Funeral with a View (30 page)

“And thus concludes yet another
epic adventure of
Lady Bug Girl
and her pet dog.”

I closed Celeste’s
favorite book. She was sandwiched between Catherine and I. I had hold of one
side of the book, my wife the other. Our little girl followed along with the
words as I read, despite the ability to recite its entirety by heart.

Reading to your daughter.
Another profound, simple thing. That I’d gone without it seemed an
impossibility, even if it were true.

“Do I hafta go to bed, Mommy?”
Celeste pouted.

Catherine lifted
Celeste’s Hello Kitty pajama shirt and induced hysterical giggles via a
raspberry on the belly. “Yes, you little bugger. It’s way past your bedtime.”

“Okay,” I said, holding
up the covers as Celeste scurried in. “In you go, kiddo.”

“Daddy?”

My hand paused over the
light switch. “Yes?”

“Are you gonna leave
again?”

Catherine swallowed. I rubbed
her back then sat next to my daughter. Yes.
My
daughter. Always was,
always would be. Being there with her again after the time away felt right,
natural. I’d loved her as my own, and still did. Nothing would change that.

“No, sweetheart,” I said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” I kissed her
forehead. “Now get to bed, pumpkin puss.”

“Daddy! I’m not a pumpkin
puss!”

“Are too.” I made google
eyes.

“Not!” she giggled.

“Too!” I countered with
buck teeth.

“That’s enough of that,
you two.” Catherine, the official referee for our bouts of immaturity, finally
stepped in. “Bed time.”

“Aww, Mom,” I whined.

We bore the full force of
‘the look.’

“Guess we can’t compete
with that, can we?” I whispered to Celeste, and she shook her head.

“Nuh uh.”

“See you in the morning,
then?”

“See you in the morning,
Daddy. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Celeste.”

Later, Catherine and I
lay in bed, silent and content to be together again. No wild make up sex, no
teary-eyed make out session like you’d see in a movie. We simply held onto each
other in the dark bedroom.

“Do you forgive me?” Cat
asked, ending the silence.

“Of course I do. I
wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She nodded against my
shoulder, and the mundane sensation on my bare skin felt like the best thing in
the world. Maybe the time for words was past, but I couldn’t leave it at that.
I had to say something else, something more.

“I’m not going to make
you pay for one mistake, Cat,” I said. “Am I still hurt? Yes. There’s no sense
in lying about it now. But it hurt more to be away. Every time I closed my
eyes, I saw Celeste. Smiling, laughing, dancing, lisping. She was around every
corner, with me in every room. I couldn’t stay away.”

She paused before saying,
“So that’s really why you’re here? For Celeste?”

“Yes … and no. I’m here
for both of you, Cat. As much as I tried to force it from my mind, I couldn’t
help seeing you, too. You’re my family, and this is where I belong no matter
what.”

“You don’t know how much
I want to take it back, Ricky. All of it. How you can let something so awful go
is something I don’t think I’ll ever understand.”

“It’s not important that
you understand it. It’s just important that I’m here with you and Celeste now.
We all made mistakes. There are things I wish I could take back, too, but I
can’t. If nothing else, the time away forced me to take stock of things. I
wasn’t especially supportive when you hit the wall after you lost the second
baby. You were right about that. I helped push you away.”

“Like I pushed you away.
I know where you were, Ricky,” she said after a time. “And even though I don’t
want to know, I can’t help it. Did …”

“Did anything happen
between me and Sandy?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I
don’t have the right to ask, but I can’t not know.”

“Cat, you have every
right to ask. You’re my wife.”

She held her breath and I
felt her eyes on me in the dark.

In that span between
heartbeats, I was transported back in time and place. Our queen bed became
Sandy’s king, its four tall and elegant posts draped with a cream canopy. The
walls expanded to a space almost twice the size. Beige carpet and tan walls
dissolved into dark hardwood and burgundy paint. Sheer curtains transformed
into thick drapes. My wife, who lie next to me with the question awaiting an
answer in her hazel eyes shape-shifted into Sandy beneath me, her piercing
blues filled with want of a completely different answer.

