a piece of lined paper, with his mom checking over his shoulder periodically as she prepares something for lunch. It's like high school all over again.
"Don't make it so long," she says, eying the paper. "Be concise."
"I'm summarizing the man's life, mom," he says. She raises her eyebrows in that way that perfectly and succinctly asks, 'and your point is?'
When Brian asks if she wants to take things slow, have some time for all of this to sink in a bit before they have the funeral, Joan shakes her head. "I don't like the idea of him just lying around like that, waiting to be buried."
As much as Brian endeavors to avoid his mother and her home, he finds himself there more often than not. She takes care of notifications, with the exception of Jack's friends: "They're foul-mouthed old goats and I won't talk to them. It would be preferable if they avoided the funeral altogether." She makes arrangements with the priest and the church, selects the readings and the psalms to be sung during the service.
In turn, Brian phones every one of his dad's foul-mouthed friends; writes the obituary and sends it out, makes arrangements with the funeral parlor and the cemetery; selects the suit in which his father will be buried. In the beginning, he tries consulting Claire but she invariably breaks down over the phone, inconsolable. Brian stops trying.
"You're not going to get anything else out of her," Joan says. "I've already tried."
"Yeah, well. She isn't the only one who lost a father," he says, though he isn't sure why. He's not grieving. He doesn't really feel a loss. Mostly he's pissed at the unfairness: that his sister can just throw up her hands and sob and leave everything to him.
Joan pats his shoulder, and then pours him a glass of gin. Her expression is flat, her eyes sharp. "Yes. Well. We're all very distraught." For some reason this makes Brian snicker into his glass. He's not certain, but he thinks he might see his mom actually crack a smile.
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On the morning of Jack's funeral, Joan showers and puts on her make-up. She dresses and goes downstairs and forgoes breakfast in favor of walking through the main floor of her home, which has already been re-arranged in preparation for the reception.
If it were left to her, there would be no reception. Nor would there be a visitation before the service. She is confident that, in her new black dress, she can stand very still and look appropriately somber during the church service, but she does not wish to speak to anyone and can't decide which will be worse: receiving condolences from people who barely knew Jack or felt fondly about him, or receiving condolences from people who were perfectly aware what a piece of work the man was. She doesn't want to be judged by anyone. She doesn't want her family to be judged. She wants everything to be perfect, because maybe that will shut everyone up. She wants there to be lots of food, because then maybe no one will start talking.
Briefly, she considers having Brian tell the guests that in her grief, she has taken a temporary vow of silence. It seems a little extreme so instead she pours herself a glass of bourbon. "Mother would be so proud," she says to the empty room, to the buffet table loaded with food. Everything is perfect.
The Funeral parlor feels a bit like a hotel, or a new home before it is fully settled: pristine wood floors, wide hallways, substanceless artwork of trees and lakes. The employees are dressed in crisp dark clothes, looking well pressed and vaguely attractive, sympathetic and pleasant at once, and they are more than happy to direct her to the large room where Jack is waiting.
Joan had gone with Brian to select the coffin. "I don't care what the man is buried in," she had said, meaning at once the coffin and the suit. It didn't matter. The suit and the coffin both would decompose. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Brian had looked at her blandly, and she had relented. The casket would, of course, be viewed and judged, just like everything else. They had selected a dark, shining black coffin with white silk. "It will be a closed casket visitation," she declared. "Anything else is just macabre."
Inside the room, Claire is already holding court. She and the boys have made large poster boards cluttered with photographs: Jack and the family at Christmas, Jack as a little boy, Jack and his parents. Jack and his baby daughter. Jack, Jack, Jack. "How thoughtful," Joan says. Claire gives her a hug, which Joan returns, but then Claire heaves a sob and collapses a little, and Joan pushes her back. "Please. Pull yourself together."
She goes up to the coffin and stands there, numb. While she is perfectly aware that this is a moment where she should say her final good-byes, Joan cannot think of a single thing to say. Instead, she begins working her way through the rosary. She is still praying when she settles down onto one of the wingback chairs.
People begin to stream in, the room filling up with faces. Brian's friend, Michael, brings her a cup of tea. He has put too much sugar into it. She holds it, relieved that it gives her hands something to do. She continues to recite the rosary.
