by Nenny May
Detective Harrington hadn’t gotten the opportunity to properly inspect the coffin in question before the body had been placed inside it, but he hoped it was at least comfortable. With that much weight he could only imagine the luxurious fixings Juliana and Claire had opted for.
At this point, he’d looked to Juliana who’d been seated by his right. The magnitude of pain in her eyes tugged at him. How could he have suspected a woman who’d ached for her husband? How could he have sat in her room and doubted her integrity? Barron had tried to blanket his doubts under the claims that everyone was a potential suspect… Why then couldn’t he provide Watson with a single John Doe? It was no wonder he’d been taken off the case. He’d tried to keep it under wraps, but he was getting sloppy, letting his emotions cloud his decisions. The Lawrence Harrington case was a high profile murder investigation. The media coverage couldn’t be escaped and it was better managed with Detective Mathews on the front lines as the grinning face behind Barron Harrington’s executive actions. He would talk to Bennett Mathews when he’d returned to 28th precinct. He would reach a consensus with him, something that benefited the both of them.
The service was slower than water draining from a full bath. Everyone had a memory to share. And when it had gotten to his turn, the initial fear Barron had cradled had lost its luster. Because before he’d spoken, Juliana had taken over from the priest, standing tall, and lean in black. Up there, before the full church and numerous cameras, she’d looked helplessly brave. Prior to beginning with her speech, she’d looked to her husband, almost tempted to reach for the coffin and run her fingers over the surface. She’d restrained herself and settled for just gazing at it with fallen shoulders and mustering the will to address the crowd. To address the people that were family in some way; be it work family, extended family or even friends that were as close as family.
“My husband and I, didn’t have a perfect marriage.” She’d bluntly addressed the elephant in the room. Not, exactly. She hadn’t flat out tossed a confirmation about her affair into the room, but she’d hinted to a strain in their marriage. Barron hadn’t gotten the opportunity to ask about her affair. Not yet. He’d rather felt it best to bring it up naturally, by the end of the ceremony. “But that never once erased the love we’d shared. Lawrence was many things to me, to my family. He was a husband, a father and an investor. To the public, he was a renowned public speaker and author. He loved sharing all he’d learned with anyone willing to listen. Whoever had done this to him had deprived the world of a wise man, a good man. And I’m not too sure who’d taken him from me, from my kids, from all of you, his public, but that person did us all a great injustice and would pay, for the rest of their life. Because Lawrence didn’t deserve to die, much less in such a gruesome manner!” She’d spoken more after a breath. She’d touched on the subject of his involvement in raising his two children. Barron had been touched by this. Despite their distance, his parents had still considered him their son. He’d found solace in that.
Claire hadn’t had it in her to face the audience. She’d been scheduled to go on after Juliana Harrington. When her name had been called three times over by the priest, she’d risen to her feet and bolted, teary-eyed towards the grand stained doors, Juliana not too far behind. At the time, as the priest cleared his throat and mumbled an apology on behalf of Claire Harrington, Barron had been anxious; would he have to go up in place of Claire Harrington? He’d shifted in his seat, hands clammy as he rubbed his palms together. He hadn’t been ready then. But it was like whoever had organized the ceremony had understood that and organized his speech nearing the end. And by that time, his fear had lost its luster.
