“So which room is yours and which is mine?” I look at her with a grin and she rolls her eyes.
“I’ll stay in my old room, in the right wing of the house, and you can pick whichever one you want out of the hundred others that are in this place.” She looks over her shoulder at me with a smirk on her lips, then continues to lead the way down a long corridor.
“So, funeral tomorrow and then what’s your plan?” My voice echoes from behind her, she just keeps walking.
“I want to go to the funeral. I’m not wearin’ black though. My heart doesn’t mourn him. I just want to see him put in the ground. Probably won’t have time to do all the financial things, so we can do that the next day. Depending on how all that goes, we can probably head back home.”
That might be her plan, but something tells me our departure from Dill Creek will not be that simple.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Just like I promised—no black. I don’t have a massive wardrobe to begin with; I have a few different colored tops to go with my jeans. But they’re all muted or earth tones, nothing bright. I want to wear something that says, “Hey, Dad—Guess what? I’m happy!” When I left all those years ago, my mama’s closet still had most of her things. I wonder if they’re still there? I’m already half dressed, wearing my jeans with nothing but my bra. Mama's room is right next to mine, I think I can scurry over there real quick. I don’t even think my boss is awake. So I open my door and hurry over to where I used to sneak as a little girl. I always ended up in her bed, even after she was gone.
I won’t lie, being here is hard. But knowing my dad is dead somehow makes me feel at peace. Or numbness, but I don’t care either way. I open my mom’s closet door and it’s like a shrine to her memory, not a thing touched, in almost thirty years. The clothes are dusty—but cowgirl istimeless,and that’s what she was.
I ruffle through her tops on the hangers and find a pretty, soft pink button up. It has a white paisley pattern on it and the buttons are snaps. Each snap has a grey pearl on top.It’s perfect.So I gently remove it from the hanger and dust the shoulders off before I bring the fabric to my nose. Somehow it still smells like her, even ages after it should have faded. I slip one arm in at a time and do it up from the bottom.
One. Two. Three.I count in my mind as my fingers work their magic.
“Hey, blondie. You alright?” His voice is gentle, but still so deep, and I jump just a little when I hear it. I’ve only gotten to my belly button with the snaps, and I know he can see me. When I look up, I catch him in the room's doorway through the reflection of the full-length mirror in front of me, and gasp. He’s wearing a grey sport coat over a black shirt, wrangler jeans and black cowboy boots. His hair and his beard combed, but his ruggedness still pulls through.
I stammer when I say, “Yeah…” with a sigh trailing on the end. I feel frozen as his gaze travels up and down my body through the mirror.
“I’m sure you’re a knockout in every shade of underwear, but I think burgundy is your color…” He clamps down on the grin I know is begging to break through with his comment. He’s talking about my bra. His eyes twinkle and I stick my tongue out at him through the reflection as I snap up the rest of mama’s top. “Is that,hers?” He asks genuinely.
“It is. It feels right to wear it. And I love the pattern,don’t you?” He motions with his two fingers for me to come closer. He stares at the pink top a little longer.
“Absolutely.” And then the grin he’s been fighting back since he came into this room, breaks free.
We enter the small church building where people have gathered. I found a denim skirt in the closet that looks perfect with the top I chose. It suits, especially since I’m still wearing this damn walking boot. By the end of this week I’m taking it off. I don’t care what the doctor says, I’ll wrap it up and call it good.
As we sit in one of the back pews, I notice more and more people fill the chapel until it’s near to overflow. How the hell did he con so many people into showing up to his funeral? He must’ve had more friends than I remember. But then again, I paid little attention to what my father did—other than avoid me. His picture is on an easel in the front, off to one side. It's huge. I sure as hell hope they don’t ask me to take it home, I don’t want it. His casket is magnificent, but it’s unopened. Probably too prideful to be seendead.It’s fine, I don’t need to see his body. Knowing it’s in there is fine with me.
