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He leans in close, brushing his lips near my ear, and I can smell his cologne; like carelessness and pine trees.
“Just be glad it wasn’t one of the ones with fucking holes in them,” he growls, and my body stiffens.
“Well, thank God for little miracles.” I inch my way around him and head for the coffee machine.
“Those were expensive shirts, Evangeline.”
“I’m sure you can buy new ones.”
Darren scratches the back of his head. “How about a truce?” he offers, and I tilt my head, listening. “Do you think you can behave for my parent’s funeral?”
I set the cup down and grip the edge of the counter behind me. “I’m not a dog, Darren. Of course I can behave.”
“So then we’re even?”
“Not by a long shot.”
15
My Wife
Darren
I get out of the car before Bailey has a chance to open the door, and then I lean down, holding my hand out for Evangeline. One leg extends from the car, placing a high heeled foot on the pavement, and as she looks up at me with wide eyes, I grab hold of her hand to help her out.
The sky looks bleak and gray as clouds descend, threatening to rain. Of course it would rain today. We stand at the curb in front of the white bricked spires of the Washington National Cathedral. The imposing gothic-style church has held the services for many Senators, and now fills with mourners for my parents, Senator Kerry Walker, and Merrill Compton-Walker.
Would my mother get such a lavish service if she hadn’t died along with my father? Thinking about it would only lead me down a rabbit hole that I don’t have enough whiskey in my flask to fill. Taking a sip, I place it back in the inside pocket of my coat. Evangeline adjusts the belt on her jacket, and then grabs hold of my hand. At the steps of the Cathedral are the press, waiting like vultures to get pictures of who’s showing up like it’s a fucking red-carpet affair.
Evangeline starts to walk but I hold her back, and she gives me a confused look. To my left, behind the barricade fence is a familiar man.
“Is everything okay?” Evangeline asks, and normally it’s a question that would seem ignorant under the circumstances, because of course everything is not okay, but she follows my gaze as an older man pushes through the barricade and approaches us.
For a moment I’m taken off guard, not sure what to expect.
The more I look at him, the more familiar he seems, and I feel like I should know him, but I don’t. I study his face, the same wide eyes and thin nose. I realize the last time I saw this man was when I was in the fifth grade.
It was the only time I ever recall my father yelling so loudly that I could hear him in my second-floor bedroom. I stood outside my father’s office, looking through the crack in the door to see him arguing with someone. It was the desperation and hurt in his voice that made me realize my father wasn’t unbreakable.
Even when he’d been tackling a difficult court case, I’d never seen him this visibly upset. To describe him as passionate during his campaign was an understatement, and certainly when I’d started acting out, he still wasn’t as upset as he was that night. His foul mood had lasted for weeks.
My eleven-year-old self had nearly been knocked over by this man when he’d burst out of my father’s office. Once he realized who I was, the anger in his face slowly dissolved. He didn’t introduce himself, but he didn’t have to, because even at the age of eleven, I could see the resemblance between him and my father. All he did was touch the top of my head, and then he was gone, never to be seen again.
My father was one of four boys, and the only one to ever go to college. He didn’t speak to his family, and I’d never seen my uncles or grandparents, nor did my father ever speak of them. My father wasn’t born, he just was. At least that was how my eleven-year-old self thought of him.
Now at the age of twenty-seven, here he stood in front of me again, with that same softened expression that seemed reserved just for this moment – just for me. He was older, frailer than I remember. This man doesn’t belong here, my father wouldn’t have wanted him here – and there is a part of me that wants to honor my father’s wishes.
“Darren?” he asks.
The cold and wet morning has seemed to have temporarily absconded with my voice, and when I don’t answer he asks, “Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are.”
“Then your father told you about me,” he says, in a hopeful tone.
“You should leave.”
His face falls slightly as if whatever hope he had was just wiped away. I feel Evangeline squeeze my hand tighter, making me aware that we are standing in front of the church where my parents' service is being held, and I can’t deal with this – not here.
