Funeral with a View (31 page)

There was more to the
story, I was sure. But I knew I’d get no more out of Mr. Jameson no matter how
much I asked, so I let it go. He said what he’d wanted to, and I knew there was
a bigger reason behind it. Whatever he saw in me, the ‘weight’ that had me so stooped
like a hundred pound monkey on my back, would drag me down if I let it. That
the monkey on my back weighed closer to two hundred-fifty pounds and went by
the name Bill Henly was clear.

A chance meeting with my
old neighbor had given me food for thought, and think on it I would.

For three months.

Mother of Mercy Cemetery.

At last!

Now I am
finally
going
to move on. Now I am finally going to be released from this ... this … this
non-existence. I’m curious as hell to see where I’m headed.

Why the rush?

This not knowing is
killing me.

Right. Bad turn of
phrase. One cannot be killed if one is already dead. How about insane. Better?

This not knowing is
driving me insane.

Yes.

Much better.

Obviously death wasn’t
the end, but maybe my internment six feet under will be. Departed or not,
having been forced to witness this opera of human suffering for the past two
days has exhausted me. I’m spent, emotionally and spiritually.

As an aside, I’ll admit
that the funeral procession was cool. Imagine being the actual chase camera
mounted to a stock car. A very slow stock car resulting in what one would have
to call a slow-speed chase, but a chase nonetheless. Tied to my empty body as I
am, I had no choice in hovering outside the hearse as the line of cars made
their way to my eternal resting place. It was different, yet liberating in a
way, to fly through the air, being pulled along by invisible strings. Perhaps
everyone experiences the same thing. I don’t know. When and if the time comes,
make note that you do not have to duck underneath large branches as I caught
myself doing several times. Old habits of self-preservation and fear of injury
and all that jazz.

Now comes the eulogy.
It’s time for Bill to stand at the podium and give me a rousing sendoff, to tell
people how awesome I was and how the planet and humanity as a whole will be
worse off for my passing. Or something along those lines.

While I can’t speak for
the rest of the assembly, I’m interested in hearing what he has to say.

The podium is off to the
side where my casket hangs precariously over a massive chasm in the earth. An
October breeze rustles fallen leaves across the grounds. I imagine it carries a
slight chill and a hint of winter along with the dead, yet beautiful, foliage.
Other than the sound of the dancing leaves and quiet crying, it’s as silent as,
well, a cemetery.

Wind teases Bill’s hair
as he places his large hands on top of the podium.

“For those of you who
don’t know me,” he starts, looking at an index card.

An index card! He’s
using crib notes?

“… my name is Bill Henly.
I’ve known Rick for …”

His words are snatched
away by the fall breeze. A ray of sun breaks through the cloud cover and
highlights a tear on his cheek.

I’m going in for a closer
look. The nippy air should hide my cold, ghostly presence. I stop behind
Catherine, Celeste, and my immediate family. My wife holds our daughter in her
lap. This is a good spot, nice and close to my nearest and dearest. I’ll cling
to this last moment in time with them as much as possible before it’s gone.

Bill, who’s been silent
for almost a minute, tears up the index card and shoves the shreds into his
pocket.

“The heck with it. I had
a whole speech prepared. None of it seems appropriate now, so I’m going to fly
without a net.” He shrugs his wide shoulders, and attempts a sheepish grin.

After taking a deep
breath, he begins again.

“Ricky and I met in the fifth
grade. I was the new kid. The
puny
new kid. Contrary to popular belief,
I wasn’t always this gigantic.” That draws a chuckle from the group. “There was
a time when Ricky was bigger than me.

“I’ll never forget that
day,” he says, voice distant as if he’s peering back in time. “I was one of the
last ones out of school. I was shy and awkward, and I hadn’t had much of a
chance to make any friends. I hopped on my bike, ready to ride home alone, when
a bunch of middle schoolers rolled in. They were bigger, meaner, faster. They
chased me all around the school grounds. Wasn’t long before I tired out and
they caught up to me. They knocked me off of my bike and I went down hard. Do
you remember that day, Beth?” he says to my mother, sitting in the front row.

