A Wicked Beginning (29 page)

Chapter 29 – Cam

After they’d said their goodbyes, Cam left James and headed out towards his car with purpose. He was feeling really good right about now. He believed a major shift had taken place in James’ office. He got in the Land Rover, fired it up, and headed towards the Greenland Memorial Park in Renton. Usually he hated cemeteries. He avoided them like the plague. But today…well, today he just wanted to see where his mom was buried. He’d never been to the funeral, never bothered to visit before. He figured what was the point? Today, there was a point. He did not know exactly what the point was, but it was in here somewhere.

When he arrived in at the cemetery, he pulled through the gate and parked outside of a small well-kept building that appeared to be an office of sorts. Pausing before he got out of the car…
shit, cemeteries gave him the creeps
…he took a deep breath and stepped out, striding up to the office. The door was open so he walked in.

The office boasted a worn, threadbare, burgundy carpet and traditional wooden furniture that looked right off the Thomasville Furniture showroom. An older, rheumy eyed, gray haired woman sat at a small desk, sorting through papers. There was an old rotary phone next to her and a Rolodex. A computer sat in front of her with one of those big, clunky monitors. No flat screens for this place. She looked up at him with a puckered brow. “Are you here to see Jimi Hendrix’ grave?”

Cam stared at her, perplexed. “What? No, why?”

“…Because that’s across town at the Green
wood
Memorial park, that’s why. This is Green
land
. I’m getting tired of giving directions to the place. The man has been dead since 1970. Why all the lost people today?” she huffed. Reaching for a tissue, she lifted her glasses and dabbed at her moist, red-rimmed eyes.

“No, that’s not why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me find the grave of my mom.”

“Don’t you know where it is? Why haven’t you been here before?”

Cam stared at her without answering.

“Okay, that’s none of my business. What’s her name?”

“Susan Marie Tyson. It’s Susan Marie Tyson, and she was buried here over ten years ago.”

“Tyson…” the old woman repeated, scouring the screen of her computer. “Tyson…” she said again. She adjusted her glasses and wrinkled up her nose, squinting at the screen. “Here it is. You can leave your car parked where it is and walk to it.” She waved a hand towards the window before picking up a pencil and a pad of paper and writing something down. Then she scribbled out what she had written. “Nevermind, I’ll just show you.” She got up from her chair and limped around to where Cam was standing. She had on a brown flowered dress that looked like the polyester numbers his Grandma Guinevere used to wear.

Cam considered her limping gait. “You don’t have to, I can manage.”

“Oh, it’s no bother, dear; I need to stretch my legs anyway.” She tottered towards the door Cam had entered. He followed her dutifully. She opened the door and put her hand over her eyes to shield them from the bright sun starting its descent towards the horizon. “There…see that stand of trees over there?”

There were trees everywhere. Cam didn’t know which one she was referring to. “Do you mean the one next to that big monument looking structure?”

“That’s the one,” she chirped. “Walk straight to the monument, turn right, and walk about 20 paces. Your mom’s resting place will be there on your left, in that row opposite the monument.”

“Uh, okay, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the old woman said without smiling. She turned and hobbled back to her desk.

Cam walked over to his car and stood for a second before heading over to the grave. He looked around the cemetery.
It was sure well-kept
, he thought. It didn’t look like a place he’d like his remains to be stored in, however.
Just torch me and sprinkle me in the wilderness
, he thought soberly.
Send me back to the places that give me peace
. Then he had an idea. “Tobacco could be sacred,” the old fire haired bat had told him. He reached in the glove box and pulled out a cig. He honestly didn’t think he could separate his addiction out from the sacred pipe he had used in the lodge, but he had an idea he wanted to try out. Taking another deep breath, he walked towards the monument. When he got there, he repeated the directions out loud. “Turn right.” He turned. “Now walk 20 paces.” He walked, scanning the headstones.

