CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT few days blurred together: smiling politely for visitors he didn't know, soothing his mother, sorting through his father's things. At least the bastard had been smart enough to leave a will, but there were still clothes, books, and bits and pieces his mother didn't want. They didn't get around to the fight they should have had.
And through all of it there was Martin, calm and cool, picking up every dropped ball, and remembering every detail. Sometimes dressed like Mr. Rogers, other times like a secret agent, he felt like the only real thing in hazed-out chaos.
On the morning of the funeral, Arthur found his black suit perfectly pressed, and his shoes shined and waiting for him when he woke. There was also a blank pad and a pen, a subtle reminder that he might want to actually write his father's eulogy.
He'd been avoiding that. Every time he sat down to try, all that came out was a string of expletives and insults.
In the living room, he found his mother dressed in dark blue. "I just couldn't wear black," she said even before good morning. "I look just awful in black and that's such a vain thing to say. Your father never liked me in black and-"
He gently pulled her close, careful not to wrinkle her dress. "You look fine. It's okay." He felt a tremor run through her and she pulled away.
"Nope." Her voice was tight. "No tears yet."
Martin appeared from somewhere holding out a box of tissue. "Thank you, dear."
He glanced at Martin. He was actually wearing a black suit. Properly black instead of the very dark gray of his work clothes. And not just the suit, but his shirt and tie were black as well.
Arthur looked away because it hadn't been real before that. Picking a coffin, sorting his clothes, trying to write a eulogy, none of it had been real until he saw Martin dressed in black. It was like a brick slammed into his chest and he clenched his jaw tight. His father was dead. In a few minutes, he would drive to the VA Hall, attend his father's funeral, then bury him under some grass with a view of nothing interesting. It was happening. It was real. His father was gone and it hurt.
A hand was rested on his shoulder. It was nearly as fine and light as his mother's but it seemed to ground him into the Earth like the roots of a tree.
"We should go."
"Yeah," Arthur nodded resisting the urge to take Martin's hand and pull him close. "We don't want to be late.
ARTHUR LOOKED over the crowd. More people had shown up than he expected. He recognized most of them. There were guys from his dad's old unit that he would meet up with every so often. Guys from the lumber yard where he used to work. Guys he hung out with at the bar. On one side was his mother and her friends from church, there for support. On the other was Hanh and his sisters. It was Martin's fast feet and quick words that had kept the two groups apart.
Some minister he didn't recognize had spoken. One of his dad's old war buddies told a story he'd heard a thousand times but instantly forgot. Then he was gestured to stand. He looked down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand; his final failed attempt at writing a eulogy in advance.
He looked back up, his heart beginning to race and his mouth going dry. His eyes skimmed over the crowd, desperate for a lifeline of some sort. His gaze fell on Martin, sitting in the back, calm and still like a stone that had to be built around, impossible to move.
"My father contradicted himself." The borrowed words came without conscience thought. "He contained multitudes." Arthur felt his heart begin to settle. "There are many in this room today who loved Jason Drams. And there are many who hated him. And for the most part they are the same people. This is the eulogy I tried to write." He held up the crumpled paper. "It's just the word 'bastard' written about fifty times. And he would have been the first to agree with that assessment. He would probably have wanted me to read it word for word, laughing the whole time. He was contradictions. He loved this place, but railed against its small-town mindset. He was proud to have served and horrified by things he did while serving. He could work himself half to death yet still seem lazy. Give you the shirt off his back, but still seem cheap. He loved so many people so deeply, but could never quite work out how not to hurt them. He judged no one, when he was judged by so many." There was a crack in his voice and a burn in his throat. He locked his eyes on Martin, a solid lifeline. "And he inspired love and devotion in those who should have probably just walked away. He tried to be a good man, at the end of the day. He was a good man. He had his faults, flaws, and there were things he just screwed up royally, but he acknowledged those. He never tried to present himself as something other than what he was. A loving, charming, big hearted, total bastard." He quickly wiped away a tear that had escaped. "There are grumpy, half-frozen crows on the lawn outside. They don't know that a man who was loved has died and even if they did, they wouldn't care. He'd tell us not to be maudlin, not to cry. He'd want a party in his name and be disappointed if at least one person didn't pass out. He was a good man, and for all his flaws, that's how I will try to remember him."