People come and offer sympathy; some sit down in the chair across from her and share their memories of her husband before moving along. A few try and engage her in conversation, and are soon discouraged. Not even forty minutes in, Claire collapses into a chair and sobs uncontrollably. "What am I going to do?" she asks no one in particular. "Daddy, oh daddy!"
From across the room, Brian turns and looks at her. Joan raises her cup to her lips and takes a long sip.
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The decision to give Jack a Catholic burial is just about the best idea Brian thinks his mother has ever had. For one thing, it neatly cuts out the opportunity for a lot of people to stand at a podium and blubber on about his dad but still, by the time they make it to the cemetery he is worn thin. For one thing, Claire hasn't stopped crying.
Crowded around the coffin, snow just starting to fall around them, Brian amuses himself by watching his mother shoot irritated glances at his sister, who tries unsuccessfully to stifle her sobs. The atmosphere is oppressive: a swarm of black-clad figures, most of who are crying though none as loudly as Claire. Their small huddle is the only indication of life. Pressing, pressing, pressing, close around the rectangular slice in the earth.
Everything is black and white, and stifling. Brian breaks away, fumbling in his pocket until he finds the tissue inside which he has tucked a joint: sweet salvation.
He lights it as he picks up his pace, cutting away from the group, uncaring if his mother is frowning disapprovingly at his back, or if people are scandalized by his funeral etiquette. Fuck them. It's his dad's funeral; he can act however he damned well pleases.
"Hey," Michael says, catching up to him. He's tentative. He's been tentative and oozing sympathy since Brian told him that Jack was dead. It's been driving Brian slowly up the wall, but he appreciates that Michael is there, that all of his friends are there, so he doesn’t mention it.
"Hey, Mikey," he says, dismissive, only to be pulled to an abrupt halt by the hand that Michael is gripping his shoulder with. Those big brown kicked-puppy eyes are looking up at him. So fucking earnest, like Michael really understands.
Bullshit. No one understands. "Want some?" Brian pulls the joint from his mouth and holds it out.
"No." Michael looks disapproving but Brian is beyond caring. He takes another draw and worries in a generalized sort of way about how numb he's been feeling. Perfectly, exquisitely numb. He considers asking Michael if that's normal, if it's shock or something, but Brian figures that Michael will just worry and smother him more, and there's only so much of well-intentioned smothering that Brian can take.
It's the name that catches him at first because consciously or not, that name has been circling in his head consistently for days now. 'Justin'. He stares at that name, carved deep into the stone marker. For the first time Brian doesn't feel frozen.
But then his eyes drift down, find the little oval photograph inset at the heart of the marker: brilliant, wide smile, bright eyes. It's not just some person who happened to be named Justin. It's actually Justin's grave. An almost life-sized stone angel collapsed forward over the dark-onyx marker, sitting beneath the naked, outstretched branches of a snow-covered tree.
Brian pulls the joint from between his lips, lets it drop into the snow.
"Brian," Michael asks, his voice oddly distant, his tone urgent. "What? What is it?"
Brian worries that he might actually be sick in the cemetery. Might just curl over and vomit where he stands because he is suddenly nauseous. He remembers how Justin looked, standing in the hospital hallway, balanced on tiptoe so he could reach up and touch Brian's cheek: "It's going to be okay, Brian. No matter what happens, or how it feels. You're going to be okay."
Michael is talking but he's a thousand miles away. Brian hadn't believed Justin then, but he thinks maybe he does now. Maybe everything will be okay. Finally, finally it's all sinking in, everything he's done in the past few days, weeks. He's faced some of his deepest fears, and he's still here. He made it. It floods in like sweet salvation, so perfect and shiny and overflowing with possibility and fucking optimism.
Then, just as quickly, it floods right out of him. Because what's the point? Ultimately, everything's all the same, isn't it? He's still alone.
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Claire hasn't been able to catch her breath. For a brief moment when she woke up, she thought she might make it through the day. She gets the boys out of bed, feeds them, and then chases them back up the stairs: "Hurry up. We can't be late!" She makes it into her room and has a shower, and then loses track of everything.