Sandy had me in the palm
of her hand. Literally. I was poised above her, my hands pressed deep into her
mattress from bearing the full force of my weight. We were so close that her
panting breath tickled my throat.

“One last time, Rick,”
she’d said, one hand working between my legs, the other caressing the side of
my face. “I’ll ask you one last time. Is this what you really want? Part of you
doesn’t work for me. I want all of you, but you have to truly want it, too. Settling
isn’t an option.”

Her stroking hands were
forgotten, and I paused. She was so gorgeous, inside and out. I wanted her body
so badly. The problem was, I didn’t want
her
. As hell bent as I was on
finally throwing caution to the wind and losing myself in lust, this wasn’t
what I wanted. Sure, the blood rushing to my small head made me think that
having wild revenge-driven monkey sex with Sandy would solve everything, but
the deeper part of me knew it would serve only to make me feel like shit once
the deed was done.

My body tensed. I tingled
from head to toe. Not with desire, but with shame.

Abruptly, I rolled off
Sandy, startling her, grabbed a down pillow and screamed into it until I was
out of breath. Screamed until my stomach, sides, and chest hurt. Screamed until
I thought I’d hyperventilate.

“Shhh,” she said, prying
my fingers from the pillow, her beauty distorted by the flood in my eyes.
“That’s the answer I expected. It’s okay, Rick. It’s all going to be okay. Good
God, what happened to you?”

Sandy rocked me back and
forth as I cried with my head buried against her chest, whispering soothing
words for hours.

What? You thought I’d
gone through with it and had sex with her? Shame on you for thinking the worst
of me. A dead guy, no less!

“You don’t want to
answer,” Cat said, bringing me back to my own room, my own bed, my own wife. “I
understand.”

“No, it’s not that.
Listen. Nothing happened, Cat. It almost did, but didn’t. When I went over
there, all I wanted was payback. I wanted to hurt you like you’d hurt me. Hardly
mature or rational, but there it is. We smoked some pot, watched goofy movies,
and she listened to me cry the whole week. That’s it. God’s honest truth. Sandy
was a move made out of anger. The part of me that thinks like that, reacts like
that, that could do something like that … it’s gone now.”

Anti-Ricky, angry,
self-centered, thoughtless asshole that he was, effectively died in my boss’s
arms that night. Good riddance.

“Do you want me to quit?”
I said.

“Your job? Because of
her?”

“Yeah.”

“Not unless you think you
need to. I wouldn’t ask you to do something like that.”

“I know you wouldn’t,
which is why I brought it up.”

“Only if there’s
something there, Rick. You love that place. You have friends there. But, if you
feel anything toward her, it wouldn’t upset me if you left.”

“There’s nothing there,
Cat.”

“Are you sure?” she said,
looking away.

I turned on the bedside
lamp so she could see the conviction in my face as I said my next words.

“Cat, I’m not in love
with Sandy Colbert, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s my boss and a
friend. Nothing more. There are only two things in this world I love more than
my own life: you and Celeste. There’s no room in my heart for anyone else.”

“Not even your mother?”

“Well, yeah. Her, too.”

“What about Jude?”

“Now you’re pushing it.
Wait a second. You’re busing my chops, aren’t you?”

A grin formed. “Just a
little.”

“Catherine Maddox
Franchitti. You truly have been around me way too long.”

“Not long enough,” she
softly kissed me, “not nearly long enough.”

“That’s good, because I’m
not going anywhere.”

“This isn’t going to be
easy, Rick,” she said, turning serious once again. “We can’t expect this to be
swept under the carpet and forgotten when we wake up tomorrow morning.”

That fact had been
perched on my shoulder the entire night. No, the road ahead wouldn’t be one
easily traveled. It would be pitted with bumps and potholes. I wasn’t going to
let it deter me. There would be no more running away when things got difficult.
No more checking out.

I was all in.

“She really is yours,
Ricky,” Cat said. “Celeste. In every way that counts, you’re her father, and
she’s your daughter.”

“I know it.”

“Do you? Really?”

“Really really.”

“Does this still hurt?”
she asked, running a finger lightly underneath my eye.

