The Fifteenth of June

by Brent Jones

  “Yeah, I am. I spent the weekend giving it some thought. This isn’t the place for me.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Drew.” He returned to his computer screen, reopening the reports he had been reviewing. “You’ll be missed.”

  *

  Drew felt nostalgic. He slowed his pedaling, giving his creaking chain a rest, noting familiar landmarks. His favorite spot for burgers, a small arcade, and, of course, the liquor store. It’s a wonder they didn’t go out of business after I moved. The dull ache of withdrawal wore at him, grating his senses. He knew a drink would fix it, but only for so long.

  He left his bike in the building lobby, fairly certain no one would steal it. A beaten up bike came with built-in insurance, he reasoned—thieves weren’t likely to snatch it.

  He knocked on his old door and it swung open moments later.

  “Hi, Heather.”

  “I’ve been worried about you. Do you want to come in?” She held the door open wide.

  Drew scanned his former living space from the threshold. It reminded him of a distant dream. Heather had moved a few things around, but it was mostly unchanged. “No, I’m fine right here, thanks, and I’m sorry to come by without warning.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Dad’s gone.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching for him. “How are you coping?”

  “I’m, uh, turning a new leaf, I guess.”

  Heather gave him a timid smile, as though his response wasn’t what she had anticipated. She likely suspected he would be blackout drunk at this point, gambling away whatever money he didn’t have. But here he was on Monday morning, sober as a priest, eager for confessional.

  “I’m, uh—I’m taking this as a sign, I guess,” Drew said. “That it’s time to get my life back on track.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Actually, I came over because I owe you an apology.”

  She stared at him in silence, her expression urging him to proceed.

  “I meant what I said—you deserve better. You really do. The truth, Heather, was that I never really loved you—”

  “Drew—”

  “I’m not saying I led you on, at least not on purpose. I just didn’t know any better. I always wanted to love you. I cared for you the best I knew how. But when it came down to it, I wasn’t being fair to you. That’s why I left.”

  She nodded, surges of disappointment and acceptance alternating on her face.

  “I guess I wasn’t ready to admit that until now.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you do. And I’m so sorry for all the hurt I caused. But losing Dad showed me that it isn’t too late. I don’t have to live my life the way he lived his. I can . . .” He faltered, giving his mind a chance to consider what he was about to say. “I can live my truth before it’s too late.”

  *

  Drew entered his apartment Monday afternoon. With the boxes gone, it looked even more hallow than before.

  He’d stopped for lunch on the way over, hoping food might distract him from the pangs of withdrawal he felt. His mind taunted him without mercy, urging him to give in, reminding him that one more drink wouldn’t make a difference. It felt good in a strange sort of way. It was a reminder that he was winning.

  Tucked into one corner beneath the kitchen sink were two small baggies—his remaining supply of weed and coke. Drew had hid them when Logan was helping him move. He placed them on his desk and pulled out his phone.

  Marcus answered. “Drew! Long time, man.”

  “Just a few days, really.”

  “Right. So what can I get for you?”

  “Can you come by my apartment?”

  “Sure thing. Gimme five.”

  The call ended and a text message came in.

  Kara: Paul said you quit???

  Drew: I did.

  Kara: WHY??

  Drew: I’ll fill you in later

  Kara: You always do ;)

  Drew: Dad’s funeral is Thursday at 10. Hillcrest cemetery

  Kara: I’ll ask Paul for the day off

  A knock at the door.

  Drew let Marcus in, who instantly noted the missing boxes. “Are you moving again?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Damn. I hate to lose a customer.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, you still owe me money. Can I get that from you?”

  Drew passed the two baggies to Marcus. “Will this cover it?”

  Marcus took a baggie in each hand, lifting them one at a time, as though he were a human digital scale. “Close enough, although I don’t usually accept returns.” He stuffed the product in his pocket. “Hey, how come you don’t want this stuff anymore? Did you find Jesus or something?”

  “Not exactly. Just, uh, hoping for a clean start.”

  Marcus bobbed his head in agreement, but his face said he wasn’t sure what that meant. “All right, well, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Likewise.”

  *

  Drew knocked on the door. A placard below its peephole read, Superintendent. Mr. Patel opened up, wrinkling his face once he recognized his guest. “What can I do for you, Mr. Thomson?”

  He withdrew the bogus eviction notice from his pocket, crumpled it, and tossed it to Patel, hitting him in the neck. “The place is all yours.”

  “But Mr. Thomson,” Patel scrambled to pick up the paper ball, “you haven’t given a proper notice.”

  “Thought you wanted me gone?”

  “I want you to pay your rent on time, Mr. Thomson.”

  “You’ve got my security deposit. Keep it. Plus I left you a desk and a mattress. They’re all yours—”

  “You can’t just walk out on your lease.”

  “I can and I will.” He handed Patel the keys to his apartment. “Here you go.”

  “There will be legal consequences for this—”

  “I bet. Sue me. Have a nice day.”

  *

  Drew’s ride to Hillcrest Cemetery had been his slowest of the day. He was exhausted, but more than anything, he felt uneasy. He’d always been drawn to his mother’s memory, but more than ever at this moment.

