by Lauren Rico
She smiles.
“I know! Ridiculous, right? ‘Love’s sweet spear’ and ‘molten member’ were also two of my favorites. I mean, nothing makes a girl hotter than the thought of a molten spear near the petal-soft folds of her womanhood.”
I can’t help myself, I burst out laughing. This is easily the most insane conversation I’ve ever had. And it does exactly what I most need it to do – lighten the mood.
“I’m glad you find my teenage roadmap to ‘possessing the lily’ so amusing!” she snorts.
In a moment, we’re both laughing so hard that we’re gasping, tears streaming down our faces.
“You really wouldn’t mind staying here?” I ask her once we’ve caught our breath again.
She rolls over on top of my chest, so that we are pressed, body to body, our faces are only inches apart. Then, she puts her hands on either side of my face, rubbing her thumbs gently over my temples.
“Brett, it would be my honor to be of assistance to your mother. She is an amazing woman. Besides,” she continues, “if Jeremy is stupid enough to show up again, he’s going to need someone to keep her from killing him. I’d hate to see Trudy go to jail for killing that idiot.”
I pull her close to me so that my arms wrap around her tightly. “Mags, Jeremy is a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them. I need for you to remember that. Always. Because, the second you underestimate his intelligence or his capacity for destruction is the second that he’ll strike.”
She studies my expression for a long moment and nods.
“I won’t make that mistake, Brett.”
I give her a halfhearted smile.
“I know you won’t. You’re much too savvy for that. It’s just easy to forget who he is. What he is.”
“The thing with people like that is they’re so good at making you see what they want you to see. Seriously, if your mother hadn’t confronted him with the video thing, would you have ever thought he was involved with your dad’s death?”
I think about this carefully before answering.
“It wasn’t my first thought, but the more I think about it now, the more I’m surprised that it wasn’t.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Cryptic?”
She’s half asking, half teasing … but I’m deadly serious.
“It was my mother’s first thought. She checked the video files, even though it was clear he’d had a heart attack. She made the coroner do an autopsy. She was too smart to take it at face value. It was her first thought. He was her first thought.”
Even as I say it, it makes me shudder. I can’t do this anymore. Not now. Not here. I pull her even tighter into me and give her a long, slow, deep kiss. Suddenly, my body is telling me that maybe there are things in which it’s interested, after all.
Brett 4
Jesus is staring down at me from his cross. He is the face of anguish; the soul of forgiveness. He beckons me to find comfort in his outstretched arms. But I’m having trouble finding any comfort right now as Maggie, my mother, and I sit alone in the middle of the front pew of the church. Behind us, mourners continue to file in until there’s no place left to sit, save for our nearly vacant pew. Still, they stand in the back of the sanctuary rather than disturb the grieving widow and her family, such as it is. I take an uneasy look around, half expecting to see Jeremy coming down the aisle to take his place with us. But I don’t see him, and I’m grateful for that.
My mother isn’t an emotional woman, but anyone who knows her can clearly see she is not herself. She stares up at the crucifix in silence, hands folded primly in the lap of her navy blue church dress. She twirls the plain gold band on her finger absently. This is a faded version of Trudy Corrigan. It’s as if some of her vibrancy has died along with my father.
When the Reverend Richard Quillan takes his place on the dais, a sudden hush falls across the congregants. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it. He looks down at his feet, takes a deep breath and looks up again.
“Danny Corrigan wasn’t just my parishioner, he was my friend,” he begins in a choked voice. “Which makes this task both easier and harder. As a clergyman, it is my great honor to celebrate the life of this man. As his friend, my heart is breaking a little more with each and every breath.”
Audible sniffs from the pews.
“Danny and I spent many a night sitting on the deck in his and Trudy’s backyard, sharing a beer and contemplating the great mysteries of the universe. I wanted to know where he stood on the great Camaro vs. Mustang vs. Challenger debate. Mustang, by the way. He wanted to know if God would forgive him for being a Mets fan. No, by the way.”
Chuckles.
“On those nights together, we also tackled more serious topics. I recall one evening in particular, when Danny confided in me his belief that Satan walks among us on this earth in human form. This troubled him.
‘How,’ he wondered, ‘can we possibly fight an enemy who is hiding in plain sight?’ My answer came from Ephesians 6:11 ‘Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.’
“I told him that we must put on the spiritual armor that God has given us in order to withstand the schemes of the devil. This special armor includes the helmet of Salvation, the breastplate of Righteousness, the belt of Truth, the shoes of the Gospel of Peace, the sword of the Spirit, and the shield of Faith. Daniel Dean Corrigan took this to heart, and he wore his armor proudly. He protected his family with the only weapons strong enough to trump evil: love, hope and faith.”
I realize that my mouth is hanging open, and I’m not sure how long it’s been like that. I have never heard any of this about my father. I had absolute no idea he was so concerned about good and evil. This might as well be the eulogy of a total stranger.
