The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  Steeling herself, Christina offered the doctor a court nod, and a smile that felt more like a grimace, picked up the pamphlets and prescriptions, and strode out the door.

  She was unsteady on her feet; the tears that rolled down her cheeks were as relieving as they were stifling. She could feel the muscles of her chin tremble like a small child and as she looked toward the grand window, almost as if believing the light could soothe her, she knew she'd gone past crying, but rather slipped into the kind of desolate sobbing that came from a person drained of all hope. It wasn’t clear, but the reflection that stared back at her seemed helpless. She hated helpless. Beyond that reflection however was a courtyard, lined with blooming greens and benches. On the path man had been pushing a woman on a wheel chair. Christina listened to her own wails and trailed this elderly couple until they’d vanished behind a bush. She wondered what that woman had, and if she’d had it her whole life?

  Thoughtlessly, she'd snuck her hand into her bag and pulled out the three pamphlets of smiling people, energetic people, and ripped it apart. She highly doubted that she would be able to smile like that. Did the people in those pictures even have leukemia? Were they just models told to pose for a banner? She wasn't relievedwatching the papers fall limp to the ground, in fact, it was almost anti-climactic.

  There was static in her head after that, the side effect of the constant fear, constant stress she'd become acquainted with.

  Allowing her legs lead her to the confines of the bathroom, Christina made no attempt to conceal her raw screams, easily letting her loose shoulders shake, hands hanging low, and making no attempt to wipe away her own tears. This was her life, her reality. She'd tried to escape it for much too long, but it had found her, her past, it had caught up to her and whether she liked it or not, she had to accommodate it.

  Glaring at her own reflection in the mirror—tired, tired, reddened eyes stared back at her, still swimming in a shallow pool.Skin of almonds in autumn had taken on the hues of the harvest moon—Christina made an attempt to compose herself, despite wanting wither away, to allow her disease get the best of her like Michel had.

  Dragging her, swollen eyes from the reflective glass, Christina slipped out of the restroom, one thing in mind;

  This was her new life and she had to accept it.

  She would have taken the elevator to her left, it would have lead her down to the reception, out the doors and into the street, but once more, she allowed her legs carry her blank mind.

  She found herself by the grand window, crouched by the pieces of rippled paper, her fingers cascading over the scattered pieces. With her jaws clenched, Christina picked up what she could and with one last dawdling glance at the elderly couple that were making another round about the courtyard, shestuffed the shredded pieces back into her bag.

  Detective Harrington hadn’t intended to poke his head into 28th Precinct, at least not until later that afternoon, if indeed he could make it. He’d decided however to head out of Harlem and towards Manhattan Valley where Claire and Juliana Harrington had agreed to meet with him over a morning cup of cold brew and a scone. With the week he’d had so far, he could use a morning cup of Joe.

  He’d pulled up by the curb of a café-that was a family favorite; a place that was yet to be renewed. He couldn’t forget the two story pealing grey building with tinted windows and a tacky neon sign that read Papa Daniel’s coffee and Scones. It was a down to earth business owned by a notable neighborhood name—Papa-Daniels. The old man had opened the business during detective Harrington’s ripe childhood. At the time, if Harrington could properly recall, there hadn’t been anything significant in the slot where the coffee shop had later been situated. Though later on, Papa Daniels had kicked business into gear targeting neighborhood teenagers and young adults that would most take pleasure in his business. He wondered how business was nowadays?

  Barron gave room to the nostalgia that gurgled in his abdomen. There was nothing too special about the place besides the fact that it was a stone throw from their family home. Hmm, Barron would like to pay his old room a visit when the dust settled. He wondered if Juliana had turned it into a laundry room as she’d always threatened to do when he moved out to college.

  He hadn’t returned to piece the puzzle together. He’d schooled in California State, barely poking his head back home during the holidays. He’d had his reasons. And much like any college story, he’d had his brain churned to mush by a petite caramel skinned Latina. To a nineteen-year-old Barron, she was exotic, exciting, and he couldn’t get enough. So he’d trailed her like a lovelorn puppy, his family had easily become a second choice for any holiday she didn’t want to spend with him. She’d spent all her time with him. He’d been close, days from proposing after their graduation when she’d confessed that she couldn’t be with him any longer. She didn’t love him. She’d tried to, she hadn’t been capable. He’d joined the force soon after and with his head ducked, climbed up the career ladder to the position of homicide detective 28th Precinct.

  Through the door that jingled above Barron, he’d easily made out his sister and mother. He hadn’t seen them in quite a while. The last he’d seen of Claire, he’d paid her a visit at her dorm at NYU. That had been about three-months ago if he could properly recall. Yes, three-months-ago. He’d been dropping off supplies she’d asked him for and when he’d gotten there, she’d folded, confessing that much like him, she’d been awed by the splendor of a college affair and her grades had begun to slip. How could he have let that afternoon evade him, he’d felt closer to her in that room than he had in a while and he’d been thankful for that day. As for Juliana, she was almost as estranged as Lawrence had been to him. The last he’d seen of her had been a week after his college graduation when she’d warned him not to join the force and haul away the degree they strained to give him. He’d overlooked her concerns and joined anyway.

