The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Like death.”

  She cracks a smile. “Thank you.” Mom’s energy is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. She’s tired and run-down, like she’s given up.

  She opens her purse and removes a pair of black sunglasses with large mirrored lenses, much like the kind James has been wearing. “How do I look now?”

  “Much better” — like a movie star getting out of rehab.

  Something in her purse shines. “What’s that?”

  She closes her bag. “It’s nothing.”

  “Come on. Let’s have it.”

  She unclasps her purse and removes a stainless steel hip flask.

  I nearly choke on a cube of cheese. “Since when do you drink?”

  “I don’t. Well, not normally. But in these circumstances — ”

  Micah appears in the doorway. “Ready?”

  She stows the flask. “Yes.”

  “Actually” — I slap my chest, coughing as a ball of food creeps down my throat “ — we need a minute.”

  Micah leaves us to continue our conversation.

  “It’s just to get me through the day, Manny. Then I’m done.” Mom removes her shades, exposing me to the sadness of her large green eyes. “Please.”

  I want to tell her no and there are other ways to deal with her grief, but I can’t, because I know how much she’s hurting. I can feel it in my heart.

  I’ve had the last twenty years to heal from the loss of my father, but Mom’s only had the last five days. One thing I never understood about their split was why my mother and father never divorced. I suspected a part of her wasn’t ready to say good-bye and clung to the hope of a reconciliation. Now, she has no choice. Isidore is gone, and the funeral will only reaffirm that.

  “I’ll let you keep the flask under one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me you’ll eat something today.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  “Okay.” I pull her in for a hug. She buries her head in my chest. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Micah reappears. Mom closes her purse and puts the sunglasses back on. “Okay. We’re good to go,” she exclaims, more cheerful. I grab one more scone and follow her out the door.

  Mom and I ride with Gabriel, while James and Micah travel ahead of us in an identical Rolls. I can’t decide if I’m more disgusted the Stocktons own two of the same car or that my mother has done away with the coffee mug and is taking sips from her flask every few minutes. So much for being discreet.

  When we arrive at St. Nicholas Parish, our Phantoms join a fleet of luxury vehicles parked along the curb — Ferraris, Bugattis, and Porsches, to name a few. James’ jaw hardens when he notices a white Lamborghini. “He’s got a lot of nerve coming here.”

  “Whose car is that?” I ask.

  “The Big Bad Wolf of the Woodlands,” he replies.

  “James, please. Not here,” Micah scolds, looking toward the open red doors of the church. “The car belongs to Wolfgang Schmitt,” he whispers. “He was a business acquaintance of your father’s.”

  “More like enemy.”

  “James. Time and place,” Micah hisses.

  James scoffs and follows my mother into the church.

  Micah continues, “Wolfgang owns and operates one of the most successful lumber companies in Germany. He’s a very respected man — in his industry.”

  “Why doesn’t James like him?”

  “James dislikes a lot of people, Manny, and you’ll soon find you have better things to do with your time than keep track as to why.” Micah steps aside, gesturing me into the narthex, past a light blue sign posted on the outer door: CCTV free.

  The nave is saturated with the aroma of camphire, emanating from large bouquets attached to the rows of chairs. The arrangements are identical to the one I saw in the foyer at Stockton Estate, each with a similar black card inscribed with silver ink.

  A sea of black rises to greet us: black suits, black ties, black hats, black…sunglasses? The parishioners are still wearing their sunglasses, and they’re all the same: black frames with mirrored lenses. Is this customary for a funeral in England? No one else seems to be fazed by it. So I decide to leave my Oakleys on.

  There’s an old portrait of Isidore in his late twenties — I’d guess — on display below the pulpit. The family resemblance between him, James, and myself is remarkable. If you were to line us up side by side, it’d be like looking into a three-panel mirror.

  Micah puts his heavy arm around my shoulder and guides me to the seat next to my mother in the front row. James sits on her right, and to his other side are two empty chairs.

  The double doors at the front of the church reopen, and a priest in a long black robe appears — not wearing sunglasses, to my relief. That brings the exposed-eyes total to two: his and Micah’s.

  The priest walks down the center aisle of the nave carrying a silver urn between his hands. Parishioners extend both palms in his direction, reciting in unison, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…”

  Psalm 23. Miss Maggie, the nanny, taught me Psalm 23 when I was a toddler. She’d make me recite it every night before sending me to bed. After which, my mother or father would come into my room and wait with me until I fell asleep. Sometimes they would read to me or tell me a story. Other times they would sing. Mom had an endless list of American songs she could alternate between, but Dad had only one: “Amazing Grace.” Though Miss Maggie left us when I turned four — right before Lucy’s family moved into town — I continued to recite the Psalm out of habit. I stopped after we moved to the States.

  The priest places the urn on a stand near my father’s portrait and bows, making the sign of the cross. Then he assumes his place in the presider’s chair.

  I turn to my mother. “Dad was cremated?”

  She nods from behind her reflective shades and sighs, clutching my shoulder with surprising strength.