  He stood at her grave, his bike resting against a nearby tree.

  “I guess Dad will be joining you soon—or maybe he already has. I’m a bit unclear on how it all works. I mean, he’s gone, but we haven’t buried him yet.”

  Her headstone, the one grave marker for both of his parents, would soon need to be updated to include the date of his father’s death. He had died early on the Fourth of July, but Drew wondered if his date of death ought mirror his mother’s, the fifteenth of June. It was the day he stopped living, after all.

  “When you died it changed all of us. It’s only now I can see that clearly. It left Logan with something to prove. It held Dad in place. And it left me . . .” He choked for a moment, tears pooling under his eyes. “It left me hallow and trying to fill the void however I could.”

  This wasn’t dissimilar to talking to his webcam—he was alone, narrating a special moment never to be heard or seen again. But in the presence of his mother, Drew found himself being honest in a way he never could with himself.

  “You were one powerful woman, Mom. Your life and death affected us all.” He lowered his voice to a faint whisper. “Take good care of Dad, okay? He’s waited his whole life to be with you again.”

  * * *

  Chapter 29

  His arraignment was swift and painless. It took hours for Drew to get in front of a judge, but once he did, it was over in a matter of minutes.

  Indicating that he did not have representation, the judge appointed an attorney to him then and there. The attorney—a public defender of sorts, Drew surmised—coached him to enter a plea of not guilty.

  “But I am guilty.”

  “Listen buddy, everyone in this courthouse is guilty. I know it and the judge knows it, too. But it’s my job to make sure you g
et a fair trial.”

  “I’m not sure I deserve a fair trial.”

  “Look, you posted bail—you obviously want to be a free man. And you have the right to stand on your innocence.”

  What innocence?

  “If you tell the judge you’re guilty, it’s over. Plead not guilty and your trial probably won’t be for a few weeks. My best advice? Hire the best lawyer you can afford before then.”

  Drew did as he was told. The judge accepted his plea, and imposed a condition on his release—to abstain from drugs and alcohol until his trial.

  * * *

  Chapter 30

  It was Wednesday evening and well after sunset. Visitation hours had ended at the funeral home, less than ten mourners having passed through to pay their respects.

  Drew and Sierra were completing another lap around Northwood Park. Neither one had been keeping track but it seemed to Drew they had circled his mother’s bench at least five times. “Found out today I’m now a size thirty-eight waist,” he said, almost bragging.

  “Get out of here.”

  “It’s true. Guess I put on a few pounds. Had to get a rush job done on my suit pants. Got them taken out just before my arraignment yesterday.”

  “And after all this walking we’ve been doing.” She turned her head toward him. “Figure out what you’re going to do with your dad’s place?”

  “I’m gonna keep it,” he replied. “I’ll get to work later this week, start clearing it out and making it my own. It’ll probably take me a while.”

  “How are you going to support yourself?”

  “The place is paid for, and there’s a few antiques I can sell.”

  “You don’t want to keep some of that stuff?”

  “Some of it. A few keepsakes, but the rest can go. Already hauled one load down to the pawnshop last night. Plus I’ve got my hatchback listed on Craigslist. Dad’s Buick is an antique itself, but it’s got low miles on it and it’s in good shape. When I get my license back, I can drive that. In the meantime, I really only have to keep myself fed. He had a few bucks in his checking account. Not a fortune, mind you, but enough for me to survive for a while.”

  “Have you told your brother yet?”

  “That I’m keeping the house?”

  “Yeah.”

  Drew shrugged. “I mentioned it today. I still have no idea why he’s letting me have it. It’s as much his as it is mine.”

  “Maybe he’s doing it because he loves you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m, uh, a bit unlovable.”

  Sierra gave Drew a shove. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Drew stopped and faced her, her bottomless blue eyes lighting up the night sky. “You get to meet Heather tomorrow, by the way—my ex.”

  “Oh yeah? Think I should I have some fun with her?”

  “It’s Dad’s funeral. I mean, probably not.” Drew wasn’t even sure why he was protesting. She was clearly kidding and probably just hoped to make him smile.

  Sierra did her best impression of cheerleader type—a bottled blonde, ditzy and slutty—embarking on an imaginary conversation with Heather. “Ooh, does he like his women shaved, Heather?” she asked, twirling her hair around her finger.

  “Stop it.” Drew failed to mask his amusement.

  “Tell me, Heather, does he like having his woman on top?” She burst out in laughter, Drew following her lead, weaving his fingers between hers. Her voice returned to normal. “It doesn’t bother me, dude. She’s in the past.”

  * * *

  Chapter 31

  It was a simple funeral. A nondenominational minister conducted the service, reading the odd passage of scripture—none of it uplifting—and leading the group in somber prayer.

  I’ll bet Father Doom ‘n Gloom does this same damn routine every week.