  His mother and sister had been adorned in black as if just returning from the funeral. All at once, Barron felt out of place rather clothed in khakis and a white button down. He’d barely known when they would bury his father. He felt like shit to say the least. But that was what this visit was for, to ask the right questions about his father.

  He’d crossed the distance to their table in the middle of the room beneath the fan. Juliana had spotted him first and risen to her feet to pull him into a hug. One that he’d wished lasted just a little longer. When she’d pulled apart, Claire had tugged him into a curt side hug and returned to her seat rather gesturing for him to occupy the third one in the round table. He’d done just that. “Mother, Claire, how are you?” Why did he feel as though he were talking to Sheriff Robinson and Lieutenant Watson all over again?

  “Lawrence was brutally murdered; we’re not exactly lying in a bed of lilies, Barron. I can see you haven’t stopped asking pointless questions.” She was bitter, she had just lost her husband, it was expected. Why wasn’t he sour? He’d just lost his father and he was feeling like an outsider in his own family.

  “I’m sorry for asking.” He nodded for a barista to address their table. Though when his eyes climbed to Juliana’s he’d instantly regretted his decision. “What?” He’d asked.

  “We know you haven’t been there for Lawrence all that much, but you’re not even acting as if you’re related to him.” Claire offered at the same time the waiter stumbled over. Barron had ordered a black coffee to jump-start his day. When the waiter was out of earshot he said;

  “Look, I know I haven’t been public with my emotions, but his death bothers me, just as much.” They didn’t believe him. His guilt worsened. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he feel more than guilt? Why couldn’t he shed even a single tear on behalf of his father? The situation made him sick. He didn’t need his mother or sister to tell him how much of a failure he was as a son, he knew.

  “Doesn’t look like it.” Claire voiced.

  “Leave the boy, he might have his reasons. In any case, your father’s body is being embal
med as we speak and he will be cremated by tomorrow. Try not to miss the funeral ceremony at the Manhattan Valley Catholic Church before the cremation. I am at the very least expecting you to say a few words on his behalf.” Juliana Harrington had said.

  “Cremated?” Barron didn’t know how to feel about his father burning in some incinerator after how much he’d endured at the point of death.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Barron. What’s wrong with cremating, Dad?” Dad, it had been years since Barron had called Lawrence that. And he’d missed the window to squeeze it in before Lawrence was killed. Like a sneeze that never came, Barron had to sit with the discomfort of a sadness that never produced tears in his steel grey eyes.

  The waiter had returned with his coffee and this time, Claire had ordered a muffin and some hot chocolate.

  “I thought… Lawrence always struck me as a classic burial-in-a-graveyard kind of guy.” He passively said.

  “We’d spent his last days with him; we would know what he’d wanted.” Juliana said. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but it was the truth. But that didn’t mean Barron didn’t have a say, this was still his father and all three of them had to make a decision over what to do with the body.

  “I know I wasn’t there when Lawrence needed me, but I’m trying to make amends, I want to avenge his death and let him know that I cared, in my own way, I cared about him.” He’d brought the mug to his lips and sipped, suddenly prickly beneath his mother’s glare. Her eyes weren’t like his, a steel grey. They were dark green that glimmered in certain lightings. But Claire hadn’t inherited that, neither had she inherited Lawrence’s grey eyes. Hers were a soft blend of both; a dark grey that in the sun glimmered green.

  “And how’s that going?” Claire wanted to know.

  “I’m waiting on the transcripts of his messages, but according to our criminalist down at 28th Precinct, we’re looking for someone on the force, or someone who recently left the force that meets our profile.” The waiter returned with Claire’s order and vanished just as quickly.

  “A police officer shot, Dad.” Claire echoed. She wasn’t all that young, in her early twenties; Claire Harrington had already made a name for herself in the business world producing and selling journals to the public. “Wow, it makes me wonder who could have done this since he’d hardly ever been at the other side of the law.”

  “Yeah,” Barron said, then, a bulb sparked in his head.

  “Did either one of you know of a Sustainable Funds Conference Lawrence had thrown with Terrence Gresham?” Barron placed his cup on the table and run his clammy hands over his khaki pants; a big mistake since it left finger streaks running down his thighs, he only hoped they would dry before he had to leave. He’d heard about the Sustainable Funds conference from Edward Marsh a little after they’d discussed the 9mm shell casing he’d bagged from the scene.

  “Of course we do, Dad would drone on and on about it.” Claire had said over a bite of her muffin.

  “He’d dreaded that thing. And I’d warned him not to throw it. But I’d let him, he was after all the investor and not me.” Juliana almost seemed agitated with the memory.

  “What had he told you about it?” Barron asked.

  “He’d complained about someone slipping in a company into their index. This company had been marketed and pushed to investors who’d lunged at it and returned with a loss.” Claire answered reaching for her steaming mug.

  “So Gresham Square had faced lawsuits?” He’d leaned further in his seat.

  “Oh they were up to their neck with it. That’s probably why Terrence had let your father go from the firm.” Juliana said. Barron frowned.

  “You knew about Terrence firing Lawrence?”