“A little.”

Her finger moved to my
hand, where it grazed my bruised knuckles. “What about your hand?”

“It’ll heal … in time.”

Just like everything.

The next sixteen months flew
by.

If only I’d known my
thirty-second year would be my last among the living. Would I have done
anything differently if I had been aware my end was lurking over the next rise
in the road? I think the answer is “yes”. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time
dealing with certain issues that, as of yet, remained unresolved.

Things between Catherine
and I were shaky at first, but we made it through the murky waters of
uncertainty. We withheld nothing from each other. No secrets ... except for
that one time I’d eaten all the Oreos and claimed ignorance. Okay, maybe it was
more than just the one time.

Sandy kept things on a
professional level. The days I’d spent with her became a special, if not
regrettable memory. Regrettable in regard to what brought it about and not
being able to provide her with the human connection she deserved. Special in
that Sandy, along with my mother, helped get my head straight. She aided me in recognizing
where my true place was: home with my wife and daughter. Nothing happened
between us ever again. Not even close.

And I can’t leave Celeste
out of the picture, now can I?

She grew like a weed and
absorbed things so quickly; a human sponge. She also had a preternatural
ability to amass a fine collection of bruises. One thing she hadn’t inherited
from Catherine or her true father was athletic prowess. But it didn’t matter
that she was a klutz. She’d either grow out of it or she wouldn’t. She was on
her way to being the person she was meant to be, and we loved every quirk and
personality foible, with one exception: her propensity for stealth. I never did
get around to fixing the damn lock on the bedroom door. As a result, our
pint-sized ninja walked in on many a wrestling match between Mommy and Daddy.

My mother continued to
treat Celeste as if she were her true flesh and blood granddaughter. And speaking
of Mom, if anything, the lack of Franchitti blood running through Celeste
resurrected the gyrations and chants of ‘Baby Making Machine.’

I promised her we’d do
our best.

As far as final days go,
I can’t complain. Sure, there were ups and downs. Trials and tribulations are
part of the human condition. Unavoidable. But compared to what we’d already
been through? Small potatoes. The important thing was I had my wife and
daughter back. I had a second chance and was thankful for it beyond measure. My
life was mine again.

At least, most of it.

There was one thread left
dangling, one that went by the name of Bill Henly. My best friend, and the man
I considered a brother. The person who hurt me above all others.

Despite my capacity for
forgiveness, I couldn’t bring myself to let him off the hook for what he’d
done. Illogical? No doubt. But men are odd like that. He’d broken every rule in
the Book of the Almighty Man Code, and I had a hard time forgetting that. I
completely cut him from my life. Mention of his name would bring about shades
of Anti-Ricky, something I fought against tooth and nail. No matter how much
Celeste asked after Uncle Bill’s whereabouts, no matter how many times
Catherine would ask me if I’d ever get in touch with him again, I remained
stubborn.

If I were going to
forgive him, it would be my decision, and I’d have to be all in.

It took a while to
swallow my pride, months in fact.

And I had a little help
along the way.

“How much again?”

The cashier with the
filthy glasses, bulbous nose, and awful combover repeated the register’s total.
I balked at the number. I only had three purchases.

“And that’s for some
food, a few plastic plants, and,” I held up a cellophane bag with a sticker
which read ‘Davey Jones’s Chest O’ Pirate Booty,’ “a rubber treasure chest?”
The guy nodded. “That’s highway robbery.” He shrugged.

People in line behind me
started to grumble, so I handed the guy my credit card.

“Serves me right for not
checking the price tags,” I mumbled.

He smiled disingenuously,
handed me my bagged items, and asked to see the next in line. I hoped they were
more conscientious shoppers than me.

I walked into the late
July sun, wondering why the hell keeping fish was so expensive and how I’d
gotten involved in the keeping of said fish in the first place. I knew the
answer, though.

Celeste.

I had a hard time saying
no to her.