Though up there, before the countless number of saddened, heartbroken eyes Detective Harrington couldn’t deny there’d been a pang of concern in his chest and gut that hoped he didn’t fumble. He’d cleared his throat, for a moment, struggling to hold back the grief that dampened him like a cold sweat. “I hadn’t been there for my father.” He was off script, but it was good. He was speaking from his heart. He didn’t know if his heart would make matters worse or leave him tongue-tied, but he’d take the risk either way. “I guess what I want to say first, to all the teenagers in listening; is start cherishing your parents, your family. I never valued Lawrence. I took him for granted. I felt he would always be there. And I would go back to my family when the time was right. The time was never right.” He paced the alter; slowly at first. “One year after another, I had one excuse to stay away from home. And I would tell myself, next tomorrow, next weekend, next month. Twelve years ran by and someone had taken the opportunity to see my father away from me.” There was a cough, he wasn’t sure where it had come from, but he hadn’t let it startle him too much. “I took Lawrence for granted and I will forever live with that over my head. I never got to tell him in person, just how good of a job he did raising me, how proud I was of him and… I guess how much he meant to me. I wouldn’t be who I was without him. And unfortunately the last memory I have of him would be at my college graduation. Telling me that I was the best son he could ask for. Well I’m… I’m here… at his funeral… telling him,” Barron turned to the closed casket. “That he was the best darned father a son could ask for!”
The cremation of Lawrence Harrington was a private gathering. Detective Harrington, Claire and Juliana had shed the swarm of people at the church after the funeral. They’d driven up yonder in a small convoy accompanying the coffin car to the crematorium in Harlem. Before the procedure had begun, they’d shared a prayer on behalf of the deceased. Hand in hand, the small family had given the soul of their deceased to a greater being. And when their eyes had parted, and their hands fell limp to their side, they’d refocused their attention on the casket before them. It had been stripped of the faux gold handles. Had they gotten rid of the extra fixings that gave the box its weight? He was yet to see what a cremation process entailed. He’d never once thought he would have to learn with someone he’d known personally, but life never followed a straight line.
“And who would like to do the honors?” The operator asked. He was a dumpy man with a beer belly that stretched his button down. The small family—the Harrington family—shared a look. Who would like to do the honors of setting fire to Lawrence’s corpse? When nobody said anything for the longest time, the operator added; “I could if you’re not comfortable?”
At that, Juliana Harrington cleared her throat. “I’ll do it.” She’d said with a quivering voice. She was then handed a remote and instructed what buttons to click to begin the process. The first was a little button on the side that opened from the ground, the casket lift. The next was a button at the bottom that transferred the coffin to the casket lift. The process didn’t sit well with Barron, but he’d bit his tongue, swallowed the bitterness in his throat and just watched.
“The chamber has been preheated to there about eight-hundred degrees. Depending on the polish of the coffin, the combustion might be brighter and louder than you’re prepared for but this is just a warning; don’t be spooked.” The dumpy man said. Did Lawrence deserve to be placed in an incinerator after sustaining a fatal bullet wound to the head? Detective Harrington didn’t know how to feel about it. His fingers curled at his sides. “Miss. Harrington, you may click the start button whenever you’re ready.” Juliana had looked from the small man to her children. Neither of them seemed prepared to let go, Claire seemed to be trying much too hard to keep her tears in check and Barron… he was sick to his stomach at the concept of setting his father ablaze, and despite the clear discomfort written on her children’s face, she’d looked back at the remote and clicked the start button.
The doors to the chamber slid open and warmth swam into the room, twining the Harrington’s as well as the dumpy man. It didn’t reek of anything, unlike what Barron had been anticipating. He’d expected a thick smoke scamper out of the chamber, clinging to the walls and ceiling. Nothing had scampered out, but he’d felt—though fitted in black suit—as if the room
had been turned into a sauna. The casket was then gently pushed into the chamber, and thus begun the cremation of Lawrence Harrington. Much like the operator had explained there’d been a flash; bright and short and not too far behind it, like thunder after lightning, a bang was heard, and just before the lever detached from the coffin and the chamber doors slid shut, Barron Harrington had seen a flame eating his father’s casket. Had Claire and Juliana seen it too?
This wasn’t something he was going to quickly forget. It was a silent process. He didn’t know whether it would be a long one. And as he’d stood there not exactly knowing how to stand or what to do with his hands while he awaited his father’s ashes, he’d revisited that afternoon in his childhood home, Rose’s words, the pictures on his wall and he’d turned to Juliana. “Can we talk?” His words had been a hushed whisper.