All eyes turn to her. She
wipes a tear with a tissue she’s pulled from her pocket, nods.

“There I was,” he
continues. “On the ground, knees torn up from the blacktop, crying. That didn’t
stop the kids from beating on me. I yelled out for someone, anyone, to help me.
I thought I was done for. Then I heard someone screaming “Hey! Get off him!” It
was Ricky. I found out later that he’d forgotten a book in class and came back,
hoping the janitor would let him inside to get it.”

Family, friends, everyone
is still, their rapt attention focused on Bill.

“With no regards for his
own safety, without a second thought, he charges this group of three or four kids,
swinging his backpack like a lunatic.” He shakes his head, chuckles a bit. “Ricky
was nowhere near their size, but that didn’t matter to him. Even though he
could have gotten a severe beat down, he flew in like a righteous animal,
knocking the punks in their heads with his flying bag of books until they
backed down and took off on their bikes.”

Bill shakes his head again
as if he still can’t believe it.

“He offered me a hand and
helped me up. Asked if my mom or dad were around. I was a latchkey kid so I had
nobody to go home to. Rick invited me over. He helped my beaten self and
battered bike to his house.” His face breaks into a smile. “Beth patched me up.
Gave me milk and Twinkies. Ricky and I were best friends from that day on. The
two of us ran into those bullies once we were a little older. They got a lot
more than a book bag to the head, believe you me.” A wave of laughter cascades
through the crowd.

Bill’s reminiscent smile fades
away, replaced by something stronger, something sadder.

“Ricky always had my back
no matter what. He was always there for me. Even when I …” I can see his chin
quivering. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Bill breaks down, openly
weeping. Angela, who’s been sitting a few rows back, stands up and strides to
the podium, wrapping him in a hug then taking hold of his hand.

Fortified, Bill
continues.

“I wasn’t always a great
friend to Rick. Some of the things I’ve done over the course of our friendship …
awful. Unforgivable. But the word unforgivable was never in his vocabulary. He
did forgive me. Why? Why did he rush into danger to help a perfect stranger
against horrible odds? Because that’s who he was. Ricky is—was—the kind of guy
who put others before himself no matter what. His friendship saved me more
times than I can count, and I never had the chance to repay him for that. When
he needed saving, I wasn’t there. Too little, too late,” he says, almost to
himself. “Too little, too late.”

He pauses, head bowed and
staring at the ground.

“Bill,” Angela whispers.

“It’s okay,” he says to
her, then looks up at the gathered mourners. “Although he’d never say it, and
would absolutely hate me saying it, Rick was the best of us. I’ll never stop
missing him. I loved Rick Franchitti. He was my best friend, but he was so much
more than that. He was my … he was my brother.” Bill scans the crowd slowly
from left to right, challenging anybody to dispute his claim. “He may be gone
now, but he’ll be my brother until the day I die. Wherever he is, I hope and
pray he feels the same way.”

Bill falls silent. Angela
pulls him close and they rock back and forth. There isn’t a dry eye in the
house.

I scan the crowd. These
are the people whose lives I’ve touched. In one way or another, whether it be
for decades, years, or months, these are the people who will miss me. Some more
than others, all in their own particular way, but I’ve left my mark on them.

I feel … good.

Their suffering brings me
no joy, but it does let me know that I’ve left my stamp on them. It makes me
realize that my life wasn’t wasted, that I won’t be forgotten.

Eulogy over, all words needing
to be said uttered and now part of history, Catherine and Celeste approach my
coffin. They place beautiful flowers on it. Strain shows in my wife’s features
and I know it’s a superhuman effort for her to stem off the wave of emotion.
But she’s being strong for our daughter. Stronger than I could ever be, and
that, among many other reasons, is why I’ve loved her since the first day we
met.

The procession is over.
People walk through the chilly October winds to their cars.

I can’t go with them. I
wish I could, but I can’t.

The cars are gone now,
leaving only my coffin and the cemetery employees who will lower me to my final
resting place.

Finally.

Now I can move on.