  “If you were home you would have known that Lawrence hardly kept his burdens to himself.” Claire pitched before taking another bite. If only he’d returned home just a few days ago. He’d never had an agenda to, but goddamn if he’d made one.

  “Did he mention the name of the company? Was he able to find who’d slipped it in?”

  When both women shook their head, Barron staggered to his feet. He needed to look into the lawsuits Gresham Square managed to keep out of the scent of the constantly sniffing media. “Thanks again for coffee; Mother, Claire. I won’t miss the funeral tomorrow!” He’d dropped a twenty dollar bill from his shirt pocket and begun on his way to Wellington & Turner, Christina Gresham would know a thing or two about the lawsuits.

  He’d thought to give her a call before popping up at her office, though as he maneuvered Broadway towards W 134th Street, he’d shoved the thoughts aside, particularly because all he’d had was her email from her contact card and not her cell number. That needed to change, she seemed like an asset to his case, he would need an easier means of contacting her.

  He was curious to meet with the Attorney whose skin wailed of autumn and eyes a dash of hickory. He’d deliberated over whether or not she would be in the office when he got there. He hoped she would be. Her help on this case, however little would bring him that much closer to understand what truly happened to his father.

  He didn’t know whether to be thankful for the clunky traffic outside Wellington & Turner or not. Any other day, he would have pulled up by the curb, not intending to linger at the firm too long. Though circumstances hadn’t permitted his half-assed decision to leave his car by the curb. He’d been redirected to a parking lot he didn’t even know the legal enterprise owned. He’d pulled up two cars down from a waiting cab. And that’s where he’d seen her; the woman with skin of autumn and eyes of hazel. She’d been loading boxes into the trunk of this particular cab. This didn’t sit right with him. Not in the slightest. What would that mean for his case? Whatever it meant left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t sit too long in his car deliberating it. He’d rather climbed out, the driver door hanging open and darted over to where she’d been lifting yet another cardboard box. He’d gently tugged it from her, stumbling slightly; unprepared for the weight. He straightened saying;

  “Here I thought you could help me out with my case, Gresham?”

  “Detective, what brings you to my former workplace?” Former workplace, he’d nearly winced on her behalf. She didn’t seem bothered, or maybe she did and he wasn’t too observant. Former workplace, what would that mean for his case?

  “Care to explain why Wellington & Turner is your former workplace?” He readjusted the box in his hands.

  “I no longer work for Wellington & Turner for personal reasons. So, unfortunately, Harrington, I doubt I can be much help to you.” She said in a steady voice.

  “Mind sharing those personal reasons over lunch?” She shook her head. “I just want to talk.” Barron Harrington added.

  “About?”She’d seemed astray in her own thoughts. “There’s no need to take me out to lunch, Detective. I don’t exactly feel comfortable sharing why I left Wellington & Turner.” She’d explained guiding him to the trunk of the waiting cab. He’d placed the box in, and turned to her.

  “I’ll cut to the chase then, I want to know more about the Sustainable Funds Conference Terrence and Lawrence had organized. According to a source someone slipped a company into their index. They’d marketed this company to their investors who’d turned a loss.” She’d clasped her bottom lip between her front teeth.

  “I looked into that conference a bit, don’t look it up there isn’t much on it. Though I think I have an idea where we could get some information on that conference.”

  “You’ve got a lead?” She nodded slowly. “…Person or place?” He wanted to know.

  “A note and a phone number.” Her voice had fractured, she seemed unsure.

  “What did the note say?”

  “Nothing in particular, it claimed to know what had happened to Lawrence.”

  “And the number?” He’d trailed her fingers as she brushed her palms together. She was nervous, why?

  “No answer. I’m beginning to believe it’s all a hoax.” She cr
ossed her arms over her chest. She was fidgety. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Who was she to draw the conclusion that it was a hoax?

  “Send me the number,” He pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “And yours just incase this number contacts you. I want to be able to keep in touch.” He’d observed her with concern in his chest. What wasn’t she telling him?

  “It was nice talking to you detective, but I have other…appointments.” She’d handed his phone back to him and slammed the trunk shut.

  “I don’t doubt that Miss. Gresham, but if you do speak to our John Doe, don’t hesitate to give me a call.” He’d flashed her his phone that had been dialing her number. She’d offered again that slow, nervous nod and all he could do was wonder what she knew that he didn’t.

  Chapter Seven

  Mushroom hair rained onto the white porcelain of her bathroom floor. Each stroke of the razor, a release from the shackles of her past, from the woman who'd feared change. If anyone where to look in on her, knowing what the day before had been like, they would want to know what had changed; it was simple, through the night, she’d tossed and turned. She’d thought ceaselessly about what cancer meant to her. For the first three hours, she’d sobbed, screaming into the relative silence of her room why she’d contracted the fatal disease. And whether or not she deserved it? And if indeed she was going to survive it? She couldn’t forget the trapped feeling in her chest that night. She couldn’t forget Georgia Tucker telling her that she could live with it. She hadn’t even made an attempt to book a chemotherapy appointment, as Georgia had prescribed; she hadn’t bothered to head down to the pharmacy for her medication.