“Can’t it wait?” He looked to the chamber. He didn’t think it could. He had too many questions leaping and lurching about in his head. And he couldn’t bear not having an answer to them. He looked back at her; she’d been hugging herself, a small frown on her tired face.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked. Her frown deepened and her hands slipped to her sides.
“Tell you what?” She’d snapped. She was short tempered, this hadn’t been the Juliana he’d grown up with, but then again, he’d left that version of her for twelve years. It didn’t make sense to expect to come back and see her as if nothing had changed.
“About how much you and Lawrence were struggling…” He paused, then added; “Financially.” She’d turned away from him and stared at the chamber doors. The operator had been in a light conversation with Clair. Barron hadn’t bothered to listen in, but he hoped she was asking about the duration of the cremation process. How long was Lawrence supposed to lay there? Ten minutes…twenty? He would like to know.
“You were living your life, building your career, our struggles didn’t concern you.” Juliana Harrington said.
“We’re family, Juliana. I was one call away, I could have supported you with some money,” She huffed.
“What money, Barron. Our dept was larger than any petty cash you could have offered.” His shoulders fell.
“Bullshit!” He pitched, a little louder than he’d intended. “In that position, any contribution would have been better than nothing. I could have raised the funds to help out.” She didn’t seem convinced. How much could they have owed? “The debt Lawrence had been in, it was because of the lawsuits Gresham Square had been facing?”
“We were not going to burden our son that we hadn’t seen in years to pay a debt he hadn’t created.” Each time he’d heard it, recalled it, acknowledged it, it jabbed him like the first time. He’d left them for twelve years. Of course they weren’t going to reach out to him in their time of dire need. He was a stranger they’d delivered and raised. He had no place scolding Juliana for not reaching out.
“So it’s true?” He navigated the topic to a different…more concerning subject.
“Speak clearly, Barron. You’re a grown man!” She reprimanded.
“Is it true, Juliana, that you entertained an affair?” Her eyes broadened and she’d smacked him across the arm in the way she used to when he would say something inappropriate in the church as a child.
“I don’t want to hear anything about that from your or Claire’s mouth is that clear?” No, it wasn’t because he wasn’t a child anymore. He was a grown man with his own place, his own car, and his own salary. He could have helped if she’d just called or left a goddamn message. And on the issue of her affair? He sure as hell wasn’t too young to know whether or not his mother had cheated on his father. He didn’t think he would take it appropriately, but he wasn’t too young to know. As a matter of fact, Barron reasoned, He had a right to know…Right?
“Claire had found out about the affair the day your hall picture had to be taken at home. That’s why she’d smiled that way,” A statement, not a question. And even still Juliana had lunged to answer it, her lips parted. He hadn’t given her the floor to speak, and so, he continued. “And if I remember correctly, you’d been gazing towards a neighbor’s apartment in that picture. Now it’s one of two things; you’d either had an affair with a neighbor or he or she had learned about it as well as Claire?” He met her eyes, the farthest thing from fazed by the glare she’d held him with.
“I did not have an affair, end of discussion. Now let me grieve my husband.” That had been her only defense. Evading his questions. He didn’t like it. Why couldn’t she just tell him? She’d turned to leave, he hadn’t let her. No, he’d held her back by the arm, gently. He deserved answers. This wasn’t the way to get it—by force and at his father’s cremation—but he wasn’t going to wait any longer.
“No, it’s not the end of the discussion. I’ll assume you’d had the affair with a neighbor. I didn’t see anyone that looked particularly elite in any of the pictures that lined the stairs to your apartment. So you’d done it to relieve the stress Lawrence had been putting on you?”
“How dare you slander your father’s name at his own cremation? Don’t you have any respect?” He did, that was why he was willing to cross all boundaries to find answers.