My ‘We’ll see’ stall tactic
worked for a time, going so far as to ebb her fish request throughout the summer
months and into the winter, only to lose its efficacy as she began her
pre-birthday push once spring had sprung. It started with subtle hints such as
library books filled with colorful sea life left open on our bed, and blew up
into full-on pleas for fish—
“Please, Daddy! Can I get some for my birfday,
pretty pretty please?”
—to a chant that put Mom’s Baby Making Machine
ravings to shame—
“Fishy, fishy, fishies, I want some fishies.”
The chant
came complete with a dance where she’d run around the house, hands flapping
about her neck like gills, her mouth opening and closing like, well, a fish’s.

Catherine and I caved,
giving her a ten gallon tank and a pair of pretty orange-and-white-striped
swimmers for her sixth birthday that April. Celeste had named them Charley and
Farley. She loved them and their tank, although she didn’t think they had
enough to play with, thus my trip to the pet store to buy overpriced
decorations.

The sole of my sneaker
hadn’t hit the strip mall’s steaming parking lot when I heard a commotion to my
left.

Three doors down, the
pharmacy’s alarm tore through the air. An ancient man dressed in tatters and
hobbling on a cane shuffled out into the world. A short, young guy wearing a
Walgreen’s uniform chased after him, waving.

“Sir? Sir! You’re going
to have to pay for that!”

The old man waved him off.
“Bah. Already did. Now leave me alone before I go’n sue ya.”

“Sir,” the employee said,
taking who I’d instantly recognized by the arm. “Please don’t make me call Loss
Prevention. I’m sure we can clear this all up if you’ll just let me take a look
at your purchases.”

A small crowd gathered. I
worked my way through them.

“Get your rotten hands
off me,” the old man spat. “I’m a Korean War vet! If I said I paid for
everything in this here bag, then I paid for everything in this here bag.”

“Sir—”

The cane rose in the air.

“Excuse me,” I said.
“There a problem here?”

“Damn skippy, there’s a
problem, not that it’s any business of yours,” the older one said without
looking at me. “I ain’t no thief.”

Jeremy, according to the
nametag on the uniform, shook his head. “Nobody’s calling you a thief. No doubt
this is all a big mistake, but I really need to look in your bag.”

“Anything I can do to
help?” I asked.

Spinning his head around,
the old man finally locked eyes with me. “Will you just butt out already? I
ain’t askin’ for your help, and I don’t need your help. Got it?”

“Mr. Jameson, it’s me.
Rick Franchitti. From next door. Remember?”

Recognition dawned in his
rheumy eyes, and he lowered his cane. “Ricky? That you? Hol-ee shit. Been a
dog’s age. What’re you doing here?”

I held up my shopping
bag. “Fish provisions. You?”

“Well, I was trying to
buy a few things for my various aches and pains, but someone,” he glared at
Jeremy, “thinks I ain’t paid for it right. Kids got no respect these days, I
tell ya.”

“We’ll get this cleared
up, won’t we, Jeremy?”

“That’s all I wanted,
sir.”

“Please don’t call me
sir,” I said, smiling in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Way too young
for that. So, what’ve we got?”

Jeremy explained while
Mr. Jameson grumbled. A quick comparison between what was in his bag and what
was itemized on the receipt showed that the alarm hadn’t gone off accidentally.
I held up an Icy-Hot patch.

Mr. Jameson shrugged. “My
back gives me the business. But I swear I paid for that thing.”

“Minor oversight,” I
said. “I’ll pay for this, Jeremy.”

“You ain’t gotta do that,
Ricky. I got my own money.”

I sincerely doubted that.
“It’s okay. I want to. Consider it me doing my part to support our troops.”

Mr. Jameson resumed an
air of dignity and nodded. I settled up with Jeremy. Lickity split, everyone
was happy.

“Maybe my mind’s going in
my old age,” Mr. Jameson said once Jeremy had gone inside. “Anyway, good seein’
you, Ricky. And … and thanks for the help. You take care now.”

He turned away,
struggling to carry his bag and support his weight on the cane at the same
time.

“I can take that to your
car for you, Mr. Jameson.”

“Ain’t got one. Bus
stop’s only a quarter mile away. I’ll be fine.”

Two strides later, I
stopped in his path. “Let me give you a ride.”

