ego aside and I succumbed to Catherine’s parent’s wishes. Sarah looked awkwardly cheerful in her bleak ensemble. When Catherine’s parents arrived Sarah smiled as she ran to them.
“Gramma!” Sarah hugged Rita with delight, as if she were greeting her at a wedding.
Rita, Catherine’s mother, glared at me as she hugged Sarah. Rudy, Catherine’s father, averted my eyes and hung his head low. I had had a pretty good relationship with Rudy before Catherine’s death and I wanted to talk to him, to explain to him that I had not killed his precious little girl. But I could tell by the droop of his head that he was not permitted to talk to me; that such an act would be considered treasonous and punishable by emotional banishment; a sentence that Rudy was not willing to risk.
My boss, Tom Mills, followed Rita and
Rudy into the parlor and the usual condolences followed along with an obligatory reassurance and support for me. To my surprise a line of visitors soon formed and the parlor was filled with the low muffled murmur of mixed conversations; hearty greetings between parties who, lost in the moment, had forgotten that they were at a wake; subtle sniffles of grief from friends of Catherine’s as they recounted childhood memories with thick southern accents; whispers of murder and suggestions, spoken too loudly, of the probability of my guilt. There were, of course, the obligated guests who whisked in and out as quickly as they could sign the guest register. The truth is that the evening could not have ended soon enough for me. Sarah flitted about like a sprite, too joyful for the occasion; but I was want to admonish her - happy for her that she was not in the throes of grief. I overheard Catherine’s brother Tom, who bumped around in a battery- powered chrome wheelchair, mention to Marianne that Sarah “did not appear to miss her mother too badly”, but rather than reprimand him as I would have liked I opted instead for peace.
Later after the family priest, a portly balding piggish man by the name of Father Johns, had conducted a solemn service and all of the guests had gone home I watched as Sarah glided up to Catherine’s casket, with her all too gleeful demeanor, stop and stare for the first and last time at her mother. She looked at Catherine quietly and after a few moments she started to cry, and then to sob. She turned and ran to me leaping up into my arms and continued to cry on my shoulder in subdued sniffles.
The next morning a small crowd gathered at Catherine’s grave and Sarah and I both tossed a handful of dirt onto her coffin after it was lowered into the ground. As we walked back to the limousine I heard Rita yell “You killed her, you bastard!” I stopped without turning, and then decided to ignore her rather than confront her, and I continued my stroll to the hearse.
* * *
Catherine had not been in the ground long enough for the worms to begin circling her casket when the blue plague showed up at my front door in the form of Detective Bergant. I parted the mini blinds and peered into the yard at the dark blue Crown Victoria parked in my driveway. At least he had waited until after the funeral I supposed.
I told Sarah to go to her room and play and then I answered the third repetition of relentless raps upon my front door and I showed the good detective into my living room.
I forced a smile, “What brings you to my home this morning detective?” I was sick to my stomach at his mere presence; at his representation of more misery in my life. He had not come to console me, but rather to separate me from Sarah. Or at least that is what I suspected, or more accurately, feared. He had no empathy for me. No sympathy for me. He had only his own selfish desire to solve the case no matter the consequences; for his fifteen minutes of fame, or the promise of a promotion. I loathed the man, who despite my obvious innocence, had decided to pursue me like a hound to a fox, or more likely a fox to a
“Gramma!” Sarah hugged Rita with delight, as if she were greeting her at a wedding.
Rita, Catherine’s mother, glared at me as she hugged Sarah. Rudy, Catherine’s father, averted my eyes and hung his head low. I had had a pretty good relationship with Rudy before Catherine’s death and I wanted to talk to him, to explain to him that I had not killed his precious little girl. But I could tell by the droop of his head that he was not permitted to talk to me; that such an act would be considered treasonous and punishable by emotional banishment; a sentence that Rudy was not willing to risk.
My boss, Tom Mills, followed Rita and
Rudy into the parlor and the usual condolences followed along with an obligatory reassurance and support for me. To my surprise a line of visitors soon formed and the parlor was filled with the low muffled murmur of mixed conversations; hearty greetings between parties who, lost in the moment, had forgotten that they were at a wake; subtle sniffles of grief from friends of Catherine’s as they recounted childhood memories with thick southern accents; whispers of murder and suggestions, spoken too loudly, of the probability of my guilt. There were, of course, the obligated guests who whisked in and out as quickly as they could sign the guest register. The truth is that the evening could not have ended soon enough for me. Sarah flitted about like a sprite, too joyful for the occasion; but I was want to admonish her - happy for her that she was not in the throes of grief. I overheard Catherine’s brother Tom, who bumped around in a battery- powered chrome wheelchair, mention to Marianne that Sarah “did not appear to miss her mother too badly”, but rather than reprimand him as I would have liked I opted instead for peace.
Later after the family priest, a portly balding piggish man by the name of Father Johns, had conducted a solemn service and all of the guests had gone home I watched as Sarah glided up to Catherine’s casket, with her all too gleeful demeanor, stop and stare for the first and last time at her mother. She looked at Catherine quietly and after a few moments she started to cry, and then to sob. She turned and ran to me leaping up into my arms and continued to cry on my shoulder in subdued sniffles.
The next morning a small crowd gathered at Catherine’s grave and Sarah and I both tossed a handful of dirt onto her coffin after it was lowered into the ground. As we walked back to the limousine I heard Rita yell “You killed her, you bastard!” I stopped without turning, and then decided to ignore her rather than confront her, and I continued my stroll to the hearse.
* * *
Catherine had not been in the ground long enough for the worms to begin circling her casket when the blue plague showed up at my front door in the form of Detective Bergant. I parted the mini blinds and peered into the yard at the dark blue Crown Victoria parked in my driveway. At least he had waited until after the funeral I supposed.
I told Sarah to go to her room and play and then I answered the third repetition of relentless raps upon my front door and I showed the good detective into my living room.
I forced a smile, “What brings you to my home this morning detective?” I was sick to my stomach at his mere presence; at his representation of more misery in my life. He had not come to console me, but rather to separate me from Sarah. Or at least that is what I suspected, or more accurately, feared. He had no empathy for me. No sympathy for me. He had only his own selfish desire to solve the case no matter the consequences; for his fifteen minutes of fame, or the promise of a promotion. I loathed the man, who despite my obvious innocence, had decided to pursue me like a hound to a fox, or more likely a fox to a
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