  The doors to the south entrance creak open, and Lucy enters, adding one more to the exposed-eyes total. She tiptoes to the seat beside James, mouthing, “Sorry I’m late.”

  Micah gives her a reassuring smile and approaches the pulpit. He begins reading from an open Bible: “‘A Letter from the Gospel of Luke to Theophilus — The Cost of Being a Disciple. The thousands were accompanying Jesus, and turning to them He proclaimed: If anyone comes to me without hating father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters — yes, even their own life — such a person cannot be my Disciple. And whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my Disciple…’”

  Micah finishes the passage with his eyes fixed on me, and the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle. So I look down to avoid his gaze, fidgeting with the knot of my tie until he steps down from the pulpit and calls upon others to offer their consoling words.

  My father was a popular man. The mourners use phrases like “Isidore saved me and my family,” “…breathed life into me and my company,” “…showed us the error of our ways,” and “…led us through the darkness…” I might even be so bold as to say they loved him.

  They clearly knew a different Isidore than me.

  I whisper to my mother, “Jesus, Mom. They’re making him sound like some kind of cult leader.”

  She gasps, slapping my shoulder. “Manuel, please.”

  “Sorry.”

  Lucy overhears our exchange and muffles a snort with her handkerchief. She’s more beautiful this morning than she was yesterday if that’s possible. Black satin dress, elbow-length gloves, black pearl earrings, auburn hair neatly braided and draped over her right shoulder, crucifix glistening in the soft light — humble perfection.

  It takes an unexpected effort to look away from Lucy and return my attention to the speakers. Whatever my father did, he spent
a lot of time traveling and building relationships, and it’s becoming more evident why Mom complained about being his second priority. It also begs the questions: How much do the mourners know of Isidore’s personal life? Do they know he washed his hands of his seven-year-old son twenty years ago? Or all the time he invested in their businesses meant less time invested in his family? I wonder what they’d say then.

  Micah returns to the pulpit. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking time away from your families and your businesses to be with my family in this troubling time. All of you knew my son, Isidore Stockton, as the affiliate who ushered your businesses into the twenty-first century, but most of you knew little of the personal sacrifices he made in order to give you his complete attention when it was required of him.

  “Isidore was not only a beloved son but a devoted husband and a loving father. As a matter of fact, his wife and son are here today.” Micah leans forward. “Would either of you like to come up and say a few words?”

  My mother shakes her head and lowers her eyes.

  “How about you, Manny?”

  My gut wrenches. What does Micah think he’s doing? He knows my relationship with Isidore paled in comparison to the connection he had with the people in this room.

  “Please?” Mom whispers. “For me.”

  Wooden chairs creak as funeral attendees sit up for a better view, James included. He leans over my mother and lifts his sunglasses as if to say something — ‘Stand up.’

  I hear him speak, though his mouth doesn’t move. It’s like he used my head to think his thoughts. “Huh?” I reply, confused.

  The brown specks in his hazel eyes flicker, and I rise to my feet.

  James’ voice resonates again — ‘Don’t be so stubborn. Approach the podium and say something nice.’

  Are his eyes talking?

  My feet carry me toward the podium, and each forced step prompts my heart to beat faster and my stomach to wind tighter. When I reach the base of the platform, Micah descends the pulpit. “Thank you,” he whispers.

  I climb the spiral staircase, clenching the handrails to ensure my knees don’t succumb to the weight of my anxiety. When I reach the top of the platform, I look out into the sea of unfamiliar faces. My panic grows.

  Shit — my thought echoes like a gong under the domed ceiling of the church. Several parishioners giggle and clear their throats. I could swear they heard me.

  The Bible in front of me is propped open to the Book of John: To the Believers, Jesus said, “For you who abide by my teachings are the True Disciples. For that, you will know the Truth, and the Truth shall set you free.” That’s ironic, considering “the truth” is the last thing that should come out of my mouth.

  What do I say, what do I say? I try to conjure some generic comment about my father and his work, but it’s hard to concentrate with hundreds of mirrored sunglasses staring back at me.

  I focus on those lines of Scripture — The Truth shall set you free… The Truth shall set you free — and my brain repeats the phrase until it’s magnified inside my head: The Truth shall set you free.

  “Amen,” an older woman proclaims. Others join in her affirmation, and the outbursts help diffuse the tension in the nave.

  The last “amen” is professed by a new parishioner in the first row. He’s tall, dark, handsome, and sitting right next to Lucy. That’s Henry? Lucy’s “personal assistant” looks like he belongs in a fashion magazine, not a sheep farm — broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, designer shades. They would make a cute couple.

  I begin. “I… I would love to say I have as many memories of Isid — of my father as you do, but I can’t. And you know, I used to be angry with him, because I thought he chose business over family, but…” Oh, God, where am I going with this?

  I glance to the front row for a reassuring look from my mother, but her eyes remain hidden behind the mirrored lenses. Why is everyone still wearing sunglasses? I take my Oakleys off and look out into the crowd, hoping others will do the same and make this impromptu eulogy less intimidating. Nobody follows suit.