“Trudy,” the Reverend addresses my mother now, “At this point, I would usually recite some homily meant to be a comfort to you. But today, the comforting words come directly from your husband.” He pulls the envelope from the pocket of his vestments and withdraws from it a single sheet of paper.
“I don’t know if Danny had a sense that his death was imminent, but about a year ago, he gave me this sealed envelope and requested that I read it as part of his eulogy.”
What? He was thinking about his funeral …just a year ago?
“I was reluctant to take it,” the Reverend continues, “assuring him that he would have more than enough time to tell you all the things he wanted to tell you. But, he was insistent in that quiet way that he had about him. So, I humored him and stuck it in a drawer. I never imagined that I would be holding it in my hands again so soon.”
This last bit seems to be more to himself than the congregation.
“My dearest, my loveliest, my Trudy. If you are hearing these words, it is because I have left this earth. I would never do so willingly, because, while I believe in the kingdom of Heaven, I do not believe such a place could possibly exist for me without you in it. It is selfish of me to move on before you, leaving you to stand alone against the darkness of this world. But, then, we’ve always known that you are the stronger of us, haven’t we? So, maybe it’s best that you should be the one to see this through.”
Reverend Quillan stops and lowers the hand that’s holding the letter, raising his other hand to swipe at the tears that have formed in his eyes. After a long moment, he resumes, paper shaking in his hand.
“Please, do not rush to meet me, I will wait for you until your days are done. Please don’t stop loving without me. There is enough room in your heart for someone else. Please don’t doubt for a single moment that I am with you, by your side, holding you up, holding you close and holding your heart in mine. You will, for all of eternity, be my dearest, my loveliest, my Trudy.”
To my left, Maggie has wrapped both of her arms around one of mine, pressing her face into my shoulder as she silently sobs. To my right, my mother sits, hands still folded primly in her lap. All around us are the sounds of sni
ffling, stifled weeping and blowing noses. The sounds of muted grief. The Reverend carefully places the letter back in the envelope, walks forward and hands it to my mother.
“Trudy, I am loathe to disagree with a dead man, but believe me when I say that you will never stand alone against anything in this world. The love of your friends and your family, the prayers of this parish and the divine grace of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, will bolster your armor, Trudy. Your Sword of The Sprit and your Shield of Faith.”
He pauses for a long moment.
“Let us pray.”
****
My childhood home appears to have been turned into a de facto bakery. I’ve never seen so many varieties of cake and pastry in my life. They compete for space on the countertops with the casseroles, fruit baskets and sandwich plates. I hide among the baked goods in the kitchen, trying to avoid the small talk going on in the living and dining rooms.
There must be fifty people crammed into this little house. They linger in the corners, paper plates in hand, speaking in hushed tones. The neighbor ladies have cornered Maggie on the floral couch, grilling her about our wedding plans. My mother has made a job of shuffling the cakes around each time a new one arrives in the hands of a well wisher.
“So, where’s your brother?” comes an unfamiliar voice from behind me.
I turn to see the unfamiliar face that it belongs to. She’s not exactly pretty, so much as handsome. She’s nearly as tall as I am, with snowy white hair that belies a much younger face.
“He was here a few days ago, but he had an unavoidable conflict that kept him away today,” I recite the party line that my mother and I have agreed upon as I try to place her.
A neighbor maybe? One of the teachers from the elementary school where my mother works? Could she be a customer of my father’s garage? I feel as if I should know her, but I’m not sure why.
“Hard to imagine a conflict that would trump your own father’s funeral,” she observes a little coolly.
I’m sure people have been whispering about Jeremy’s conspicuous absence all day, but she’s the first one who’s had the nerve to comment on it. I’m about to reply when my mother walks into the kitchen with yet another cake.
“Leave him alone, Elise. He’s not going to tell you anymore than I did,” she says as she drops the three-layered German chocolate monstrosity next to an apple strudel.
“Elise?” I gape, a light bulb going off in my head. “As in Aunt Elise?”
“It’s okay,” she reassures, pulling me into her arms for a hug. “I didn’t expect you to recognize me after twenty years. It’s great to see you, Brett. I’ve been following your career carefully. I’ve been to see you nearly every time you’ve played in Chicago. You’re quite talented. And handsome, too.”
I give her a weak, confused embrace.
“I didn’t know you were here. Why didn’t you come sit with us at the church?”
“Oh, it seemed as if playing the part of the grieving sister-in-law would be a little hypocritical after I’ve been away for so long.”
“And why have you been away for so long?” I inquire with a little more edge than I’d intended.
She gives me a wry smile.
“I’m here now,” she replies by way of a non-answer and gestures toward the kitchen door with her head. “Come on, let’s you and I go out onto the back porch. I could use a smoke.”
I follow her outside, where cool air and relative quiet are a relief from the stuffy, crowded house. Elise pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one into her palm and offers it to me. I shake my head, and she pops it into her own mouth, cupping her hand around the end so she can light it. Finally, she takes a long, satisfied drag before expelling a steady stream of smoke. We stand next to each other, leaning over the rail of the deck and looking out into the backyard.
