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We ride in silence the entire way to the National Cemetery as I stare out the window. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, and we arrive way too early. Bailey stops the car alongside the gravesite, but I can’t bring myself to get out yet.
“I said that you’re my wife, because you are.” I finally answer her earlier question.
She doesn’t say anything; just looks at me as if she’s trying to find her way in. I settle back in the leather seat, unbuttoning my suit jacket.
“You might not believe it, but I used to attend Sunday service as a boy. I hated wearing pressed slacks, long-sleeved button-down shirts, and shiny dress shoes, because in summers, it was brutal when the humidity was oppressive. All I wanted to do when I got home was jump straight into the pool, clothes and all. My mother would curse thinking I’d ruin my Sunday clothes in the chlorine, which of course I did, but then there would be another set in my closet the next Sunday to replace them, much to my disappointment.”
Evangeline smiles, placing her hand on my thigh.
“My mother would scold me, but then she’d smile and toss my hair as she sent me on my way. She was incredibly forgiving and tolerant, especially with me, because jumping in the pool with my Sunday best on was the least wicked thing I’ve ever done,” I say, smiling at the memory.
“You are far too young to be attending a funeral,” she says.
“I could say the same about you.” I shrug and then look at the headstones that scatter the hills of the cemetery.
“I’m sure you’ve heard it a thousand times today, but…”
I know what she’s going to say before she says it, because yes, I had heard it a thousand times today, and each time it was like dropping a penny inside a jar, building and building until my anger or resentment was ready to spill over.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” she says.
I’m not angry because I can tell that she really means it. Our truce is still intact for now.
I nod in return.
“I know you didn’t get along with him, but your father,” she pauses, seeming to struggle with her words, “he was—well, he seemed to be a very good man.”
“Every man’s life ends in the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.”
“Hemingway.”
I smirk, and she smiles back at me.
16
Grief, Revenge, Spite
Evangeline
I lay awake, staring at the ornamental ceiling. The pattern reminds me of a wedding cake, white and intricate as it spans from the crown molding, and moves inward to the centerpiece, a beautiful chandelier made of brass and crystal. It seems wasted on a guest room, but then every room in the house is decorated just as elaborately. I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this, walking on eggshells, afraid to break something.
Rolling over onto my side, I stare at the empty space next to me and hear the patter of rain hit the window. Darren has yet to sleep in this bed with me, not that I expected he would, but he doesn’t sleep in any of the other rooms, either. Mostly, I find him asleep on the couch downstairs in the formal living room, with an empty glass of whiskey leaving rings on what I imagine to be an expensive antique table. Tonight though, I hear a piano, the sad notes rising to the second floor.
He never cried.
At the church, during the service, when the priest spoke about Kerry and Merrill, I could hear muffled cries and sniffling, but Darren remained stoic. I would have thought he was an unfeeling statue if it weren’t for the tightness of his jaw, like a lock springing into place.
On the chair next to the bed is Darren’s Georgetown t-shirt, so I throw it on before padding across the room and down the hall. It’s soft and smells like him.
The house is old and drafty, and I’ve become accustomed to wearing a pair of knee-high socks to keep my feet and legs warm. Darren’s t-shirt is big enough to cover the tops of my thighs, but I shiver anyway as I make my way down the stairs.
Next to the piano, flames lick up the sides of the logs in the fireplace, and I can feel the warmth creep up my legs the minute I enter the room. Darren sits on the piano bench, his fingers hovering over the keys, and carelessly sitting on top of the piano is a glass with at least two fingers of whiskey left in it.
He looks so tragically beautiful with his bare feet planted onto the floor, still wearing the white button-down shirt and slacks from the funeral. His brown hair lays in wavy strands, the pieces covering his profile from view.
He starts to play again, a beautiful classical piece. His fingers move over the keys with such familiarity, but he stops in the middle of the song, as if it pains him to continue. Unable to stop myself any longer, I reach for him, first running my fingers through his hair, and he takes a breath, as if my touch has pulled him from whatever murky waters he’s drowning in.
A low groan escapes his lips, and he turns around, dragging me on his lap. His hands rest on my hips, and when I look into his eyes, they’re a watery green that pull me in until my lips are on his. He tastes like whiskey and grief, and it drags me under, like a hand wrapped around my throat.
