Page 81 of No Merciful Corruption

I extend my hand. “Deal.”

He takes my outstretched hand but it doesn’t feel right. When I pull him in for a hug, he holds on to me for dear life.

Lettie attempts to sidestep us. “All right, so, this is between you two⁠—”

I grab her arm before she can sneak off and pull her into our embrace. She doesn’t try to escape.

REST FOR THE WICKED

Dahlia

Karina wears haute couture to her husband’s burial.

It’s an archival piece—I could tell when Lettie laid the garment bag out on my bed this morning. A tailored black coat dress with pearl buttons and a tasteful v-neckline. It came with a leather belt but it created too much of a harsh line around the waist and drew attention to Karina’s changing body. Lettie replaced it with a scarf she tied in a voluminous bow in the middle so that the excess lace draped in a way to conceal the lower abdomen. Karina is so petite in frame that she’s easily dwarfed by big clothes and heavy fabrics.

Lettie’s choice in silhouette—an a-line cut—was intentional. It’s not the kind of thing someone would wear if they were trying to conceal weight gain but with a little clever tinkering, it can conceal enough and that’s all we need. An illusion.

She wears black gloves and her wedding ring on her left hand. Her face is partially concealed by the birdcage veil on her hat and she looks like a black swan. Beautiful, dignified, but just a little empty on the inside.

They lower Brent’s casket into the ground and Karina visibly deflates. A shaky breath leaves her lips and I can’t tell if it’s relief or grief but I reach for her hand and hold onto her anyway. She squeezes back and doesn’t let go.

For obvious reasons, the funeral was closed casket and attended mostly by Brent’s family and friends from college. Karina spent the entire day playing the role of grieving widow and she did so with grace and aplomb. I wonder if this is therapeutic for her; mourning the life she thought she’d have and the future she wanted with Brent. Maybe the red eyes and forced smiles aren’t a performance so much as they are a part of her healing process.

As soon as the casket hits dirt there’s a dramatic cry followed by soothing hushes and whispers. Karina’s eyes cut a slow and murderous path to our cousin Yulissa standing by a nearby tree with a blond little boy sitting at her feet. He looks old enough to be in kindergarten by the fall.

She whispers to me in Spanish, “I want to throw her into Brent’s grave.”

I reply, “I can if you want me to.”

Brent’s mother goes over to console Yulissa and it’s the most tasteless thing I’ve ever seen. It’s obvious she knows or at least suspects that Yulissa’s son, Omar Junior, is actually Brent’s child. Likely conceived when Brent and Karina were “on a break”. Ever since the reading of the will where it was revealed Karina stood to inherit everything, the money left to Brent by his grandparents and his million-dollar life insurance policy, things became exponentially more complicated. Brent never changed his will nor did he have the chance to do so before he died. I bet Yulissa thinks she can get a piece of that money if she proves her son is actually Brent’s but that would mean proving her current husband isn’t the father.

“I hate her.” Karina says.

“So do I.”

“And I hate his parents too. Look at them…coddling her when their son’s widow stands to the side alone. They insist on making me look bad.”

The crowd begins to disperse. Some stop to give Karina their condolences while others drop dirt and flowers into Brent’s grave. I’d burn him a second time if I could but I believe in divine punishment. He’s burning somewhere else in a flame far hotter and agonizing than the one that scorched his body here on earth.

“Come on,” I loop my arm around hers. “Let’s get out of here.”

Karina takes a step forward but then stops abruptly. She lingers at the edge of his grave with tightened fists and a somber expression.

The last few weeks have been a blur and if I feel that way, I can’t imagine what she’s going through. Karina may have fallen out of love with Brent a long time ago but there must still be some part of her that mourns him or is trying to. She was so angry with him before he died and now there’ll never be any resolution. No divorce to work through those emotions, no accountability on his part, and no apology.

On top of all that, she’s going to be a mother soon. When will she have the time or energy to focus on her own healing? Will she even allow us to help her?

I watch in real time as she shuts it all down—the urge to cry, scream, or exhibit any true human emotion. All of it buried like graves in a cemetery and she makes the mistake of thinking those bodies will never resurrect themselves.

“How does it feel?”

Brent’s mother approaches with a dour expression. Her son resembles her both in features and demeanor. Her dirty blond hair is on the verge of going gray, as evident by a few stray strands near the temples. Unlike Brent, her eyes are dark blue and lined with crow’s feet. She’s attractive in an elegant and mature way, the kind of simplistic beauty that grows with age. Soft makeup clashes with the harsh blackness of her attire and the heavy string of pearls around her neck. Her husband stands beside her, crestfallen and somber. His eyes are brown like Brent’s, hair salt and pepper.

“Barbara,” Karina clears her throat as if to say more but she comes up short.

“Are you admiring your handiwork?” She takes a threatening step forward. “Making sure he doesn’t come back?”

“We’re sorry for your loss.” I say. “My cousin and I were just leaving.”