FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #9

      “It was the thing he'd always loved about her.” That's what Jack said to me as we walked through the cemetery. It was an unusually warm October day and people were out enjoying it, as much as anyone can enjoy a cemetery sweeping leaves away from family plots, wiping bird shit off tombstones, those kinds of things.

      “What's that?” I asked.

      “How she always took care of him," he said. "No matter what."

      “What do you mean?”

      “You know...John's drinking and all that. He came home drunk all the time, yelling and beating on her, waking up the kids and scaring them half to death. I told her to get some help, but she wouldn't listen."

      I didn't know he did that,” I said. “Well, not until recently.”

      “You were his best friend. How could you not know?”

      “And you're her brother,” I said angrily. “You knew and did nothing. Who cares if she didn't listen to you? You should have called the police, did something. She should have called the police, at least called a friend. And you…you should have called me, but you didn't. You and her both.” 

      I stopped, motioned Jack to come sit on the bench with me. “Look, I'm sorry,” I said. “I know it’s tough for you to be here.”

     “It's okay,” Jack said. “I'm sorry, too. Let's just get through today, shall we?”

     “So what did John’s parents say?” I asked. “I saw you talking to them at the church.”

     “They didn’t say anything.” Jack said. “His mother looked at me as if I killed him.”

     “Look, Jack,” I said, “had I known, I would have done something. I mean, you really should have called me. John and I hadn't been hanging out that much the last couple of years. Work and everything, you know. But he seemed fine during the times we did hang out. Really, Jack, I had no idea. If you need anything, let me know.”

     “Sure,” Jack said. “Thank you.”

     “Anyway,” I said, “what you said before, how is that taking care of him?”

      “With his drinking?” you mean.

      “Yea, that.”

      “She always forgave him. I guess that’s why she didn’t ask for help or why I never intervened. She loved him, always brought him back inside, told the kids that daddy just had a bad day at work, that's all, not to worry, everything would be alright, and then she'd clean him up and put him to bed.”

      “But not this time,” I said. “She didn't forgive him this time.”

      “No, I suppose not,” Jack said.

      I looked up. People were gathering around John's grave. Their black suits and dresses and quiet feet reminded me of crows creeping around the cornfield near my cousin's house in Lexington where I'd spend a few days during harvest season.

      “Looks like their getting ready to start,” I said, then stood up. “Ready to go?”

      “Yea, I guess so,” Jack said.

      We walked over to the grave just as the minister was beginning the prayer. I looked over at Tommy, the youngest, sitting on his grandmother's lap, head down. I couldn't tell if he was crying or not, or, at four years old, if he even understood that he'd never see his father again. But John Junior was crying. He knew that his father was never coming back.

      After the service, Jack and I stuck around a few more minutes. I looked up. Storm clouds rolled around in the sky like dragon's breath. The sky lit up pink and hot and dark blue. A large drop of rain fell on my shoulder. The thunder seemed to rage against God for taking the lives of those not ready to die. I looked at Jack to motion him for us to go, but he was crying. His shoulders shook. He looked as though he was busting up a concrete walkway with a jackhammer. I gently grabbed his elbow, told him that we should go.

      Once in the car and calmed down, Jack called his house, told his wife we'd be there after the storm subsided.

      “Okay, honey,” he said. “Sounds good. What's that? Okay, I will. See you in a bit. Love you, too. Bye.”

      “What's up?” I asked.

      “Amy said she'd have us something to eat by the time we get there. We need to make a stop, first.”

      “Okay, that's fine,” I said. “Where are we going?”

      To pick up John's kids,” Jack said. “Amy and I are the legal guardians now.”

     “What about their grandparents?” I asked.

     “As strange as it may sound, it was in John’s will that we take them.”

     “They’re not going to put up a fight?”

     “Who, the grandparents?” Jack asked. “No…”

     He trailed off, then said, “We’ll talk about it later.”   

     Jack settled the boys in their new room. When he returned, Amy and I were sitting in the kitchen over a bottle of bourbon.

     “Amy tells me that they are seeking the death penalty,” I said. “Is this what you were trying to tell me before?”

      “Yea,” Jack said angrily. “John’s parents are pushing hard for it, even got a support group, if you can believe that. They're swarming around the prison with their goddamn signs, trying to put a woman to death they've never even met. I mean, that's why I went to John's funeral, to make peace. Well, fuck them!”

      “Jack, just relax,” I said. Drunk or not, beating on Sarah, did John really deserve what he got?”  I mean, she tied him to the bed and set him on fire.” I took a sip of bourbon, looked at the anger in Jack's face and Amy's dark and hollow eyes. “I know that I was John's friend and I'm not taking sides or anything like that, but please don't misunderstand me when I say that he didn't deserve that.”

      “Sarah didn't deserve to be beat on, either,” Amy said. “And in front of the kids. What kind of man does something like that?”

      “A man that is sick,” I said. “He needed help, not murdered.”

      “Easy for you to say,” Jack said.

      “Let's not argue,” I said. "Again. I don't agree with the death penalty, either. I think Sarah needs counseling just as much as John did.”

      “So what now?” Amy asked.  

      “Now,” I suggested, “we get a support group of our own.”        

 

back to Contest #9