Has she already put on makeup? No, she doesn't think she did, but when she goes over to the vanity her compact is open and maybe she just left it in disarray, or maybe she already put on her makeup. Glancing into the mirror she thinks: no, obviously no makeup.
But first, earrings. She picks a pair because they were her dad's favorite, starts crying as she puts them in, and has to rifle around to find a small packet of tissues. Good idea. She tucks some tissues into her purse.
Is she dressed? Her dress is lying on the bed. She pulls it on, and then spends a half hour trying to decide between two pairs of black pumps. She's put her make-up on, right? Is she forgetting anything?
"Mom, keys," John says, rolling his eyes at her.
She is pulling into the driveway of the funeral home when she realizes that she hasn't put on any makeup. "We have to go back home," she says. "I forgot something."
John scowls and rolls his eyes. "Jesus, mom. What happened to not being late?"
"You're right. Never mind."
At the parlor, people come up and complement her on the boards she made, all the photographs. Everyone talks to her about when she was little, the last time they'd seen her, or seen her boys. How sorry they were to hear about the divorce. How is she doing?
Claire is not doing well. Obviously. She is, in point of fact, at completely loose ends.
This is her father's funeral. No one is talking about Jack. The most she gets is a man she vaguely recognizes as one of her dad's bowling teammates shaking his head and saying, "He was a mean old bear. I'm gonna miss that bastard."
Claire clears her throat pointedly. "He was my father," she says, and then goes and sits down and cries because, Christ, is she the only one here who is sad?
"Pull yourself together, Claire," her mother says at one point. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."
"What am I gonna do, mom? I'm so sad," Claire says. Joan shakes her head and walks away.
During the church service everyone is silent, and the more Claire listens to the Bible verses, the more she feels at sea. By the time she pulls up into the driveway of her parents' home for the reception, she's more numb than anything, but she can't stop crying.
"Christ," Brian says when he sees her. He hands her a Kleenex and a bottle of water. "Haven't you dehydrated yet?" He quirks an eyebrow. "You know dad would shit himself if he saw you carrying on like this."
"I know." It only makes her cry harder. "I can't stop."
Everyone is standing in her parents' home, piling food onto plates and sipping strong coffee and drifting around like nebulous black clouds and no one is talking about Jack Kinney. No one seems to care. It makes her feel terrified because during the church service while she'd been trying to listen to the verses, all Claire could really hear were all the things her father used to shout at her. Every time he ever raised his voice to her became a rushing monologue, strung together and playing like a bad soundtrack in her mind. She can't remember anything good. She knows it wasn't all bad, but she can't remember.
"I thought," she says, stepping forward. "I thought it would be nice if we could all share some memories of daddy…" She thinks she should probably start out since this is her idea, but she can't think of something appropriate.
Nobody has anything to say.
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Brian isn't stoned enough for this shit. He has a back-up, emergency joint in the Jeep, which he retrieves and then lights, sitting on the back-steps of the house. Michael's retarded revisionist history of the Great Bowled Strike Triumph had made Claire frown, looking mildly confused like even she could smell bullshit. It made Joan snort into her glass, "What a lovely story Michael."
It never fails to amuse Brian how much his mom just can't stand Michael Novotny. Debbie fucking terrifies his mom, which is also hilarious. "I'll be thinking of you, honey," Debbie had said. "But for your mother's sake, I probably shouldn't go to the funeral."
"There you are," Michael says, poking his head outside. "You know, people have started to head out."
Fucking finally. Brian stands up and stretches, follows Michael inside to where the gang has clustered, anxiously awaiting his return so they can make their good-byes and escape. Slowly, everyone begins to drift out the front door. Michael helps tidy some of the mess away before he, too, makes an exit.
"Leave the rest of it," Joan says airily.
"I'll take these in the Jeep, return them to the caterers on my way back," Brian says, indicating the tables and other supplies they had rented especially for the reception.
"Suit yourself."
"Mom," Claire says, her voice hoarse. She's slumped in a chair in the living room. "I can't remember daddy."
Joan rolls her eyes. "Oh, Claire. The man's been dead less than a week."
Claire shakes her head. "No. I can't remember the good things." Brian would scoff, but suddenly he feels regressed a solid decade or more. He almost wants to sit at his big sister's feet and cling to her leg. "There were good things, weren't there?"
