Robert Swartwood - Legion

Instead of answering his question, I ask, “How was the wake?”

Nearly everyone else is on their feet now, everyone except our mother who sits on the metal folding chair and stares up at the reverend as he speaks to her, clasping her hands between his. The reverend wears a dark blue suit, probably taken off the rack at Sears, and his hair is as white as snow. He has a rose pinned to his jacket, right on the lapel, and for a moment I wonder whether or not it’s real.

My other siblings have all noticed me by now, but none have waved or nodded or even given me the finger, though I guess in this setting flashing the bird wouldn’t be proper funereal etiquette.

David’s face tenses briefly. “It was as nice as a wake can be.”

“Who was there?”

“Just us. Family.”

“So even until the end, our dad didn’t have any friends.”

I say this expecting to elicit a reaction, to make my brother flinch, but he only smiles and shrugs.

“You could say that, sure.”

This isn’t quite the response I expected. Except, now that I think about it, this is the typical response David is apt to give. At least the David I remember, the one I grew up with, the one who always had a dirty joke ready to make me laugh.

Now David looks past me, up the slope at the taxi, before scanning the road leading into the cemetery, as if he’s expecting someone else to show up.

An uneasy silence passes, and while oftentimes I revel in uneasy silences, I want to say something. Before I can, though, David asks, “Are you coming back to the house?”

“Whose house?”

“Mom’s. That’s where we’re having the reception. You know, finger sandwiches and macaroni salad. Hopefully there’ll be some alcohol, too.”

“I’m not sure I can. I have to head back soon.”

“But you just got here.”

Past my brother, Melissa has moved away from her husband and sons, weaving in and out of the chairs, so she can stand by our mother and lean down and whisper something in her ear. Our mother listens, a forced smile on her face, and then, little by little, the smile fades. She blinks and looks up at Melissa, then turns her face just enough so she’s looking at me.

Wrinkles on her forehead, crow’s-feet underneath her eyes, a little too much makeup-those are the details I take in for the half second or so before I instruct my body to take a quarter-step to the right, just enough so David blocks my mother’s gaze.

David glances over his shoulder, then turns back to me, shaking his head. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You thought you could make an appearance and not have to talk to Mom?”

“Did anyone look inside?”

Again, I expect to elicit some kind of reaction, but my brother only gives me a bored look.

“Yeah,” he says, “last night we had the casket open and were tossing in pennies like it was a wishing well. What the hell do you think? Of course nobody looked inside.”

I can’t help it, I start to smile, realizing that I have missed my brother. Maybe my own morbid sense of humor comes from him, I don’t know, but it seems whatever I throw at him, he throws it right back without missing a beat.

Beyond him, my mother struggles to her feet. Melissa and the reverend with the fake-or-real rose need to help her, each supporting an elbow, and I notice she’s now gripping a metal cane. My mother, barely sixty years old, needs a cane to move around and I have no idea why.

“Why does she need the cane?”

“Stroke.”

“When did that happen?”

“I don’t know. Pretty recently. It was only a minor stroke, from what I understand. You know, you could check in every once in a while so you would be in the loop.”

“What fun would that be?”

They’re coming this way now, our mother and Melissa, both of their gazes intent on my location.

“I should go.”

David glances over his shoulder again, seems to think something over, then nods. “If you feel you must.”

“Give everyone my best.”

“Sure,” David says. Then: “You know you’re an asshole, right?”

“What can I say? I am my father’s son.”

I turn and start back up the walkway, withdrawing the earbuds from my pocket and popping them in place, so that if anyone calls my name, I won’t hear them. I barely even hear the driver when I return to the taxi. He’s discarded his cigarette and again sits behind the wheel. He says something to me as I slide into the backseat. I take out the earbuds, ask him to say that again.

“I said that was fast.”

“Let’s go,” I say, and glance out the window.

David hasn’t moved, his hands now in the pockets of his thousand-dollar suit. Melissa and our mother have reached him, Melissa saying something to David, David shrugging and giving her some kind of bullshit to my sudden departure. Or, who knows, maybe he’s telling her the truth. We might be brothers, but it’s not like we owe each other anything, even though when we were kids I always stuck up for him when the bullies wanted to pick a fight.

Our mother, though, she stands off to the side, leaning on her cane, watching the taxi as we glide away down the drive.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat.

I think about my father in that closed casket.

I wonder what thoughts were racing through his mind moments before he put that gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Ashley pegged the guy as a cop the second she saw him.

It was mostly in the way he carried himself, his broad shoulders squeezed into a suit that was one size too small-probably something grabbed off the rack at the last minute-the man looking uncomfortable in the plainclothes, because clearly this man was used to a uniform, loved the order and simplicity of wearing the same thing every day. Even his tie didn’t match, the shade of blue not quite going right with the jacket. He definitely looked like he was in the wrong place, the restaurant filled with the stuffy noontime regulars, those who made over six figures a year and didn’t mind paying for a glass of water. Ashley knew exactly what kind of clientele this place brought in, so it was no surprise the undercover cop caught her attention the way he did, entering the room, pausing briefly, scanning the tables, as if he was purposely looking for trouble.

Behind him then, a second or two later, Melissa appeared, dressed in a smart business suit, her golden brown hair pulled back into a bun. She had her glasses on today, the ones with the black frames, the kind men referred to as a naughty librarian look, a good look, Ashley thought, especially for someone like Melissa who could pull off sexy without really trying.

Melissa stepped up to the cop, whispered something to him, pointed vaguely in Ashley’s direction, then pointed over to the bar. The cop gave Ashley a long, measuring look, before he nodded slightly and weaved his way past the tables to the bar. He took up position at the far end, which gave him a good view of the entire room, the tables and booths, almost all of them occupied by men and women completely oblivious to his existence.

What they weren’t oblivious to, of course, was Melissa Baxter. If there was one thing Ashley knew, it was that her friend knew how to make an appearance. Even if she wasn’t trying it, like today, people instantly noticed her. She turned heads, as the saying went, both men and women alike. It also didn’t help that nearly everyone in the room knew her, or knew who she was, some even waving as Melissa made her way toward Ashley, smiling and returning hellos like it was just another day at the racquetball club.

“Sorry I’m late,” Melissa said, sliding into the booth, absently glancing at the menu even though she knew what she was getting-they always got the same thing, always, the two of them meeting here for lunch once a month, if not twice a month, a ritual they’d worked hard to keep going these past few years. “Did you get my text?”