Arthur sat back down, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mother took his hands and leaned against his shoulder. The minister got back up, said something Arthur didn't really hear. His mother gave him a push when it was time to lift the casket. It seemed so short. He was sure his father had been taller. Some of his dad's old army buddies, the ones in better health, helped him make the slow procession to the hearse. People started to mill around. Only a few would head up to the burial, the rest would avoid the biting wind. Jennine said she'd go back to the house to set up the little luncheon.
He spotted Hanh and his sisters at the edge of the crowd, watching. A flash of rage, for a moment, overwhelmed the grief. It wasn't right. Hanh loved his father. She should be the one rallied around and cared for as the grieving widow, instead of being seen as some foreign mistress, their love somehow worthless, despite all their years. Martin followed his gaze, then stepped up to his mother, handing her tissue and turning her away, speaking softly as she did.
Arthur pushed passed the guests, each wanting a moment to express sympathy and stopped in front of Hanh. Her eyes were red but there was no sign of shed tears. He pulled her close and he felt her arms go up around him holding him tight, strong from years of hard work.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, trying to apologize for himself, his father, society and every other drop of bullshit he could think of. She nodded against his chest then pulled away. He hugged each of his sisters, next muttering some words they all knew were useless, but they were the kind of things you said anyway. He hugged Sonia last.
"Are you going to come back?" she asked.
"Can I get a reservation at your dessert place?"
"No, but if you get fired I'll let you wash dishes."
They both smiled as much as they could. "Thanks." He hugged her again.
"You know you've got more balls than I ever thought, bringing your boyfriend to this."
"He's not my-- "
"Whatever." She gave him one more quick hug. "Don't be a stranger."
"You, too."
IT WAS only standing at the grave site that the little niggling thought that he was forgetting something sprang fully formed. He wanted to lean over and whisper to Martin, a thread of almost panic in him, but he had placed himself at the back of the small crowd. The minister recited prayers and Arthur held his mother as she finally, properly cried. He wasn't ready yet.
When they began to shuffle over the dried winter grass to the cars, he managed to slide back to Martin.
"Who's at the library today?"
"I left instructions for Julia to present the lessons today. She is nearly twelve and showing leadership capabilities."
"Good. Okay. It just hit me and I couldn't believe I forgot."
Martin smiled a little. "You've had other things on your mind."
THE HOUSE was already filled when they arrived home from the cemetery. They separated him from his mother quickly, the ladies setting her down on the couch and handing her cake while men who had known his father patted him on the back and told stories about him that he'd already heard but was willing to hear one more time. Martin slid through the crowd in his black suit, giving off the feeling that he was stage managing the whole thing, maximum expressions of condolences with minimal drama.
It was, however, Jennine who took a small flask from a pocket and poured a helping into his coffee.
"Thank you."
"You looked like you were going to shove a cake fork into your head if you had to listen to one more war story sober."
He took a sip of his coffee, now sweet with rum. "I needed this. Don't suppose you could slip some of that to my mom?" he joked.
"Already did."
"Does she know that?!" As far as he knew, his mother had never taken a drink in her life.
Jennine smiled at him. "Your mother can drink and smoke and knows every four-letter word in the book. She just always insisted on being proper in front of you to make up for..." She waved a hand, somehow summing up his entire life and his parents' relationship in a simple gesture.
He tried to picture his mother cussing. He couldn't. "She didn't have to."
"No, she didn't. But she did. Lot of things she didn't have to, but she did."
IT WAS evening by the time the last of the guests left and Arthur was drunk. He sat down on the couch next to his mother. Her cheeks were flushed and she was blinking slowly.
"You're drunk." He was too far gone to filter his words.
"So are you." She leaned against his side. "I liked what you said about your father." Her words came soft and slow and her breath smelled of coffee and rum.
"Even though I cussed?"
"He was a fucking bastard of a bastard bastard."
Arthur choked then began to laugh. The laughter shook his body and he couldn't stop, couldn't begin to rein it in. Somewhere though, the laughter turned to tears he had no more hope of stopping. He wrapped his arms around his mother and felt her hiccupping sobs against his chest. They stayed like that for a long time, the sobs becoming giggles becoming sobs again. Finally, when they pulled apart, they found fresh glasses of water and a box of tissue waiting for them.