When he reached the one marked Susan Marie Tyson, he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, like someone had punched him. He crouched down and studied the granite that marked her grave. He felt sort of detached, like he was watching himself in a play. The gray stone was rough around the edges, polished smooth along the front. “Susan Marie Tyson, loving wife and cherished mother.” Shit. Who had thought up that phrase? It sure wasn’t him. He wasn’t even around at the time. Hell, he was probably high somewhere, or fucking some girl, or plastered with alcohol. Cherished mother…loving wife...he couldn’t wrap his head around that one. Sure, he loved her…but cherished? And loving wife? It was more like chained to his asshole father. They must have standard phrases that they used if no one came forward to say anything. Or maybe his dad wanted to think highly of himself. In his dad’s fucked up mind, he probably thought he did a good job.

As he squatted there, he felt a breeze touch his cheeks. It was a soft, sweet breeze, like a baby’s kiss. No wait…he closed his eyes and thought a moment. It was like the last kiss he remembered his mom giving him, when he was 11-years-old. She’d tucked him in bed. He hadn’t let her tuck him in for a couple of years, but she had wandered in after him that night. Yeah, she’d tucked him in and told him how much she loved him and how proud she was of him and how much she wanted out of life for him. And she’d kissed his cheek, and it felt just like this little breeze that was blowing around his head. Shit. He swallowed. He opened his eyes and looked down at her headstone. Then he looked up at the sky. It was a brilliant evening, the sky turning a soft blue from the day’s end. The sun was at the rim of the horizon, causing the edges of the clouds to glow with color. The beautiful sky filled his heart with peace. He contemplated all the things his mom was and wasn’t for him. She was there for him, and she wasn’t. She was wrapped up in her own misery most of the time. But that kiss…that one small gesture had stuck with him to this day. She wanted the world for him. She just hadn’t been able to embrace it herself.

Then, he put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He allowed prayers to form in his head, and he blew them out on streams of smoke. He prayed for his mom’s well-being wherever she was, and he prayed that his asshole father took some responsibility for himself, wherever the fuck he was. He added one small prayer for him and Chérie. Then, he stubbed the half-smoked cig out in the grass, tore open the remains, and sprinkled the tobacco around his mother’s grave.

His eyes moistened, but he didn’t care this time. That’s what people did at a cemetery, right? “You did the best you could, Mom,” he said to the granite stone. In a flash of inspiration, he fished the cat’s eye out of his pocket. James said it could provide grounding and forgiveness. He held it out in front of the granite. “See this, Mom? See this stone? This is supposed to allow forgiveness into my heart.” He rubbed his face with his other hand, the one with the healing blisters. “I don’t know about that…that forgiveness part…you know I don’t believe in all that stuff. But you did the best that you could, given that you lived with an asshole.” He fingered the golden orb held between his index finger and his thumb. “But this little rock…this little rock represents the woman whom I adore, Mom. You would’ve liked her. And she used to be kind of like you. She was meek and mild, and let people walk all over her.” He laughed. “But you should see her now.” He pictured Chérie in his mind and felt that wash of love he was beginning to associate with her. “She’s changing me, Mom.”

The tiny breeze picked up speed and caused a small whirlwind of debris in front of Cam’s field of vision. “Yeah, like that…like a whirlwind. More like a tempest.” The whirlwind picked up speed. “Yeah, like that.” He laughed again. “Anyway, Mom…I just came to say I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry you never stuck up for yourself. I’m sorry you died before I got a chance to say goodbye.” A tear coursed down his cheek. “And I hope you do better next time, you hear me? I don’t know if we come back…if we get recycled and come back…but if you come back, come back like a fierce strong woman. Come back like my Chérie. You got that??” The whirlwind swirled around the gravestone, picking up the tobacco and dissipating into the air, scattering the tobacco here and there. “Alright. I don’t want to have to tell you again.” He thought he must be a little batty, but he didn’t care. He stood up and took one last look at the grave. “I may not ever visit you here again…I just want you to know that I…that I, uh…that I loved you. Okay. Alright.” After dropping the cat’s eye back in his pocket, he brushed his eyes with his fingers. “Alright…” he stated one more time. Then he turned and walked away.