“Mom called you?”
“No. An old friend of hers thought I should know.” She turns to me, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “I’m so sorry about your dad, Brett. He was a good man.”
I nod, continuing to face forward.
“Was it Jeremy?”
Now I look at her. “Was what Jeremy?”
“Did he kill your father?”
“What?”
The single word implies that I’m shocked by the mere suggestion when, in fact, I’m shocked that she would know it to be a possibility.
Her eyebrows go up as she takes another drag and then exhales.
“Oh, I know all about it,” she discloses, as if reading my mind. “You could see it plain as day by the time he was four-years-old. That boy was trouble even back then. And that kind of trouble doesn’t get better with age. It gets bolder, more brazen and cunning.”
For the second time today, I have to will myself to close my gaping mouth.
“So did he?”
“Huh?”
“Did Jeremy kill Danny?”
“I – I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he was there, and he certainly didn’t do a damn thing to help him.”
She nods, as if this comes as no surprise to her, before taking one last drag on the cigarette and tossing it to the floor of the porch. She uses her foot to extinguish the butt.
“So, seriously, why have you been out of our lives for so long?” I press, more insistently this time.
“You should talk to your mother about that.”
“I have. I mean, I used to bring it up when I was a kid, but I never could get a straight answer out of her. Eventually, I just stopped asking.”
Elise faces forward again, not looking at me as she speaks.
“After your grandmother passed …” she begins, then stops to give me a sideways glance. “Do you remember her? Grandma Ruth?”
“Sure.”
“Well, she was like the glue that held us all together. When she died, we all just went our separate ways.”
“Are any of you in touch?” I ask, fascinated by this new information. Including Elise, my mother has four siblings. We haven’t had so much as a Christmas card from any of them in decades.
“Oh, yeah. Your aunt Patty lives in Memphis with her husband and three kids. Meg is in Tulsa with her husband Jay. They never had any children. And then there’s our brother, Clay. He lives up in Elgin with his wife, and they have a daughter about Jeremy’s age.”
Holy shit! How could I possibly have so much family that I know absolutely nothing about?
“And you?”
“Oh, I live just about forty-five minutes from here. I have a lady friend who I’ve been with since before you were born.”
“Lady friend? You mean you’re …”
“A lesbian? Yes. Why, have you got a problem with that?” She’s giving me the evil eye.
“Uh, no. No …” I stammer awkwardly.
She breaks out into a huge grin and throws her head back in a laugh. “Jesus, Brett! You should see the look on your face! I’m just kidding with you!”
“About being a lesbian?”
“What? No!”
More laughter. I am so confused. She puts an arm around my shoulders.
“You’re a sweet one. You always have been.”
“Unlike Jeremy.”
“Yup.”
“I don’t know where he is,” I admit, answering her earlier question. “I’m guessing he went back to Detroit. Wherever he is, he was smart enough not to come here. I think Mom would rather deal with the neighbors’ gossip about his absence than with the drama that comes with his presence.”
“I’m sure.”
We’re silent for a few long moments, Elise extracting another cigarette and lighting it, me examining the dirt under my fingernails.
“Brett, does your mother ever talk about our father, George?”
The softening in her tone gets my attention.
“Not really. Just that he died when she was a teenager.”
She nods and blows another long stream of smoke out into the October sunshine.
“We had a real hard ti
me of it, growing up. He was a raging alcoholic, and a mean one at that. I think after Mama died, we all went in our different directions because it was just too painful to stay connected. On our own, each of us could reinvent ourselves; start fresh. Together, we were constant reminders of the past. We just couldn’t get away from the bad memories if we had to see each other. It’s not like any one of us ever said that out loud or made an active decision, it just sort of … happened.”
“So, will we see you again after today?” I wonder, a little reluctant to hear her answer. Not sure what I want the answer to be.
“Maybe. Depends on what Trudy wants. I certainly don’t want to bring back bad memories. But, I have a feeling she’s going to need more help than she thinks.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugs.
“There was a callousness to him,” she murmurs.
“To my father?” Did she not just hear that love letter he wrote to my mom?
She shakes her head. “No, no, sorry. I meant George. My father. Our father. He was cruel, sadistic even. We were his property, like so much chattel.”
Wow. This isn’t anything my mother has ever mentioned before. In fact, I can’t recall the last time she even spoke his name. It’s been decades though, I’m sure. And now I know why. I had no idea.
“I’ve never once doubted that he would have killed every one of us had he not gotten drunk and landed on his head one night.”
For a second, I think I must have misunderstood. But how do you misunderstand a statement like that? Fuck, how are you supposed to respond to a statement like that? Another long pause while Elise takes a drag and looks off into the distance.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
My aunt looks at me with those same, dark, penetrating eyes that belong to my mother. And to my brother.
“Because, I don’t care what that preacher said up there today, or what your father wrote in that letter. You need more than faith to fight some things, Brett. And forewarned is forearmed, my dear nephew.”
I suppose we both know full well to whom she is alluding.