“Naw. Exercise’ll do me
good.”

“It’s a billion degrees
out here. You’re so sweet you’ll melt within a hundred feet.”

His eyes narrowed as he
gave me a gummy smile. “Still a wiseass, eh?”

“Always.”

“All right, you win,” he
said, handing over his bag. “But you’re gonna have a beer with me. I don’t like
owin’ nobody nothin’.”

“Works for me.”

The ride home was quiet.
And familiar. I felt the pull of my old neighborhood tug at me as I turned down
streets and passed buildings I never thought I’d see again. It wasn’t until I
was standing on his back porch that an overwhelming sense of nostalgia truly
hit me.

“Here you go,” he said,
closing the screen door behind him. “It ain’t Bud, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

I read the label and
whistled. “Harp? Pretty fancy stuff.”

“What can I say? Guess
you must’ve rubbed off on me.” Mr. Jameson clinked my bottle. “Bottoms up.” His
beer disappeared in three pulls. He burped and wiped foam from his grizzled
chin with a bony hand, the skin thin as parchment and just as yellow. “Me,
givin’ you free beer for a change. What’s the word for somethin’ like that?”

“Dreaming?”

“Naw. Traumatic reversal!
That’s it.”

“I think you mean
dramatic reversal.”

“Heh. That, too. Jeez,
how long’s it been since we been back here, kid? Six, seven years?”

“Longer than that, I
think.”

“Time flies, don’t it?”

“That it does. How’re the
new neighbors?” I asked, taking a peek at my old back porch. The curtains were
open, and I heard people talking and laughing inside.

“Not bad. Place sat
vacant a while after you and your girl left, if you can believe that. But the
Eckherts? They’re okay. Young kids. Not much older than you two when you were
here. We wave, say “hi”. That’s about it. Had some friends over once. Made a
ruckus. I put the kibosh on that right quick.”

I chuckled. “I don’t
doubt that.”

“No free beer though.”

“Kids these days.”

“Yep. No respect.” Mr.
Jameson was suddenly overcome with a fit of coughing. Concerned, I took a step
closer, but he shook his head as he hacked into a white handkerchief. Episode
over, he secreted it away in his pocket, almost as if he were trying to hide
something. “Getting’ old is the pits, kid. Don’t ever do it.”

“I’ll do my best, but I
can’t make any promises.”

“So, you still with that
girl? What was her name. Katrina?”

“Catherine. Yeah, we’re
still together, still married. Have a daughter now.”

“A daughter, huh? Good on
ya, kid. How old?”

“Just turned six. Here.”
I pulled out my wallet. “Let me show you a picture.” I hadn’t gone through the
photos in my wallet in ages. We had so many in the house, and I updated the
ones on my desk at work regularly, so I never felt the need to. “That’s the
most recent I’ve got.”

Mr. Jameson put on a pair
of fossilized reading glasses and looked at Celeste, lips working over
toothless gums.

“She sure is a looker,
kid. You’re gonna have trouble with the boys when she gets older, so you’d best
be prepared.”

“Have a shotgun I can
borrow?” I asked, unibrow cocked seriously.

“Shit, I got two, and
you’re welcome to ‘em. Mind if I take a look at the rest? Of the pictures, I
mean.”

“Sure,” I let him take
the insert in his gnarled hands, “be my guest.”

“Yep, all as good lookin’
as I remember. Maybe the ole noggin’ ain’t goin’ south as fast as I thought.
Yer brother’s as big as ever.” He pointed to a picture of me and Bill I’d
somehow neglected to throw out. In it, Bill held me in a headlock, grinning
like a loon, while I stuck my fingers in his ears, my eyes crossed.

I snatched back the
pictures and threw them in my wallet.

“He’s not my brother,” I
said.

“Best friend, brother.
Same difference.”

“He’s neither.”

“Uh oh. Hit a nerve, did
I?”

I didn’t answer. Instead,
I leaned on the railing and stared into the woods behind the apartment complex.

“I knew there was
something different about you. Been trying to put my finger on it all this
time.”

“I’m older.”

“Naw, it’s not just
that.”