When he reached the car, he saw the old woman standing in the doorway watching him.

“She heard you, you know.”

“What?” Cam found his keys in his pocket.

“I said, she heard you. They always do.”

Cam glanced back at the gravestone. “Huh. Well, okay…if you say so.”

“I mean it. It looked like you said the right things. That little wind…that was her.”

Cam frowned. “That was supposed to be a private moment.”

“It was. I won’t tell,” the old woman stated with a small smile. She pulled a handkerchief out from between her generous bosom and dabbed at her weepy eyes. Then she gave him a rheumy-eyed wink before heading back inside and closing the door with a soft click.

Chapter 30 – Chérie

When I woke up the next day, there was delightful warmth tucked along my back, soft, wet nibbles being bestowed along my neck and something delicious and hard pressed against my hip. Yum - it was Cam. I vaguely recalled him slipping in beside me late last night, but I went to bed dead tired, exhausted from my food prep lesson at the temple. “Morning, sweetheart,” I murmured.

“I wondered when you’d wake up,” he whispered in my ear. “Want to know what it feels like to make passionate love with a man of integrity?”

“Been there…done that,” I replied, smiling. I rolled over to face him.

“Not like this,” he uttered, casting his seductive blue-eyed gaze my way.

He pulled me close and continued nibbling my neck. Then, he pressed his lips into mine and gave me a most tender yet intoxicating kiss. When he’d finished, I pushed away from him a little to look at him. “You seem different, Cam. What happened yesterday?”

“I’d rather show you then yap about it,” he replied, pulling me on top of him. And show me he did.

When we’d finished, we were laying in an exhausted pile, surrounded by crumpled sheets. My lips were swollen, my neck was ravaged, my thighs were sore and bruises were dotting my torso. Cam had scratches and bite marks down his back and neck too. The bedspread was somewhere across the room. A couple of the pillows managed to stay on the bed while others were strewn in another area…the hallway perhaps? It had been another wild marathon of pleasure. “Are you hungry?” I asked, tracing the golden hairs on his chest.

“What do you have in mind?” he uttered, fingering my nipples.

“Food…let me make you breakfast…or brunch or whatever time it is.”

“You make a tasty omelet, I do remember that.”

“I’ve got something better in mind,” I said.

“Better than this?” he said, lazily sucking on my neck.

“No, but I think you will like it,” I replied, yielding to the pleasure. Then I slipped away from him and rolled out of bed. “Just you wait.”

“Since when did you learn to make anything other than omelets? Can I come down and watch you? Help you maybe?” He gave me a searing look of pleasure and want.

Oh, God, he was such an intoxicating treat, I really wanted to slip back under the covers with him. Something had indeed shifted in him. Instead, eager to show off my new skills, I willed myself to go fix breakfast. “No, I want to surprise you. Wait here,” I commanded, tying my pink robe around me with purpose.

I trotted downstairs, eager to show him what I had learned yesterday. The cats came romping in from the outside.

We want to see this
, Mac declared.

Make us a stream, with small bite sized fish,
Jack added.
So we can catch them ourselves.

“Shoo, kitties.” I waved them out of my way and sent them off with a fierce look before getting busy with my new skills. To make it seem more realistic, I pulled pans out of the cupboards and clanged them around, tapped spoons on the counter, turned burners on and off, and tried to make all the sounds I knew to be associated with cooking. A few minutes later, I called up to Cam. “It’s ready, come and get it.”

When he padded downstairs, he stared at the food laden table, puzzled. On the recently polished table, there were slices of ham – his favorite – resting on a serving dish, cooked to perfection. Freshly baked scones with raspberries were arranged in a basket. A quiche, fragrant with herbs and liberal amounts of French cheeses and caramelized onions, sat in the center of the table. A plate full of Yukon Gold potato pancakes sat to the left of the quiche. A pile of Louisiana Sweet Potato pancakes was to the left of that. Another basket laden with fresh baked whole wheat rolls was near his plate. Everything was hot and aromatic, creating a symphony of inviting smells.