Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, and no profit is made from these stories. (But I do have fun writing them! : )
Many thanks to JesseBee and Medee6040 for the beta.
July 1994
Jack stood on the sidewalk, his gray-black hair ruffling slightly in the summer breeze. He checked his suit one last time, and was disappointed when it passed inspection - there would be no excuse for him to further delay the inevitable. No crooked tie, no unbuttoned coat, no pant legs inadvertently tucked into his socks.
Well, that's it, he thought. Time to go inside.
Watching the cabs coast down Madison Avenue, Jack fought the temptation to hail one. He wanted nothing more than to go home, or even to Hogan Place - work would definitely be a welcome distraction. But he couldn't do either. He promised himself that he would be here; now he had to see it through.
For Ben.
He opened the ornate front door, stepping into the funeral parlor. The place was magnificent, fitting of the man whose body rested there. The lobby was decorated with art and tasteful furniture, and classical music played in the distance. There was no sign of the musty, sterile atmosphere that characterized other funeral parlors, such as the one in Chicago where his father's wake had been held nearly two decades ago.
This was the first wake Jack had been to since then. He found that his feelings of trepidation were exactly the same; he knew what was coming, but it was still like walking into the unknown.
I guess that never changes, he remarked to himself.
Lovely and fitting as the setting was, the very idea of a wake elicited Jack's sharp disapproval. Ben was a private man; Jack knew that he would not have wanted this. He swallowed hard as he realized that Ben's ex-wife must have taken care of the arrangements, therefore Ben died without leaving instructions. It was completely unlike him, and it offered terrible insight into his state of mind in those final days.
Jack was quickly met by one of the funeral directors. "Benjamin Stone," Jack said softly.
"Certainly. Right this way."
He was led to an equally gorgeous room off the lobby. It was early, and the mourners were few - something he intentionally planned for. He didn't know how well he could hold it together, and the last thing he wanted was to lose control in front of casual acquaintances.
As much as he wanted to stop it from happening, his eyes made the journey to the large mahogany coffin that sat at the front of the room. It was surrounded by floral arrangements - Jack recognized his own, standing just to the left of the coffin. The card was unsigned, as per his directions to the florist. It was a fitting metaphor for the transient nature of their relationship.
Scanning the room, Jack saw Ben's ex-wife, Anne, and his daughter, Emily, talking with some people he didn't recognize. A lump formed in his throat. He was never one to skirt confrontation, but he could think of a million things he'd rather do than talk to Anne Jenkins.
He had no doubt that she knew who those flowers were from. It was the only arrangement without a signed card, and it consisted of roses and evergreens - the latter, which Ben always admired. He had been very expressive of his dream to retire upstate, to a home where he would have a large backyard to grow the trees. Jack had heard of this desire many times, and he was sure that Anne had as well.
His imprint on Ben's marriage had been left years ago, when Anne received the anonymous phone call. When she confronted Ben with what she'd heard. When he admitted to it all. Ben had recounted it to Jack the next day, along with the relief he felt at no longer having to live a lie. And his fear at the thought that Anne might try to bar him from seeing Emily. But he had been allowed to maintain a close relationship with his daughter, and Anne eventually remarried.
Jack partly felt that he should leave; his presence would only reopen the old wounds. But another part of him - the part that earned him just about everything he got in life - flared in anger at the very suggestion. Right or wrong, he had been a part of Ben's life; and he had as much right to pay his respects as anyone else.
Lost in old memories, Jack almost didn't notice the rich satin that lined the inside of the half-open coffin lid. He moved slightly closer, the realization taking a moment to sink in. There was Ben, appearing to be only asleep. Even in death, he looked youthful.
Dear God, Jack thought. It's open. He wanted to bolt, then and there.
Jack had witnessed the terrible scene of Ben's death, but this was quite different - and much more devastating. He was EADA McCoy then - and he had distanced himself, just as he had during the rare occasions when his job brought him into a crime scene. Now those barriers were gone, and Jack felt that the sight of Ben in sanitized death could be too much for him to handle.
He felt a touch on his arm, and looked up to find a welcome sight. His assistant, Claire Kincaid. He didn't know her very well, but she offered refuge from the unfamiliar faces - and the bereaved, whom Jack wished were strangers.
"Jack," she said. "There really are no words."
He simply nodded.
Together they walked to the front of the room, meeting briefly with Anne and Emily. Both women looked like they'd been through the fires of Hell. Anne's face bore the signs of weariness; Emily seemed collected, but mostly stared at the floor.
"My deepest condolences," Jack said, grasping each of their hands.
Anne managed a tense smile. "Thank you for coming, Jack," she said.
Emily said nothing.
Claire then offered her sympathies, briefly glancing at Jack as though sensing that there was something more to this story.
Finally, they were before the coffin. Looking at Claire, Jack noticed that she was struggling to hold back tears. All he could do was stare. The very first thought that entered his mind was that the mortician did a remarkable job of cleaning Ben up; there was no sign whatsoever of a violent death. He was dressed in a familiar three-piece suit, his hands folded above the watch chain. Jack marveled at how peaceful Ben looked - he really looked as though he were in slumber.
Those eyes, closed forever.
At that moment, a hailstorm of grief crashed upon Jack. "Excuse me," he said to Claire. "I think I need some fresh air."
Jack walked away, in search of a place where he could unleash his emotions in privacy. A back alley proved an ideal spot. He leaned against the brick, lighting a cigarette. He hadn't smoked in years but bought a pack of Marlboros that very morning, as though he foresaw his need for the old crutch.
He literally wanted to scream. And he wished that Ben was around to hear it.
How dare you, Ben. How dare you do this to me.
finis