When the minister or preacher or whoever he is, stands at the pulpit with the microphone to address the congregation, he starts with, “Alan Wilder, the man we’re all gathered to honor here today, was a pillar of kindness and generosity in our community…”
Kindness, generosity—my ass! Well, he left meeverything…but I don’t give a shit about that. I wanted his kindness and generosity when he was alive! It doesn’t matter that he provided for me and my mother financially; I wanted his heart. Just further proves what we were to him—an obligation. A consequence he had to suffer for hismistake.The preacher goes on…
“Alan has requested a series of his favorite hymns to be sung after a brief life sketch from my dear wife Barbara, who he has entrusted to share his most important life experiences and accomplishments.” He steps aside and Barbara slides in to occupy his previous standing spot. My blood is on fire—I don’t know what she’s going to say, but I know me and my mother won’t be a part of it.
“Friends—family. Alan Wilder was born…” She continues on for thirty minutes or more about his life. She talks about his upbringing, things I never knew, his military service, how he accrued his wealth and a lot more than that. But just like I knew she wouldn’t—as she finishes and steps down into the crowd, there was not a mention of either of us. Which blows my mind because half these people knew us, me especially, growing up. The singing begins and when that’s through, the men in the room carry his casket out to the hearse and we all drive down to the cemetery.
The graveside service is about as boring as it can get. But when it’s all said and done and everyone has gone back to the church building for lunch provided by the ladies of the group, I sit firmly in my seat. My boss puts his hand on my thigh and asks me if I’d like to go? “No. I wanna watch them crank him down into the ground andpour the dirt on top. Call me morbid or whatever, but I need to see it, I need to know this part of my life is over.” He squeezes my leg a little, and with two of his fingers, turns my chin to face him.
“Whatever you need, we’ve got nothing but time here.” God, I’ve never felt so safe. The last time I felt like this was the last time my mom held me in her arms. The last time she kissed me and put me to bed. My life has been nothing but a mess since. Without thinking, I throw my arms around my boss’s neck and hug him tighter than I think I’ve ever hugged anyone. I don’t need to saythank you.If he doesn’t feel it in my hug, then my words wouldn’t mean a thing. I know he feels it though, because he wraps his enormous arms around me too, and when he does, I never want him to let go. But as soon as I think about it, the funeral director taps me on the shoulder and I have to release the man I’m holding.
“Miss? We rarely allow anyone to stay during the lowering. It can be traumatic for some. The lowering device isn’t perfect and can slip causing the casket to have a bumpy ride down.”
“I’d like to stay.” I say with confidence. “There’s nothing more traumatic than what that man has already put me through.” He nods his consent and I stand, walking toward the hole where my father’s body will lie for eternity. Wherever his soul is, it is not in heaven. His casket had a rocky descent, but nothing crazy. My boss is at my side, holding my hand as the mini excavator fills in the hole with its arm and bucket. When they smooth the last scoop out over the top, we turn and walk away.
“How do you feel?” He asks me as we make our way to the truck.
“Better.” I can’t put all of it into words, but that one pretty much sums it up. I don’t need to go back to the church, but I’m starving and feeling glutton for punishment I guess, because something inside of me wants to know—now that it's all over, if someone might recognize me. I’ve given everyone the benefit of the doubt so far, I was hiding in the back the entire time and I am a full grown woman who they haven’t seen in more than a decade. The truck roars to life, and the gravel crunches as we leave the cemetery.
We enter the kitchen and dining portion of the building, where I’m sure they hold socials and things. As we make our way toward the line of people standing to get their food, I stop dead in my tracks. He wasn’t at the funeral or the graveside service—but he’s here. I couldn’t forget his face or his eyes if I tried. They’re burned into my memory, like a cruel melody in my skull. He’s older, fatter, but there’s no mistake. Suddenly, I’m whooshed back to that night. I’m on the ground, I can’t scream, and it’s happening all over again. My breathing instantly gets heavy and I wonder if I’ll hyperventilate, or pass out all together. My vision tunnels, and I swear I’m about to scream, pull my gun and charge him—then the man who’s been with me all day, steps in front of me and cups my face with his hands.
“Look at me, blondie. What just happened?” He’s blocking any view I originally had of the boy who hurt me all those years ago.
“It's…him.”I breathe out. My boss is observant anddoesn’t miss a beat. He knows exactly who I’m talking about. I try to look around him to see the guy, but he stops me.
