A bald guy Anthony recognized but couldn’t name was squeezing his shoulder and expressing just how terribly sorry he was. Anthony returned to his bobble head ways and offered the stock thank you so much for coming response.
“How’re those boys holding up?” the man asked. His pinstripe suit was a bit loose in the chest as though he had lost weight. Then Anthony had it—he was Greg Champ, who everyone called The Champ at work. He worked in Legal and was battling colon cancer.
“They’re okay,” Anthony said. “Tyler’s been taking it pretty hard and Brendan, well, I don’t think he’s even grieved yet. How are you?”
Greg shrugged. “Still here.”
Greg’s response was probably so automatic when anyone inquired about his cancer and those horrible treatments he had to endure that his brain forgot to stop the words before they left his mouth. His face went slack. “I’m so sorry, Anthony.”
But Anthony had shut him out. He was thinking about Brendan. While Tyler had shed tears over his lost sister, Brendan had simply sat through the entire first viewing with a blanched face and dry eyes. He didn’t have his composition book with him. He should have been writing, spilling his inner pain onto the safe pages inside a notebook if he was too afraid or unsure of himself to share those worries with his dad. Instead, Brendan just sat still, watching his sister’s dead body as if it might at any moment come to life. Now that would be a miracle, Lazarus and all that.
The boy was in shock, of course. And understandably so. He was only twelve and while he knew what death was, he had never known it to touch so deeply. After the baby’s death, Anthony had tried very hard to shield the kids from it. There had been a wake, in this same funeral home, perhaps this same room, though he couldn’t remember, and a brief ceremony at the burial. Few people attended, but they hadn’t expected many anyway. An infant’s death, while tragic, wasn’t like the death of a sixteen-year-old. Dr. Carroll had recommended the service and the burial; closure, it was called. It had worked for the kids and mostly for Anthony, too. Chloe was a different story, of course.
Brendan hadn’t cried for the baby, either, though he barely knew his youngest sibling. He had grown more focused and quieter. His grades had improved and he no longer forgot to put away his clothes or toys or put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. He matured. He might be a more serious pre-teen than average but that wasn’t a big deal. Was it? Everyone lost his or her innocence eventually. For some it came late, for others, early. Anthony lost his own father when he was nineteen and that had helped him focus on his collegiate studies and propel himself into the book-publishing world. It was the same with Brendan, that’s all—death was the catalyst that forced him to acknowledge his own mortality. You had to cut hay while the sun shined, after all, because it would be dark before you knew it.
Delaney’s death would only make Brendan even more introverted. The poor boy would throw himself into his studies as Anthony had done in college. He’d turn out alright as long as Anthony kept checking on him. Though maybe not. Assuming Brendan would be fine could be a grievous mistake. It was always the quiet kids, those harboring all their emotions, who eventually shot up their schools. That was an overreaction, obviously, but Anthony didn’t want to turn to CNN one morning and see his son’s school photo on the screen next to the words ALLEGED SHOOTER.
As it was, CNN was running on-going updates about the BOWLING BALL DEATH. It had been the top story for most news programs and cover page material for the local newspapers. The New York Times gave it top billing on the Local News page. All the reports, all the articles, they all said the same thing: Delaney Williams had been killed from a bowling ball dropped off an overpass. The police had no leads. Not for lack of trying. They had questioned Anthony and the boys, tried to question Chloe, and had, according to those reports, questioned everyone at the bowling alley. No one had seen a thing. “Something will turn up,” Sergeant Fratto said. “Someone was driving by, saw something. It’s only a matter of time before that person puts it together. Don’t give up.”
Don’t give up. Ha.
Greg was gone and someone else, one of Chloe’s friends, was offering her condolences. She wore a black and white cocktail dress that stopped well above her knees. If not for the overcoat that hung near her calves, she would have appeared to have wandered into the wrong place. She must be one of Chloe’s single friends. A wake was a good enough place to pick up men as any other, maybe better: she could cry and some guy could console her and that consoling could lead to a bedroom somewhere.
He was retreating back in his own mind while still processing the continuous line of mourners when a tall man in a black suit with a Bible held in both hands stepped in front of him. He had blue eyes and sharp features and his hair was slicked back, matted heavy with gel.
Then Anthony’s mind was lucid again, or as clear as it could be following a few days of endless crying, sleeping pills, and funeral planning. “What do you want?”
“I am very, very sorry for your loss,” the man said.
“Thanks.” He hoped his eyes conveyed his insincerity. What other reason could this man be here if not to use Delaney’s death as an opportunity to add more people to his flock of Jesus freaks? He had probably spotted the obituary in the paper and—
The other guy, the short, stocky one with the loose hairs waving on his head and the He-Man shoulders: he had seen Delaney, even said, She’s very pretty. At the advice of the funeral director, Anthony had the newspaper insert a headshot of Delaney next to her obituary. Pure coincidence, God’s intervention according to them, had led these assholes here.
“Where’s your partner, the one with the wrinkled suit?”
“He’s not here, Anthony.”
“Don’t say my name.”
The man squatted in front of him. Anthony could kick him in the crotch with almost no effort. The dread Anthony had first discovered when staring into this man’s eyes did not return; instead, anger began to stir inside him. There was something off about this man, perhaps even something dangerous, but Anthony didn’t care. He was crashing Delaney’s wake.
“God sometimes speaks to me.”
What more proof was needed of the man’s instability: the really dangerous freaks always claimed a direct link with the man in the clouds.
“He led me to your house. You live in a gated community and the guards would never let us in but last Saturday morning when we drove past on our way to a more accessible development, the gate was open and the guard was gone. It was a sign. We parked in the street and walked your community. We walked right to your house. God led us there.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
The man shook his head. His blue eyes were almost impossibly clear. “I don’t expect you to believe anything, not yet. Your mind is too cluttered with grief.”
“Cluttered?” Anthony’s voice peaked to an unacceptable octave for a viewing and several heads turned. “My daughter is dead.”
“God led me to you for a reason. This is the reason. You need Him.”
Anthony laughed; he couldn’t help it. “That’s how He works, right? He punishes you, takes your kid away, and then says, come to me. I’ll make it all better. He’s a con artist.”