5
Trystan
Even though I'm in the air-conditioned back seat, sweat is beading at my temple. I have to get myself under control. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes closed. The car stops, engine running, outside Grace Cathedral. I want to be pissed at Emmy or whoever she is for breaking into my phone, but I'm reluctantly impressed. More pressing though is the reality of where I am.
"All right?" my driver asks, staring at me through the reflection of the rearview mirror.
I blow out a breath. "Yeah. Are you okay with waiting?"
"Your dime. Your time." She shrugs.
I look out the tinted windows at the parked cars and the people milling around the entrance. I don't recognize anyone. Not surprising as I haven't had anything to do with this family since I was a child. Not by choice back then. But by choice now.
The phone on the seat next to me buzzes. I expect it be yet another call or voicemail from “David.” Boyfriend? Jealous husband? Hacker contact? Who am I kidding? Emmy is no more a hacker than I'm the prodigal son. I don't know what possessed me to suddenly accuse her. I guess I felt uncomfortable with our instant and surprising intimacy, and her admission she'd broken into my phone gave me a perfect out that I grabbed with both hands. I look at the phone, stalling for time before I have to get out and walk into that church. She's in New York. In my city. And I'm in hers.
As soon as most of the people congregating outside have moved into the church, I do my top button back up, pull my tie back to my neck, and step out of the vehicle.
On my way toward the entrance of Grace Cathedral, I see my cousin Beau. At least I think it's Beau.
"Trystan?"
"Yeah, Beau. Wow. Look at you." He's grown up and thinned out. I can't help smiling at his warm brown eyes that remind me of happier times in my distant childhood.
"Me? What about you?" His eyes rake over my suit, the Patek Filipe on my wrist and down to my Gucci loafers. "Something tells me this is your normal dress code, and you're not just dressed up of the funeral. Unlike me. I'm normally in shorts and Dockers." He tugs at his collar. "I'm dying in this suit."
It's a little ill-fitting, but I don't comment on it. "You're looking good though."
"Yeah, no longer the chubby kid. Damn, I'm glad you're here. I was hoping you'd come."
"I didn't want to."
"Probably not, but I've been following your successes, and I was hoping you'd come down and rub their faces in it."
I bob my head back, surprised.
"What? You think I didn't think they were fucking psycho for throwing you guys out?"
I swallow and grab the back of my neck. "No, I just, uh, didn't think you knew. We were kids."
"Well, I didn't for years, I just thought you and your mom moved. I was bummed.”
"We did move."
"I mean, moved by choice. But then, well, I overheard some shit growing up. If it's any consolation, they fought about it until the end. And I'm sorry about your mother."
Scowling, I let the words roll over me, unsure how they make me feel.
"Come on," says Beau, oblivious to my discomfort. "Let's get you inside. I have to help carry the coffin. Just waiting on the hearse to arrive." He grimaces.
"I can see myself in. I'm not sitting up front with her."
Beau hesitates. "You sure?"
I nod once. Decisively. "Let's catch up after the service."
The phone in my pocket buzzes again once more. I pull it out.
Emmy: I'm sorry for your loss.
I quickly type out That makes one of us, then I delete it and write a simple Thank you. Just then the hearse pulls up.
I tense, watching, sizing up the suited men who come to help bear the coffin. In a parallel life perhaps I'd be one of the six.
With Beau is his father, my uncle; he's smaller than I remember. In my memories he's large and mean. Now he looks older, flaccid and unkempt. Weak.
I blow out a breath and hurry toward the entrance, watching as they and four other men ease the coffin of glossy dark wood out of the hearse and heft it up to their shoulders.
Some last stragglers scurry inside to get their seats. I follow them in.
Standing in the dim, cool church at the back, I feel none of the expected emotions. Not that I know what I should be feeling. My eyes glide down each row, noting coiffed hair and black hats, until I get to the front. The stiff neck and shoulders of the Montgomery matriarch holds her head high. Her gray hair is tied tight in an elegant chignon. I presume the small hat she wears hangs a tasteful veil over her eyes.
I do feel a spark of something then. The prick of a little boy's fear rushing back at me through the years as if I hadn't grown up the last two decades. The dread of being a disappointment. The shame of it. The utterly helpless feeling of how I couldn't change to be what they wanted so they could love me. But with all these emotions, anger emerges too. Anger at how one woman could so utterly destroy lives she didn't feel worthy of fitting into to her social order. And hatred. With every fiber of my being, I hate Isabel Montgomery.
Maybe I really should consider a shrink.
I don't know what makes me do it. But I pull the phone out of my pocket.
Talk to me, I type. I need a distraction. Is Trystan really your favorite name?
I slink into a pew at the back, nodding to an elderly couple I don't recognize. She hands me a hymnal. "Thanks," I whisper, and she nods, facing forward again. As soon as I look down at the phone, though, I feel her staring daggers at the side of my face. I look up and stare right back at her until she drops her eyes and looks forward. Her husband glances at me, and I nod, looking away.
Emmy: It really is. Tristan was a knight of Author's roundtable. But mostly, it reminds me of a movie I adore. Stardust. Have you seen it?
Me: I don't watch a lot of movies. Don't have a whole lot of time.
Emmy: Well, if you ever find yourself at a loose end with two hours free, I highly recommend it. There's comedy, romance, murder, family feuds, gay pirates, and witchcraft.
Me: That sounds like something I'd avoid at all costs. There's enough of that in real life.
Emmy: Color me intrigued with your life! Which part, the murder, the gay pirates, or the witchcraft?
Emmy: Hold up. My cab just pulled up at my destination. Bit of a dodgy neighborhood so have to keep my wits about me. Text u later.
It bothers me Emmy is not safe. She has my phone, of course I want her to be safe. I want my phone back.
Sighing, annoyed that I no longer have her texting as a distraction, I put my phone away just as Beau and the other pallbearers turn from the front to find their places. My gaze tracks down the aisle toward them and passes Isabel Montgomery again. She turns her head then and looks right at me as if she'd known exactly where I was sitting. The years have taken their toll. She looks weary, and so, so sad.
Something heavy and uncomfortable turns over inside me.
I blink and look away.