Aunt Claudia decides to “host” a reception after Dad’s funeral at our house. About twenty to thirty people circumnavigate our first floor, walking from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the entryway. Some stop for a few minutes to gather in the living room in front of my mother, who sits in the corner like a battered prizefighter refusing to answer the bell. But most seem content to hang out in the kitchen and feast on the casseroles that keep showing up on our doorstep.
Seriously, what the fuck is up with all these casseroles?
I haven’t seen Jack or my sister for hours. Aunt Claudia told me they went over to Nancy Friedman’s house. Nancy babysits Jack on weekdays when Mom and Dad are at work. She’s like family—better than family, if we’re comparing her to Aunt Claudia.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. “You ready to get out of here for a little while?”
I turn and face her. She’s wearing an understated black dress. Her hair is more wavy than curly now, not quite as dark as I remember it being. She smells the same.
“Laura?”
“Hello, Hank.”
I walk around to the passenger side door of Laura’s silver Calais. The paint looks a little faded, even at night. “Still got the old girl, huh?”
“Up to my ears in student loans.” Laura opens her door. “I’m driving her till the wheels fall off.”
We get in the car. “Where to?”
“Liquor store?”
I nod. “My home away from home.”
I walk into the liquor store. I hand the store clerk a pint of Jim Beam with my right hand, slide a ten-dollar bill across the counter with my left. “I’ll also take a pack of Marlboro Lights and one of those fifty cent lighters please.”
The clerk reaches up for the smokes and the lighter. “Marlboro Lights you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hard or soft pack?”
“Hard.”
He slides the smokes and the lighter across the counter. He’s a bald guy, in his early seventies. Wrinkles and liver spots vie for real estate on his face. “What are you doin’?” he asks, a hint of scorn in his voice.
“Just getting some whiskey and some smokes.” I slide my driver’s license across the counter. “Look, here’s my ID.”
“No, that’s not what I’m talking about.” He slides my driver’s license back to me without picking it up or even looking down at it. “I know who you are.”
“You do, huh?” I start packing the smokes against my hand, as if in affirmation of what’s to come next.
“You’re John’s boy. Hank, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The old man shakes his head. “It ain’t right, what happened to your dad. Just ain’t right.”
“No, sir, it isn’t.” Complete strangers presuming a level of intimacy with my family’s affairs make me uncomfortable. I remind myself he’s just being nice.
“He was a good man, a great man if you ask me.”
“You knew him?”
“You see that El Dorado parked outside?”
“The white convertible?”
“That’s the one.”
“What’s that, about a seventy-six?”
“I see you got your father’s car sense.”
“Lucky guess.”
“I couldn’t get qualified for a loan with the bank, so your dad set up some non-interest payment plans with me. Paid her off last month.”
“Good for you.” I look outside, impatient. I’m over this conversation.
The old man holsters the bourbon in a brown paper bag. “Your mother, she still working over at the school?”
“Yes, she’s still at the Ridge.”
“Please let her know she’s in everyone’s prayers.”
“I will.” I grab the bag, scrambling for the exit.
“Hank?”
Halfway out the door, I poke my head back in. I wish this fucking guy would stop talking to me. “Yes, sir.”
“You forgot something.” The old man walks up to me. He holds my ten dollar bill in front of my face. He stuffs it in the front pocket of my leather jacket. “I ain’t takin’ your money, least not tonight.”
“Thanks.” My gratitude is assured and swift. If there’s one thing I never let stand in the way of free booze and smokes, it’s pride.
I twist the cap off the pint of Beam before I get to the car. I tilt the bottle to my lips with my right hand, a cigarette already lit in my left hand. The woody bite of the bourbon is both sharp and soothing all at once.
Laura puts the car in reverse. “Where to now?”
“The cemetery, if you don’t mind.”
I take four pulls off the whiskey in succession. I offer Laura a drink. She declines. Limestone columns flanked by a black wrought iron fence appear on my right. “Turn here,” I say.
We pass under an engraved limestone arch that reads “Whiskeyville Cemetery,” one of the few nostalgic reminders of the town’s former alias. We ignore the sign that says the cemetery closes at dusk.
“Way in the back, behind the mausoleum, right?” Laura asks.
I nod. “Yeah, just behind it. How’d you know?”
“I came to the service, but I kept out of sight.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I felt weird. I know your friends have never cared for me too much.”
“I would’ve liked for you to have been there, with me.”
Laura reaches over, squeezes my hand. “Well, I’m here now.”
We park behind the mausoleum. Twenty yards in front of us, a rise of fresh cut flowers sits beneath a sugar maple. Laura offers me her hand. I accept her invitation.
“Thank you.”
“Please, Hank.” Laura tears up. “You don’t have to thank me for this.”
We approach the grave. Easels of red and white carnations and baby’s breath are piled on top of one another. Embossed ribbons saying things like “Dad” and “Husband” and “Uncle” and “Boss” reflecting in the moonlight. Several votive candles still lit on the perimeter of the mess.
I let go of Laura’s hand and reach down to the ribbon labeled “Dad.” I trace the words with my fingers. Laura kneels beside me, laying her hand over mine. She traces the words with me.
The gravestone is still weeks from being delivered. Until then, all I have are these dying flowers and a mound of earth. I take my hand off the ribbon labeled “Dad” and dig my fingers into the loose soil.
“What’s the weather forecast for the next few days?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Laura answers. “Chance of rain tomorrow or the day after, maybe?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
I say this knowing the rain will come. It will pitter-patter through the red-green leaves of the sugar maple and pool on top of this Indiana clay. And when the rain stops, the clay will dry. And it will harden.
All I can think about is the clay.
Laura kisses me on the cheek and then the throat. I can feel the warmth of her tears on the side of my face. I think I might even be a little turned on right now.
I stand up, push her away. “Bringing you here was a mistake.”
“But I want to be here.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How can you say that?”
“We haven’t so much as spoken to one another in more than a year.”
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you.”
“Caring about me? Don’t insult my intelligence.”
The tears are now streaming down Laura’s face. She doesn’t even try to wipe them off. “Can’t you just let me be here for you?”
Laura is still my one great love. I’ve wondered, to the point of obsession, why we didn’t make it. Tonight, that answer is laid bare: we will never learn how to stop hurting one another. I kiss her on the forehead. “I’m sorry.”
Laura wraps her arms around me. “I loved him, too, Hank.”
I run my hands through her hair. “You were always Dad’s favorite.”