by Kolbet, Dan
My little brother Trevor was the pride and joy of the Redmond family. No one doubted it. He was the top of his class at Santa Clara. Went to med school at the University of Washington, and became a highly sought-after plastic surgeon who volunteered his vacation time in third-world countries helping kids with cleft palates and other ailments. He was a Neighborhood Watch captain. Drove a Volvo station wagon. He baked. He was a goddamned American hero.
Jennifer wasn't far behind his greatness. Undergrad and law degrees from Gonzaga University. Former Lilac Princess and Miss Spokane. President of the PTO. She left her law practice behind to raise their daughters at home. Little Gracie was now 6 and Kendall was 16 or was it 17? I can't recall. This power couple of goodness left a wide wake behind them and two kids.
This sad tale would seem to make the case for me to lift my ass off the bumper of the truck and walk inside the funeral home to pay my respects. But that isn't the case. They'd all see me. See what I'd become in my 41 years on this earth and wonder why Trevor was gone, but Billy was still kicking around. Why was he spared when "the good one" was dead? they would ask. This was a tragedy that I had no connection to. I didn't need the grief I was sure to get, because I'd been through it before. I'd lost the goodness in my life too, but I couldn't think about them now. My wife and daughter. It's been so long—12 years—but the memory is still as new and raw as the day I lost them. When everything changed and I had to go away.
I tried to shake the memory loose in my brain. I was sweaty and frayed. The tie around my neck seemed to tighten like a noose. I yank it off and unbutton my top shirt button, finally able to breathe again. I didn't use to be this way. Anxious. Frozen in place by my fears. But I recognize they exist. That's got to mean something.
The noxious feeling passes, but here I remain on the truck's bumper, holding my crumpled necktie, afraid of what I might find inside the funeral home. Who I might see or who might see me. Family and old friends. What they will think and say behind my back. I was a coward, but at least I can admit it. I am a coward in a dated suit and crumpled necktie.
My attention shifts to a couple emerging from behind the funeral home. A young girl, maybe in her late teens and a boy of a similar age. She leans against the side of the building as he presses his body and mouth toward hers. She has a very pale face and dark eye makeup. Is Goth the right word? The young lovers seem unaware of the bearded guy in the parking lot watching them. Lost in their own youthful kisses and lust. I watch, if only because it was one more thing to postpone my long walk into the funeral home. A walk I don't want to take in the first place.
Only when the boy lets the girl come up for air do I see the resemblance. My teenage niece, Kendall Redmond, sure looks like her mom Jennifer.
* * *
"Hey, buddy!" the boy yells, suddenly stomping across the lot toward me. "What are you looking at?"
The boy holds Kendall's hand, pulling her along with him, the adolescent fury reddening his face. How dare someone watch him going at it with his girlfriend in broad daylight in a parking lot?
The boy marches right up to me and stands inches from my chest. Kendall stands behind him, seemingly disinterested in the confrontation. Her hair is dyed black, with only the faint blonde roots giving her away. She is tall with long legs covered in black fishnet stockings, knee-high boots and a short black leather skirt. Her face is painted pale white, while her eyes are encircled with black. Her mom was a gorgeous woman. And sure, she looks like her mom, if her mom worshipped the devil and was a streetwalker.
The boy is now in my face. Maybe this bravado is the boy's way of protecting her. Maybe he is like every other person on the planet who doesn't know how to deal with death and mourning. Maybe he is hurting. Or maybe he's just an asshole.
"You got a problem pal?" the boy asks.
I stand my ground. What do I have to fear from this kid? At 6 feet, 3 inches tall, I actually tower over the boy. His head doesn't even reach as high as my beard.
The boy starts to roll up his sleeves. He looks like a bull dancing before charging the matador and his red cloth.
"Hey, lumberjack—are you eyeing my girlfriend? Is that your deal, perv?" he asks.
With that, Kendall meets my eyes for the first time. She looks away, and then quickly back again. She was around 6 years old when I left. Does she remember her uncle? She probably remembers me as the guy who brought her gifts on birthdays and Christmas, the guy who let her steer my convertible Mustang when her parents weren't watching. She doesn't seem like the same person, but then again, neither do I.
"Ethan, back off him," she says. "That's my long-lost Uncle Billy."
The way she said it made me feel like I am two feet tall.
"Kendall," is all I say, feeling quite long-lost.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
I clear my throat, again. I'm not used to speaking.
"The funeral," I manage to get out.
"No shit. Why are you outside?" she asks.
"Why are you outside?" I reply. Knowing full well how annoying it is to answer a question with a question.
"I don't know anyone in there," she says. "They don't know me either."
Like two peas in a pod.
"I get that," I say and then after a moment add, "You really grew up."
"And you got old," she says.
And I feel old too. Kendall is old enough to drive, make out with boys—I shudder to think that making out probably isn't the only thing she's doing with this Ethan punk. My stomach twists and I feel sweaty again.
Kendall is a beautiful young girl sullied only by her attire, makeup and the sour expression on her face. No doubt, the funeral of your parents isn't a positive emotional highlight, but I get the sense that this is Kendall's everyday face. Discontent in black and white.
"You should pay your respects to your parents," I say.
"I don't see you going in there."
"I was just about to go in," I lie.
"It's almost over."
"All the better then," I say.
"Let's go. You can be my cover story," Kendall puts her arm through mine and leads me away by the elbow.
"Hey, what about me?" Ethan says, clearly disappointed.
Over her shoulder, she calls back to him, "I'll text you later. My uncle has to go to a funeral."
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