  Dammit. This stupid speech would be so much easier if everyone could just — take off your sunglasses!

  They do — even James. What the…?

  “Keep going,” Lucy motions.

  “Ehh… The more I hear you talk about him, the more I realize that wasn’t the case. My father didn’t choose business over family, because you all were just as much his family as my mother and I were, and…I’m so grateful that…he was able to make such a positive impact on your lives. So on behalf of the Stockton family, I would like to thank you for coming today. Your words and your presence mean more to us than you could ever imagine. And we appreciate it.”

  I excuse myself from the pulpit, and Micah joins me at the bottom. He looks upon the naked eyes of the congregation and smiles. “Thank you, Grandson.”

  “I would like to say something,” someone announces from the back corner of the church. “If it may be permitted.”

  Micah’s grin fades. “Of course. Please.”

  We resume our seats, and a middle-aged man with thick white hair approaches the pulpit, wielding a cane. It has a gold handle molded to look like the head of a wolf and a shaft constructed of polished black wood. Excluding Gabriel, this parishioner is one of the largest men in the room, and judging by the strength of his gait, his cane is more of a fashion statement than a functional aid.

  Micah whispers into my ear, “Wolfgang Schmitt.”

  Halfway to the podium, Wolfgang taps the silver end of his cane on the parquet floor three times, and a hollow thud echoes throughout the nave. He shakes his head and smiles.

  This causes the parishioners to fidget in their seats and whisper to one another in harsh tones. I lean forward for a closer look and observe a wave of disapproval that follows Wolfgang Schmitt down the aisle. Not only are the people scowling and shaking their heads but some are pinching their noses as Wolfgang passes by, implying he exudes an offensive odor. But Wolfgang remains calm, smirking in response to their childish behavior.

  He ascends the pulpit and searches for a suitable place to hook his cane. Then Wolfgang removes a handkerchief from his coat pocket and lays it across the podium, covering the Bible. He clasps his hands together and rests them atop the cloth, taking a moment to straighten the cuffs of his suit before proceeding.

  This is the last straw for James. Before Wolfgang can get a word out, he storms away, exiting the double doors of the south entrance. The congregation erupts in disapproving whispers once more.

  I look back to Wolfgang, who beams with satisfaction. Then his eyes shimmer, like metal.

  “Did you see that?” I ask my mother.

  “See what?”

  “His eyes. They just — You didn’t see that?”

  Wolfgang begins, “Good afternoon.”

  The nave is cooler now that the service is over and the parishioners have exited the church. I stay behind, hoping to spend some time alone with my thoughts, but two other men are taking longer than expected in paying their respects. One is tall, dark, and slim — about mid-thirties — with long brown hair and thick sideburns that blend into a heavy five-o’clock shadow. The other is shorter, muscular, and clean-cut — early twenties — with pin-straight black hair and smooth pale skin.

  I’m about to leave when a voice calls out from the main entrance. It’s James. “Can the boy have a moment alone with his father?”

  The pair turn, staring back from behind their reflective lenses.

  “That’s okay,” I remark. “No rush.”

  “Gentlemen?” James persists.

  They acquiesce, kneeling before Isidore’s portrait and making the sign of the cross. The younger one nudges me with his right shoulder as he passes by. It’s gentle enough to appear unintended but hard enough to have been deliberate. James takes notice of the interaction
and clears his throat.

  “Pardon,” the stranger mutters. Then he exits the nave.

  “I didn’t know you were still here,” I say once James and I are alone. “I can come back when you’re done.”

  “No. Don’t leave on my account. You have every right to be here as much as I do.” He joins me and removes his sunglasses. “Please accept my apologies for yesterday, Emmanuel. I didn’t mean to behave so flippantly.”

  “That’s okay. Neither did I.”

  “My feelings tend to overwhelm me every now and again, and it causes me to come across as a tad bit…” James struggles for the right word. “Abrasive.”

  Abrasive? That’s one way of putting it. “Apology accepted. And I can get that way, too, sometimes.”

  “How so?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  “No. Please. Enlighten me.”

  “When I have to do things last minute, and I don’t have time to plan, I hate it. It makes me angry.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug. “Spontaneity makes me anxious, I guess. Or I hate being unprepared. I don’t really know.”

  James nods. “You fear a lack of knowledge.”

  “I don’t fear a lack of knowledge. It just frustrates me.”

  “I see. Then is that how you feel about faith?” He points to the giant crucifix above the altar. “Does it frustrate you?”

  “What does faith have to do with anything?”

  “I’m simply making a comparison. Faith, by definition, is the absence of knowledge.”

  Or the denial of it… I change the subject. “So how old is this photo?”

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “My father’s young. From back there, I could have sworn I was looking at a photo of myself. Or you.”

  James smirks. “Well, Emmanuel, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “I guess not. And just call me Manny.”

  James smiles and kneels before Isidore’s portrait, making the sign of the cross. “I’ll see you at the estate.”