“Does that mean you’re still in debt?” If indeed she’d had her affair with a neighbor, didn’t that mean she was still in debt? She hadn’t done it to payback what was owed to Gresham Square… And a debt wasn’t just going to go away, so what was she not telling him.
“No.”
“How?”
She shook her head. “This isn’t the place, Barron…” She’d pleaded, exhausted. It had fallen on deaf ears.
“How are you suddenly free from the shackles of Lawrence’s debt?”
“Terrence Gresham took the burden of the debt off of Lawrence the day he died. That’s why he let Lawrence go from Gresham Square. He paid off the debt and fired your father.” For the nth time, he’d looked at the chamber doors. This time, he wanted to scream, at the top of his lungs until he’d torn his vocal cords. The situation surrounding Lawrence Harrington’s murder upset him. Everything about it just irked him down to his fingers and toe nails.
He looked at Juliana once again. The farthest thing from done with her. “Who did you have an affair with, mother?” Barron asked quietly. She tugged her right earlobe. She knew she wasn’t going to get through to him. It was better she cooperated.
“You don’t know him, Morgan King, he’d moved in two years after you’d graduated California State.” The name was familiar. “But I wasn’t with him because Lawrence was bankrupt; I wasn’t with him for money. I was with him because long before Lawrence had fallen into his slump; Morgan and I… had something. And he was going to leave his wife for me…” Detective Harrington drummed his fingers on his thigh.
“You were going to leave Lawrence?”
Christina Gresham had been enroute home when her phone had blared in her purse. She’d been seated in the rear of a cab scuttling through St. Nicholas Avenue when she’d heard it. At the time, in her hands sat pills she’d been in a sense excited to take. To her, it was yet another step to getting over her leukemia. On first glance of her phone screen—everything else in her hands shoved onto her lap— the number hadn’t been registered. She’d smiled to herself; had Judy gotten her number from Rebecca Hetherington? Were support group leaders supposed to disclose personal information? She didn’t want to think too much into it, if Judy wanted to check on her, she would let the middle-aged woman. Again, she didn’t have too many people ringing her line to check in on her.
But before she’d answered, she’d thought to herself; she didn’t need to always depend on others to call. Sometimes it would do her and them a bit of good to reach out.
“Hello?” Christina had chirped. She hoped she didn’t sound too elated. She didn’t want to put off her new friend.
“Miss. Gresham?” The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar. She’d sat up straighter in the moving vehicle, clearing her th
roat.
“This is she,” Her tone was brusque; professional. She’d been glimpsing at herself from the rear mirror. That had been why she’d caught her skin running pale when the deep voice at the other end of the line spoke up. That had been why her eyes had twitched, the left then the right, her unoccupied hand running over her bottom lip as the man at the other end of the line said;
“I have gotten numerous calls from you,” He’d claimed. She’d only called one person that much. It was the number Kenneth had given her. The man that had left on her table an envelope claiming to know what had happened to Lawrence Harrington. “…as well as a message that we should meet in person… and when I went back to Wellington & Turner where I had dropped off an envelope addressed to you… I was told you’d been relieved of your duties with the firm?” She could feel it, thundering in her chest and ears, her heart. Was Kenneth right? Was he just a mere delivery man? And if so where had he gotten the envelope from?
“Unfortunately, yes. I have been relieved of my responsibilities with Wellington & Turner for personal reasons. But I had reached out to you to discuss the envelope you’d had delivered to me.”
“I’m available to discuss the content of the envelope in person if you’d like?” For a moment, she’d had her lips sealed and glimpsed over her shoulder as if he would be following her. She was just paranoid. He couldn’t be following her… Right? She wanted to believe that, it was all in her head… why then had she looked again over her other shoulder and into the car next to her cab as if she would see a man on the phone staring back at her. That wasn’t likely. He hadn’t threatened to kill her, she didn’t even know if he was the killer… Why then couldn’t she shake the skin prickling feeling that she was suddenly being watched?