Now I can have peace.

I tapped a healthy fingernail
against the rim of my glass. The repetitive
clink
helped pass the time
as I waited in the darkened booth. I wasn’t nervous. Far from it. Calm had set
in. This was where I wanted to be. This was what I wanted to do.

The bar was filling up,
as they tend to do on Friday nights during happy hour. Patrons waved, laughed,
hugged friends, raised drinks in the air, spoke loud enough to be heard over
the Led Zeppelin someone had selected on the jukebox.

The door opened, and a
young twenty-something with dark hair and bright eyes nodded a ‘sup’ to the
bartender, shedding his black pea coat now that he was out of the stormy
October air. I shook my head. He wasn’t who I was waiting for. Not big enough,
old enough, familiar enough.

I checked my watch to
verify.

He’s late.

There was nothing
particularly special about that day. Showing up in the bar wasn’t part of some
grand plan, and I didn’t wake up thinking another poignant life event would
occur. When does anybody wake up feeling that way? No, the morning started like
any other. I got out of bed after almost getting caught fooling around with Cat
by ninja girl (little bugger), ate breakfast with my family (waffles with gobs
of syrup and three pats of butter for Pookie Bear, coffee and less saturated
waffles for the wife and I, if you must know), kissed them both, and headed
into work. Oh, I can’t leave out that I scribbled a love note in the foggy
mirror while Cat showered (aww!).

All routine, all good.

Routine didn’t last long.

For three months I’d been
thinking about the one dangling thread in my life. It wasn’t because of
Celeste’s constant questions or various discussions with Catherine on the
subject or the conversation I’d had with Mr. Jameson back at my old apartment,
although they had their part to play.

Sometimes it’s the simple
things, and simplicity presented itself in the form of a car.

I’d seen a Camaro
straight out of the late Eighties in the parking lot when I’d gotten my Chinese
takeout for lunch. Red with silver ground effects and tinted windows, it was a
carbon copy of a car I’d spent so much time driving around in since before I
was old enough to legally buy beer. While the car I knew was long gone, its
owner wasn’t, and neither were the memories of a time when he and I were inseparable,
our whole lives ahead of us.

The simple things.

That afternoon, I picked up
the phone.

It may sound awful that a
sports car was the impetus for me reaching out. I don’t see it that way. Nobody
could tell me what to do. Their input was welcome, but the decision had to be
mine. I had to make up my own mind, and I had to be all in. No half measures,
no second guessing. Forgiveness isn’t easy. Forgiving and meaning it is hardest
of all. It took a while to get there, but I wouldn’t end up like Mr. Jameson,
hunched over by the gravity of regret and the weight of grudges. The Camaro was
a sign that the time was now.

The door opened again,
and I saw him.

Bill blotted out the
dying sun and gray clouds with his bulk, searching the bar. He looked exactly the
same as when I’d last seen him over a year ago; big, handsome, larger than
life. A few single women stared, as did some who weren’t so single. He ignored
the ogling and paused when he noticed me.

I waved him over,
wondering if I could do this.

All in, good or bad.

He stopped at the bar,
then sat down across from me holding two bottles.

“I don’t know what beer
you’re into these days,” he said, setting a Newcastle in front of me, “so I
went with the old standby.”

“Good guess, but I’m
sticking with water tonight.”

“Oh. Okay. More for me
then.”

“You look good.”

“Yeah. I mean, thanks.
You, too.”

Awkwardness swallowed the
crowd noise. Bill played with his beer, not bothering to take a sip. I did the
same with my ice water.

“How’s the family?” he
asked, staring at the table.

“They’re doing well.”

“Celeste must be huge.”

“She’s growing like a
weed.”

He nodded. “Been a long
time since we had a guys' night out.”

“Yeah.”

Bill sat back and placed
both hands flat on the table. “Why did you call me, Rick?”

“I thought it was time we
talked.”

“Why here?”

“Would you have come if I
asked you to meet me in the park or anywhere else not as public for that
matter?”

“No.”

“Because I’m Italian and
I know people who could make you part of a landfill, right?”