Joan's chin raises up, her eyes darkening as her mouth straightens out. Tightens. Brian knows the look well. Braces himself for something cold and cutting. "You and your father used to build forts in the living room," she says. "You too, Brian, when you were old enough." Joan shifts, one arm wrapping around her chest, the other bent upward, her hand resting on the side of her neck. She looks far away, lost in memory.
"I'd come home from picking up groceries and there would be blankets draped everywhere and the curtains would be closed, and I could see a flashlight on under there and hear you all laughing. Sometimes he would read to you." She catches herself, shakes her head, waves her hand, dismissive. "I don't know what you'd do in there all day, I didn't stay and listen. But I'd hear you all laughing. Right up until dinner, when I had to call and tell you take the fort down."
Brian has absolutely no memory of building forts with his dad. Apparently, neither does Claire, but their mother does and that means that it must have happened. Brian isn't sure how he feels about that.
"I'm sorry I didn't help more," Claire says. "With all of this."
Joan raises her eyebrows, says, "Well," and waves her hand again before returning it to the side of her throat. Brian waits, watches, and a second later, the hand moves, picks up the ever-present gold crucifix and slides it, back and forth, along the chain. Then Joan turns and heads back into the kitchen.
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Raw. That's how Brian feels over the next few days. Like every barrier he ever had has been torn down, like his skin has sloughed off and is growing again, brand new. Every sensation, every scent, every emotion is tangible like he can't remember it ever being before. It's overwhelming. "I guess your mission was a success, Sunshine," he whispers into the wind.
He's been handed a fresh start. A chance to heal, a chance to rebuild and grow however he wants, jettisoning the agony of the past and stepping forward. A brave new world.
The only problem is, Brian's entering that world on his own. The press of expectation is almost suffocating. Emmett and Ted perpetually making reference to age and impotence because Brian has been finding less and less consolation in the backroom of Babylon. Debbie's pleased little chuckles, followed by the inevitable defense as Michael says, "Leave him alone. He's grieving." Brian is grieving he realizes, but not for his old man.
Finding his way back to the grave isn't easy considering he didn't know where he was going when he stumbled on it in the first place. It's the tree that finally lets him know that he's in the right place. It's the collapsed stone angel that brings him to a halt.
The marker reads: "In loving memory of Justin Taylor, beloved son, loving brother. Artist." And, beneath that, "The angels weep." It makes him wonder if any angels actually did weep when Justin died. Makes him wonder about the life Justin had, and about how it must have been afterward, waking up an angel. How does that work, exactly?
Really, Brian just wonders if there's a chance he'll see the blond again because there's a hollowness inside him that is almost a breathing thing. He worries it might be a permanent fixture, now. Making a home there in his chest.
He's brought flowers because that's what you're supposed to do when you visit a grave: bring something. Brian has brought six white roses and one red, he vaguely recalls reading a rhyme about that somewhere.
…one for sorrow…Seven for a secret never to be told…
He doesn't know what he's doing, standing here. It feels like maybe he's trying to lay something to rest, but whatever that might be he doesn't have the words. It's cold, there's snow covering most of the ground and, collapsed forward a little but still resting in the little hollow made by the stone angel's left wing is a small plastic figurine of Gonzo the Great, complete with red cape and helmet and hooked nose.
It makes Brian pause, glancing back down to the words on the marker and recalculating the dates. It feels a bit like a cold-shock but he doesn't know why. Justin seemed timeless but he'd made it clear that hadn’t always been the case. That he'd been alive, been human once, and that meant he had dates just like anyone else. Birth date, death date. An entire life framed.
As Brian tries to integrate this new information he becomes aware of a figure making its way through the tombstones. Her presence makes him feel exposed; vulnerable in a way that gives him pause. He's not doing anything wrong, but it almost feels as if he's been caught-out. There's really no reason for him to be here because Justin's been gone for a long time. He's not even dead, not really. He's something else. Brian turns, starts walking away, cutting through the markers toward the narrow roadway.
"Excuse me," the woman says. There's no one else nearby. She can only be addressing him and so he turns, expecting to be asked for directions, or maybe for a helping hand.