“Wiser looking? More
handsome than ever?”

He leaned on the railing.
“Stooped. Like you got something weighing you down. What’s been eating at you,
kid?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s bullshit. And I
don’t remember none of that gray hair at your temples when you were living here
neither.”

I played with my beer
bottle, scratching at the damp label with my thumbnail. The talking and
laughter from next door continued as I stared out into space.

“You’re not on the outs
with the wife, are ya?” he asked.

“No, it’s not that. We’re
good, Mr. Jameson.”

“Something with your
brother then? I mean, your
buddy
?”

Whether a good guess or a
hint at a keen intellect I’d never given the man credit for, the statement
startled me. Was I that easy to read? Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to
‘puke’ to him about Bill, about Celeste, about any of it. I kept quiet and
shook my head.

“All right, I can take a
hint. If you don’t wanna talk, you don’t hafta. No big deal either way.”

“Thanks. I appreciate
that.”

Something crashed next
door. We turned and saw inside my former apartment. A girl and two men, about
the same age as Cat, Bill, and I were when I’d lived there, were laughing. The
girl, blond with a slim figure and infectious smile had her arms around a tall,
tanned guy with light brown hair. I assumed they were dating. I knew what the casual
familiarity of young love looked like, and their bodies exhibited in spades.
They pointed at the ground where their doughy friend with the crew cut and pale
skin lay sprawled on the floor amongst the remains of an obliterated and rusty
lawn chair, a spilled plate of chips, and a busted highball glass. Ice and
amber liquid spread across the white tile.

“Kids,” Mr. Jameson
growled. “Get worse n’ worse every year.”

I watched as the couple
helped up the friend, who was red-faced with embarrassment but laughing all the
same. I was transfixed. The scene felt so familiar. Three friends, summer heat,
drinks, laughter, the future a vague thing that seemed as if it would never
arrive. I was a voyeur from the future observing a scene out of my own past.
What lay ahead for these three who hadn’t a care in the world except for what
would happen in the next seconds, minutes, hours? Did they even care? Not that
long ago, I wasn’t much different. Time and experience change a person, and I’d
travelled a lot of rocky roads since the days spent in that apartment. I
wondered if wanting it enough could bring me back to those happy-go-lucky days.
Or were they gone forever?

“Christ, Kid,” Mr.
Jameson said. “You look like the Ghost of Christmas Past just walked over your
grave.” His cackle turned into a series of hoarse coughs. He covered his mouth
with the handkerchief until the spell ended. “Dammit. Getting old sucks yak ass.”

In actuality, it was the
Ghost of Christmas Future who showed Scrooge his own grave, but ruining the
guy’s joke didn’t seem the right thing to do.

“Maybe you’re not used to
the fancy beers?” I joked, unable not to stare at the bloody hanky he stuffed
in his pocket. He noticed.

“Nice try, but I saw you
lookin’.” He shrugged bony shoulders. “May as well tell ya I got the cancer,
since you’re too polite to come out and ask.”

Cancer.

For a reason I couldn’t
account for, the deadpan statement hurt me deep inside. He’d said it with such finality,
as if it were no big deal.

“Is it … serious?” I
asked once the initial shock had worn off.

“Heh. All cancer’s
serious, kid. Some more’n others. When you’re my age, something’s gotta get
ya.”

“Mr. Jameson, I’m so sorry.
I don’t know what to say.”

“Ah, you don’t have to
say a word, Ricky. Is what it is. I’ll tell you this, though,” he said, turning
back to the woods and looking out over the trees. “Makes you take stock of yer
life. What you done, what you let go undone, what you shoulda done. Only thing
that sucks worse than getting’ old is livin’ with regrets. This solitary life
of mine? All my own doin’. Easier to be alone than deal with people’s bullshit.
That’s what I used to tell myself, at any rate. Now that I know I’m comin’ to
the end of my line, there ain’t a goddamn thing I can do to change any of it.
And I’ll tell ya, that’s worse’n hackin’ up a lung all day long, kid. Do
yourself a favor. Don’t get old, and don’t live with a grudge. Ain’t worth it.”