“Something like that,” he
said, grinning slightly.

“Then there’s your
answer. And for the record, not everyone of Italian descent has mob ties.”

“Or so you’d have me
believe.” A massive sigh escaped his mouth. “Jesus Christ this is awkward.”

It was. I felt some of my
bravado slip away. I knew this would be hard, but when thrown into the middle
of it, it seemed damn near impossible. Still, I refused to squander the
opportunity.

“I want to talk about
Celeste, Bill.”

He nodded. “That’s what I
figured.”

“She misses you.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Cat and I don’t know
what to tell her. Whenever she brings you up we try to switch topics as best we
can. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“I see. I miss her, too.
I miss all of you.”

“There’s something I need
to know.”

“What’s that?”

“What are your
intentions?”

“Intentions?”

“Yes,” I said.
“Intentions. Do you have any plans whatsoever to make a claim on her? She’s
your biological daughter, and I have to know.”

Bill’s expression turned
into one of utter shock, and he sat back. “Are you asking me if I’d ever try to
steal her from you?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“No,” he said vehemently,
shaking his head. “No, no, no. I’d never do that to you, Rick. Never.”

“People say they’d never
do a lot of things, but they’re not always true to the words that come out of
their mouth.”

“Listen, Rick, and know
that this is the God’s honest truth. I love Celeste, you know that. I really do.
But I’m no father.”

“I know you’re not.” I
wasn’t being mean or trying to belittle him in any way. Those words didn’t come
from the long-dead Anti-Ricky. They came from my thoughts, my mouth, and
weren’t said out of malice or superiority. Never in my life have I felt I was
better than anyone no matter who they were or what they’ve done. “As far as
she’s concerned, I’m her father. Always have been, always will be. And as far
as I’m concerned, that door swings the other way, too. She’s mine, Bill. I
wanted to get that out in the open, and to tell you that if you ever,
ever
try to take her away from me, I’ll fight you with every fiber of my being, just
like I’d do with anybody who tried to break up my family.”

“Rick, I’m telling you
you don’t have to worry about that. Of course I want to be a part of her life.
Not in that way, though.” He paused. “If you need any help, you know,
financially, I’ll do whatever—”

I sighed at the standard
Bill response. “Is that your answer to everything? Money? This has nothing to
do with money, Bill, and you know it.”

“I know. I know. Look,
I’m doing my best here, okay? It’s like this, Rick. I can’t do what you and Cat
do. You’re great parents. You’re a great father. Do you think I could rip her
away from you like that when she’s so happy and well taken care of? It’s
amazing the bond you guys have. There’s no way I’d swoop in there and fuck it all
up. Celeste deserves better than me. She deserves you. You’ve always been the
better man, whether you realize it or not.”

“I’m not better than
anyone.”

“Don’t you get it? That’s
what makes you better, the fact that you don’t think you are. How many people
would do what you’ve done in this situation? Not many, I guarantee it.” He
rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t think I’m trying to be a deadbeat dad. I’m
not dumping her on you or washing my hands of her.”

“Then why haven’t you
been around? You haven’t even made an attempt at contact.”

“Did you want me to come
around?”

“No,” I said with a slow
shake of my head.

“Exactly. I wanted to, I
really did. I call Jude every chance I get asking about Celeste.”

“I know.”

His eyes widened. “You
do?”

“Sisters talk, Bill.
Especially Jude and Cat.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I
should have known. Rick, the main reason I haven’t been around is that I’ve caused
so much damage already. It’s not that I don’t care about Celeste. It’s because
I do care about her—and you and Cat—that I haven’t been around.” My expression
must have been quizzical because he clenched his fists and grit his teeth in
frustration. “Look, here’s how it is. I just can’t be what Celeste needs me to
be. I have so many issues I’d only mess her up. I’m not father material. I damn
well know it and so do you. No, she’s better off with you than with me. That’s
a fact. It took me a long time to come to terms with all that. The last thing I
wanted to do was show up at a time when I knew you hated my guts and have my confusion
and unresolved shit make an even bigger mess of things.”