  The ground had been unearthed next to his mother, his father’s ornate casket hoisted above its depths. Drew, Sierra, Logan, Stephen, and Heather were gathered at its edges, joined by a ragtag trio of casual acquaintances—one of Russell’s former coworkers and two of his bowling teammates. Kara was absent, having not extended so much as a call or a text since Monday. Not that Drew minded. She could be classy, charming, and certainly pleasing to look at, but he decided it was just as well that her and Sierra weren’t occupying the same space. He had notified Neil of the funeral arrangements earlier that week, but received no response. His father had never met Neil in life, and it appeared they would remain strangers in death.

  The funeral came to a close, the casket lowered into the ground, the final chapter written on Russell’s grim legacy. Logan dropped a handful of dirt into his fresh grave. Drew wanted to do the same, but he was four days sober and preferred not to draw attention to his shaking hands.

  There was a part of Drew that was convinced he was burying a version of himself—the one that thrived on complacency, dependence, and self-loathing. But not the man he was becoming. That man was budding with drive, conscience, and empathy—fibers of his character emerging for the first time.

  Sierra touched his arm. “You were brave.”

  “I was ready.”

  Drew stared into the blackness below for several minutes, the other mourners relocating, granting him ample space, assembling at the bottom of the hill—the same spot where he, Logan, and Russell had parked to visit Angela a month before. He closed his eyes.

  Mom took a piece of us all when she died, I think. But it’s only now I realize the gift she left behind. She gave us an opportunity to do right by her. To live and love and laugh in her honor. Her memory should have brought out the best in us, not the worst. A piece of me died with you, too, Dad, but you’ve given me so much hope . . . so much to live for. I wish it hadn’t taken so long to figure this all out. I’ll do my best to make you proud. He smirked. And, uh, I’m sorry in advance if you hate what I end up doing with your place. Haunt me if you must, but just know that I’ll be all right.

  “Andrew,” Logan called for him. He was swapping hugs and handshakes with the few who had been present, including Father Doom ‘n Gloom.

  I guess this is it. Goodbye, Dad.

  Drew ambled down the hill. He shook hands with the minister, the three acquaintances, and Heather. He gave her a sincere embrace. “Thanks for being here. It meant the world to me.”

  “Your dad meant a lot to me, too.” She glanced over Drew’s shoulder in Sierra’s direction, who was chatting with Stephen, allowing the two brothers all the time they needed. “She seems nice.”

  “I, uh, listen, Heather—”

  “I don’t need any explanations, Drew. I meant what I said—she seems nice. And I really do hope you find happiness.” She got in her car.

  Logan approached. “It all happened so fast,” he said. “Can’t believe Russell’s really gone.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Listen, Andrew, I was hoping you and Sierra might join Stephen and I for lunch. I know you haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other.”

  “I’d love to. I really would.”

  “But?”

  “But there’s something else on my mind. I promise, though. You have my word. We’ll all get together soon.”

  * * *

  Chapter 32

  Darkness was descending as Drew arrived on two wheels to see Neil. After a short chat with security, he boarded the elevator and sped upward.

  Neil answered the door after a short delay, shirtless, his expression cold. “What do you want?”

  “Dad’s funeral was this morning.”

  “That’s why you’re at my door? Because I missed your old man’s funeral?”

  “Actually, I wanted to apologize for how I acted at your party and thank you for bailing me out.”

  Neil looked down. “Whatever, bro. It’s all good.”

  “Is that really why you weren’t there? You’re pissed because I asked you to bail me out?”

  “You want to know why I’m pis
sed?” he asked, clenching his jaw. “I’m pissed because I was good to you, bro. Brought you into my home when you had no place to go. Got you coke when you were too dumb to find it on your own. Introduced you to good people, even though you always make a jackass of yourself. You should get tested for Asperger's, you fucking retard. Then you land yourself in jail and call me to make it all go away. A real man handles his own shit, bro. Grow a fucking pair. You’re a waste. Just a sloppy fucking waste.”

  A young woman’s voice echoed behind Neil. “Come back to bed, Neil Galloway.”

  That voice . . . Drew’s eyes widened. “Is that Kara?”

  “So what if it is?”

  “I bring her to one party and you pounce on her like it’s open season.”

  Her voice again. “I’ll let you stick it anywhere you’d like.” She teased Neil in a singsong tone. “Don’t make me beg for it again.”

  “Some best friend you are,” Drew scoffed.

  “I’m not your friend, bro, and she’s not your girlfriend either. Just another bitch in need of a good fuck. Get over it.”

  “I have somewhere to be.”

  “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass,” Neil hollered after him. “Enjoy your life in Palmer Heights.”

  *

  Crickets chirped in the yard, the night sky clear, vast and black, penetrated only by the pastel glow of the constellations. Their distant sparkle peered through the bedroom window, dancing, twinkling, igniting the pale walls.

  Sierra had insisted that if she were going to stay the night, something had to be done about the bed sheets—saturated as they were with the odious stench of cigarettes. Searching the linen closet, Drew had found a silk set—seemingly unused, but in dire need of a wash.

  Once the bedding was sorted, they had turned in for the night, succumbing to their urges, their flesh eager to intertwine—passionate, feverish, and intense, but loving, genuine, and vulnerable in equal measure. The fresh bedding added a shield of coolness afterward, its smooth tactility soothing to their ravaged bodies.