She's timeworn. Wrinkles marring her face, laugh lines and smile lines etched around her eyes and her mouth. Thin, but there's nothing frail or tired about her. She gives the impression of iron wrapped in steel, though that might have something to do with her greying hair, pulled back in a loose bun. She's standing perfectly straight, a long dark purple coat over her shoulders, and bright purple leather gloves over her hands. Brian notes, his heartbeat stuttering, that she is pointing to the flowers he's just placed on Justin's grave. "Excuse me," she repeats. "Did you…?"
Licking his lips, Brian says, "Yeah."
"You knew him?" There's a kind of hopeful disbelief in her voice. Like she knows it's impossible that he ever knew the man whose grave he has just placed flowers on, but she still wants to believe it. She wants to live in that possibility. Someone else who knew Justin Taylor. Her desire to talk is almost painfully apparent. Still mourning, after all these years. Apparently, Justin just has that effect on people. "He was my brother."
It feels like an answer to a question Brian didn't realize he'd ever actually given voice. Apparently, Justin is still working his magic, bringing unlikely souls together. Giving Brian what he needs, whether Brian realizes it or not. He finds himself coming to a stop beside her. "Brian Kinney," he offers.
She smiles. "Molly Taylor." Reaching forward, she runs a gloved fingertip over the little plastic Gonzo, setting it upright again. Whether in response to Brian's gaze or her own introspection, she says, "He used to sing that song to me, from the Muppet Movie. You know, 'I'm Going to Go Back There Someday'?"
Brian tries to picture it and finds himself smiling. "He struck me more as a Miss Piggy than a Gonzo."
Molly's laugh is bright and careless. She tucks a hand into her pocket and pulls out a plastic figure of Miss Piggy, and then raises her eyebrows. "Oh believe me, he had his Miss Piggy moments, but I was more the opinionated tyrant. He was the one who always knew where he was going, was always willing to give anything a try, no matter how terrifying or ridiculous."
"A true blue weirdo."
She tips her head back and laughs. "So you did know him," she says, pleased.
Maybe it's the way she says it, like she still doesn't fully believe it, or like she hopes it might be true but fears to ask, Brian finds himself giving voice to one of the questions he has been stifling since the moment he found out Justin had been human. "How did he die?"
Molly Taylor glances over at him briefly, then away. She places the Miss Piggy beside the Gonzo and then she steps back, clearing her throat, like she's trying to dislodge something that might be stuck there. "It's cold," she says. "Would you like to get a cup of coffee?"
There's a coffee shop just across the street from the cemetery, and they make the walk in silence. Brian buys them coffees as Molly settles into a booth at the front of the shop, right by the large picture window. When he joins her at the table she's in the process of working her gloves off her hands.
"My brother was murdered," she says abruptly. Like it's taken her this long to work-up the courage to say it, and she has to blurt it out before that courage leaves her again. It isn't what Brian was expecting. Certainly it's not what he had been hoping to hear. Granted, he had figured that since Justin was young, his death was likely violent in some way: incurable disease, or car crash maybe, but not … "It was a hate crime," Molly continues, relentless. "Not that it was treated as such…"
Brian nods to himself. "Because he was gay?"
She sighs, more relief than disappointment or sadness. "Yes," she says, a little emphatically. "It was a very different time. Back then."
She grits her teeth, her jaw flexing, and then the fight goes out of her, and she leans back in her chair, shaking her head. "Before he died, all our parents did was fight. My dad wanted to forget Justin's sexuality, wanted Justin to settle down, act straight, and go to business school, and my mom wanted Justin to do what he wanted, which was go to art school. They argued all the time, and Justin and I were pretty sure they were headed for a divorce."
Her smile turns bittersweet. "After he died, though, it was like my dad forgot that Justin ever came out, or sent a rejection letter to Dartmouth. I'd never seen my father cry, but that's all he could do for a while and then, after the funeral, my parents just never talked about Justin anymore. Like I had always been their only child."
Molly releases a whooshing exhalation, rolling her eyes as she shakes her head, sheepish. "Clearly, I still have unresolved anger-issues about the entire thing."
"It's difficult to let someone like that go." Brian has no idea why he says it; he's off-balance and not thinking straight.