No man wants to hear
himself say he’s lesser, and for Bill to come out and share his thoughts like
that proved to me he meant it more than anything else.

“Shit,” he said and
grabbed his beer, downing it in one shot. “How the hell did we end up here?”

“A long line of
mistakes.”

He nodded. Time passed,
how much I don’t exactly know, and people milled about, laughing, drinking,
flirting, talking as if we didn’t exist, until he finally stopped playing with
the empty bottle and said, “Well, now that that’s out of the way, I guess I’ll
go. You’ve got what you came for.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

“No? What else is there,
Rick? I know the end of the road when I see it. It’s been a long time coming. I’m
almost glad to have everything out in the open.”

I took a deep breath, engaging
my emotional pause button. Clearing up the Celeste situation was only part of
the reason I’d called Bill. One thing remained.

“I forgive you,” I said,
slow and measured.

Bill, who’d been half out
of his seat and preparing to leave, sat down.

“What?” he asked,
slack-jawed.

“I forgive you. For
everything.”

I knew I meant it when
the words didn’t leave me hollow inside. Up till then, the theory was sound,
the application untested. Now that it had been said, I felt myself sitting up
straighter, the burden of regret and grudges lifted.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Lots of
things brought us to this point, Bill. I spent a long time hating you for what
you’d done, but I think of what a gift Celeste is and how much I love her, how
much she loves me. I think of Cat and how the prospect of being without her
scares me so badly I can’t breathe. I think back and realize that no single one
of us is to blame. Everyone screwed up. You, me, Cat, all of us.”

“See,” Bill whispered.
“Told you you were better than me.”

“We’re family. Now more
than ever. And it goes beyond being related. I forgive you because I want to,
not because I have to. That’s what you do for family. That’s what you do for
the people you care about.”

“This … this is what you
want?”

“This is what I want,” I
said, nodding.

“Really?”

“Really really. Things
will never be the same. Maybe they don’t have to be. I don’t know. We should at
least give it our best shot, though.”

Bill’s cheeks puffed out
with an exhale. “Talk about a modern family.”

“Only without the same
sex marriages.”

He smirked a little.
“Good. I’m not attracted to you anyway, not that there’s—”

“Anything wrong with
that,” I said, completing his sentence.

“Now, Sophia Vergara is
another story.”

“You’d have to go through
Ed O’Neil.”

“Al Bundy or not, I could
totally kick Ed O’Neil’s ass.”

I toasted him with my
water. “Totally.”

“I’ll drink to that.” The
second Newcastle which had been neglected and left to sweat didn’t last long
after he picked it up. “So, water under the bridge?”

Deep, emotional waters
under a bridge built out of bad mistakes and horrible choices. I couldn’t have
known it back when I was twenty-three, but we’d set the oddest of precedents
that wild summer evening. It’s strange how life can eat its own tail.

“Not yet, but maybe one
day … as long as we work at it,” I said, truly hoping we’d get to the other
side of the bridge intact.

I was about ready to tell
Bill I’d changed my mind about having a beer when my cell phone rang.

“It’s Cat,” I said. “Hold
on a second. Hey, hon. Sorry. Guess I lost track of time.” The cell reception
inside the bar was beyond awful. Building crowd noise emanating from
increasingly inebriated customers didn’t help either. Cat’s voice came through
as rough static, so I put a finger in one ear and pressed the phone harder to
my other. “Cat? Can you hear me?”

“ … -icky? … there?”

“Why don’t you take it
outside?” Bill asked, and held up his empties. “I’ll go get us another couple?
You’re coming back, right?”

I gave him a thumbs up
and said into the phone, “Hold on Cat. Can’t hear anything in here. I’m taking
you outside.”

I left Bill to elbow his
way through the crowd to the bar, a task that wouldn’t be difficult given his
size and determination, and walked outside. Heavy gun-metal gray clouds looked
like a rough ceiling made out of dirty cotton. Wind played with an array of
multi-colored umbrellas pedestrians had opened up to fend off fat rain drops
which had begun to fall, landing on the sidewalk and street with large splats.