J. Gonzalez - They

And then Laura had taken him in her arms as he cried.

Vince tossed the memory back in the files of his mind as he talked to Brian. “You’re right. I guess I’m just over-rationalizing things. She really was… well, a shitty person toward the end there. I guess I’m just feeling… I don’t know… required to grieve for her. You know what I mean?”

“Of course,” Brian had said. “Because under any other circumstances you would grieve. You would feel mournful. But in your case there’s no reason to if you don’t feel any grief. And there’s no reason for you to feel guilty over your lack of grief. Laura’s passing was understandable. And if I kick the bucket before my time, you better cry and mourn over my casket as well.”

Vince had laughed. Brian could lift your spirits when you were feeling at your lowest, and this morning proved to be no exception.

“So I take it you’ll be taking the next few days off?” Brian had asked.

“Yeah, I gotta take care of this.” Brian had been his manager a few years before. Now he handled the Middle-East division and reported to the Director of Finance, much as Vince himself did. Vince handled the U.S. division. Their boss, a man who Brian once remarked to Vince looked remarkably like Hubert Humphrey, was currently vacationing in the Cayman Islands. Rumor had it he was with his secretary, a blonde twenty-two year old with a pair of mangos a man could die for.

“Okay, no problem,” Brian had said. “Steve is out for three weeks frolicking in the Caymans with Sarah anyway. He probably won’t even be checking his voice mail. I’ll cover for you.”

“Thanks, Brian.”

“Listen, if you need to talk?”

“Of course. I’ll call you.”

“Okay. See you when?”

“Monday morning, hopefully.” It was already Wednesday, and he figured he would try to arrange for a small service for his mother on Friday and fly back to Irvine on Saturday. He quickly outlined his itinerary for Brian. “If I do get in Saturday, I’ll call you. Maybe we can get together Sunday.”

“Good deal. See ya.”

The traffic near his aisle began to move down the plane and the elderly woman quickly moved in place. Vince followed and made his way down the aisle, the remnants of this morning’s conversation with Brian already a faint memory. He felt drowsy. If he could just get through the next few hours the first thing he was going to do was check into a motel, take a sedative, and crash. He could deal with Chief Hoffman and the task of arranging his mother’s belongings tomorrow.

As he walked out of the plane and down the concourse of Philadelphia International Airport past people greeting loved ones, he never felt so alone in all his life.

THE HOUSE LOOKED the same as when he first left home fifteen years ago.

He pulled up to the side of the road and stopped the car. Behind him, Chief Hoffman pulled in and Vince got out of his rented Toyota Hatchback. The Pennsylvania weather was warm, the air clean and fresh. The sky was a deep blue, dotted by scarce clouds. Rolling hills dotted the countryside beyond his mother’s house, which sat alone on a patch of land surrounded by fields of corn. A farm rested half a mile down Mill Lane, where his mother’s house stood. He turned his attention to the house as a flood of memories threatened to break loose. Tom Hoffman approached him, hands on his hips, eyes squinted against the mid-morning sun.

“Crime scene tape is still in place,” Tom Hoffman said, nodding at the house. The tape was still up, its harsh yellow standing out like a beacon, proclaiming to anyone who came within sight that this was a CRIME SCENE. “But the homicide detectives have already gone over the place and taken away everything they need, and I got a key. Come on.” He led Vince up the worn walk to the sagging front porch. Vince was still trying to take all of this in; how the house and the land around it really hadn’t changed all that much.

Tom Hoffman inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. He turned back to Vince, who was standing on the porch and looking out at the yard with rapt wonder. “Been awhile, eh?”

“Too long,” Vince murmured.

“I know how it feels,” Tom Hoffman said. “Not much has changed here, Vince. The town’s spread out a little towards Newport Road, and you saw that big shopping center when you drove up 501; that’s all new. Not much else has changed, though. ’Specially your mom’s place and the rest of them.”

Vince turned to Sheriff Hoffman. “The others are still around?”

“Oh, yeah. Couldn’t break that group apart for the world.”

“They still have services at Hank Powell’s place on Owl Hill Road?” Vince asked.

“Yep.” Tom Hoffman took off his hat and squinted at the sun as he looked down the road where they’d come from. He was in his early fifties, of medium build with thick brown hair and craggy features. He looked like the Marlboro Man; rugged, beefy with no hint of fat. In short, a man’s man. His blue police uniform was clean and wrinkle free. His hands were large, his forearms thickly muscled. Tom Hoffman appeared to be the type of man you wouldn’t want to tangle with. “Most of them still live up that way.” He cocked his thumb toward the direction they’d come. “Lillian still lives in that little house behind your mom’s. She’s probably home now. She’s been too upset to return to work.”

“I can only imagine,” Vince said.

“Why don’t you come with me and we’ll have a look around.” Tom Hoffman headed toward the door. Vince turned to follow him. The Chief fished in his pocket for the key, found it, inserted it in the lock. He opened the door and stood aside. “After you.”

Vince took a deep breath and stepped into the house.

Nothing had changed. When he and Mom moved to Lititz, the seventy-year old three-bedroom farmhouse that sat off Mill Lane was weathered and beaten by too many snow storms and neglect. He’d helped mother renovate the house that summer; new shingles on the roof, stripping the old wood off the outer walls and replacing them with more sturdy material, a new paint job. Then they’d done intensive repairs to the interior; more repainting, re-carpeting. When all was done the house was cozy. And with what furniture they’d brought with them from Toronto, most of it antique to begin with, it made the house a throwback to the 1920s. Simple furniture, simple times. It brought a sense of nostalgia and peace. The only thing Vince thought distracted from it were the many religious paintings she insisted on hanging where most families would install more secular decorations. None of them had been taken down; there was a large crucifix over the fireplace, Christ’s face looking forlorn and wracked with pain. Above the worn lavender sofa there was a framed excerpt from that old standby, John 3:13: “For God so Loved the World That He Gave…” In Vince’s bedroom Mom insisted that the “The Wages of Sin are Death” framed slogan remain hanging over his bed. Since Vince was already treading the water of sin in the form of good old-fashioned teenage rebellion—sex, drugs, and rock and roll—he hated waking up to that proclamation every morning. If Mom thought it was going to work in steering him away from the occasional toke with the guys after school or a romp in Kathy Stevens’ bed when her parents were at work, then she’d been seriously mistaken. At seventeen, with his hormones raging fiercely, he could not have cared less what she would think about his—

“—when you’re done just give me a holler,” Tom Hoffman was saying. He was putting his hat back on his head, heading for the door. “Number’s on my card. Homicide Detectives from Lancaster are coming back today at three and they’ll probably want to speak to you. They know you’re in town.”