The sharp, knowing look Molly shoots at him is so much like her brother's that Brian almost chokes on the coffee he's drinking. "It is," she says. "Almost impossible."
She leans forward a little. "You know, they say it's normal just after you lose someone to feel like they're still around, but I still get that sensation sometimes. Like he's right there beside me, in the periphery of my vision." Her smile is a little self-mocking, like she's perfectly aware of how crazy she sounds but likewise, just doesn't care. "I always try not to look right away because of course, he's never there. But I invariably end up giving-in," her eyes cut sharply to the right, toward the window and the street, like she might actually catch a glimpse if she just moves fast enough.
She smiles ruefully, and then sets her empty mug down and reaches for her gloves. Her movements are smooth and precise, elegant and demure. Standing, Molly says, "I'm not a religious woman, Mister Kinney, but I believe that my brother checks in on me sometimes, just to see if I'm okay." She shifts her purple gloves to her left hand and drops the right one down onto his shoulder, squeezing once, firmly. "Maybe he'll do the same for you."
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Justin doesn't remember being human. Not really.
He has memories of his life: his mom and dad, his sister. First time at a fair, first kiss, first disappointment. Maybe he has more memories of his life than he would have if he were still mortal, or maybe they're clearer, he isn't quite certain. It doesn't matter. What does matter are the things he can't remember: the absolute high he got when he opened his acceptance letter to PIFA. The sheer pride and terror because he knew his dad wouldn't be happy, but Justin had spent so much of the last year just wanting this that he couldn't bring himself to care. How utterly miserable he'd been for those two weeks when he and his best friend, Daphne, weren't talking to each other. It had felt like the end of the world.
For Justin, sex with Brian had been nice. Pleasant, enjoyable.
For Brian, it had looked earth shattering. Amazing, incredible. Justin can't remember feeling anything that strongly anymore. Wonders what it would be like to love something absolutely, loathe it utterly, or yearn for it constantly. Time doesn't matter when you're an angel but it feels like he's been doing this forever; even if the others like him smile fondly and call him young.
Justin likes this after-life. He's content and so full with this beautiful, unnamable thing that it pours out of him, sometimes. He has wings and he can fly and he can help people and that makes him happy. Every time he comes down to earth to assist someone they're so full of hurt and fear that he can't help but love them, if only because they hate themselves so thoroughly and Justin firmly believes everyone deserves to be loved.
He wonders, though, is it love?
On some level, Justin understands there are different kinds of love. Between a parent and child, sibling, friends, spouses. Each type of love has a different flavor, a different balance to it. Justin only loves things one way. With his limited experience of emotions, maybe he's only capable of loving things one way.
It's good. It's fine, really. He's happy, he's doing good things and he has friends, sort of. He has a purpose, though, and it's a good one. He aches sometimes for the people he helps but he doesn't hurt, doesn't feel grief, doesn't break apart with the pain of it all. Ultimately, everything has a purpose and no matter how he aches for someone, his faith is stronger. "You'll get through this," he says, and he means it absolutely, because he knows that it is true.
Justin knows better than to tell any human that, "This is happening for a reason" or "this is for the best" because no human would understand it. They can't. Their understanding is limited to the finite: their human life that ends in death. Justin sees the world in terms of the infinite. He knows that there is truth in his words; he can feel it, even if he can't feel much of anything else.
There's a beauty to this existence and he cherishes it. He's grateful and he's brimming with that unnamable feeling and his own brand of love that he has for everything: for the poetry of the world that no one who actually lives in it can really understand, can really appreciate. But Justin sees it, and he loves it.
He stands from his crouch, stretches his wings, feels the breeze ruffle his feathers and he says, "Thank-you," into the wind. Means 'thank-you for everything': for his human life, for his angelic afterlife, for the opportunity to help, for being allowed to see the world in this way, for the chance to remember that life isn't just hurt and pain and one disappointment after another. He means 'thank-you' for the wings, for the ability to fly, for the people he has been able to help, for the opportunity to help them. For the steady consistency of his faith and the realization that his prayers have always been answered, even when it felt like he was being patently ignored.
"Thank you for everything," he says. But it isn't enough anymore.
So he lets himself fall.
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|<< { END CHAPTER SEVEN }
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