WARNING (please read): This chapter is the saddest chapter out of any story that I have ever written. It was hard for me to write.

Also, each chapter will be from a different character's POV.

The first chapter will be from Panchito, the second might be from Jose, the third from Scrooge, etc. etc.

Chapter One: Panchito, The Day of the Funeral

When Donald died, the whole town went to the funeral. Death was a rarity, and when it did happen, we all expected it to be someone like Miss Emily, who was ailing and living in her house down the street with her assistant. We didn't expect it to be Donald. We didn't expect the murderer to be Harris Penny either.

I never really knew the man but he always had a look of suspicion about him, but he seemed to be decent. He paid his bills, he visited my shop, bought a 1997 Smith and Wesson hand pistol with a bit of repair needs. I told him that I would repair it free of charge, he refused the offer. I asked him why he was buying, it said it was for target shooting. I didn't believe him, you wouldn't necessarily believe a man who comes in with a cigar and claims to be an NRA member without any verification. I was cautious and kept my eye on him for about a week. Turns out he bought the pistol for target shooting. I sort of left him alone after that.

Harris was three feet from the casket. A rose in his hand, he dropped it into the hole where my best friend lay sleeping.

He was thirty-two.

Thirty-two. That's not a ripe year to go. That's barely anything in terms of living. It's cruel and inhumane, and the man who killed him dropped a rose on his face.

None of us wanted to leave the cemetery, we were all hoping, praying, that it was some cruel joke that God was playing on us. That Donald was alright, that he was safe.

When we finally mustered the courage to leave, we all decided to walk, the funeral precession vehicles followed us anyway. Most of us stopped walking in the rain after five minutes and got inside the black, brown, or silver Escalade's rented by Enterprise for the occasion.

I was the only one who walked on the sidewalk. The pavement was a golden silver as the street light reflection and the clouds of gray mingled with each other in the water puddles. The tin roofs of the houses and businesses pinged in what I pictured and still believe to be, a sadness that carried far more than tears and grief, but wanting justice, restitution. Jose, who was in the black car driving next to me, rolled down his window. He was in the passenger.

"Panchito," he said, "it's time to go home."

I didn't answer him. I just kept walking.

"Panchito," he said again, "get out of the rain, it's cold, wet, and you'll get sick."

"Petty excuses Jose?" I asked. "Is that what you're reduced to?"

"No, I just-"

"You what? Donald is dead Jose. Our friend, my friend is dead."

"Don't you think I know that?" Jose said to me. I stopped and turned towards him. "He was my friend too, but you have to move on."

"I don't think I can just yet." I replied, I continued walking down the street.

"I'll be in town a few more days," Jose said, the car still following me. "come by tomorrow okay?"

I nodded and waved him goodbye without saying anything. I just looked at the sidewalk. The black Escalade took a left. The brown one followed me this time.

Not too far ahead there was a girl in a white dress, she was laughing and playing in rain puddles. I looked up and smiled, it reminded me of my son, Pedro, who was probably doing the same thing right now. Beside her was a woman. She was beautiful, the quintessence of the word you might say. She wore a pair of faded blue jeans with one of the seams unraveling, a hole in one knee, and a paint stain on the other. She wore white t-shirt and a blue jean jacket that told me that she was a woman of simplicity but wanted her daughter to be decorous. This woman, who I have never seen before, laughed and played with her daughter, being mindful of the road, not having a care in the world, reminding me of the life I used to have, the life I was trying to return to.

I am married, but not happily, to Clara Cluck. For the first couple of years, it was honeymoon and Main Street. Wine tastings, dancing for no apparent reason even when there was no music playing, watching romantic-comedies and horror films, going to the grocery store and seeing who could get all of the items on our list first and we could only do it by running and singing "500 Miles". She would always beat me. All of that changed right after Pedro was born. She started to become abusive, and it wasn't the side effects of the labor- it was long after that. She began to scream at me, at the kid and she threatened to kill us all in our sleep. About three weeks ago, I took her to a psychologist. Apparently, Clara had been abused as a kid, and this aggression was payback. After this appointment, she thought I was going to take Pedro to live with his uncle in Spain, so in response, she locked me in our broom closet. This past Monday, for today was Saturday, I told the psychologist about it. He told me to see a marriage counselor and to bring Clara to him for strict observation. I was on my way to the divorce attorney's office.

Ebenezer Scrooge McDuck opened his door. The car stopped. Scrooge exited. An umbrella in his hand he opened it and walked towards me. I stopped, saw him, and smiled. He embraced me:

"It's going to be okay lad." He said in his Scottish accent. He handed me the umbrella, "It's cold out, why don't you come back home with me, give you a chance to clear your head."

"I would Senor McDuck," I said, grateful that he was there standing in the rain with me. I handed him the umbrella back to him, his hat was getting wet, his eyes were turquoise pearls and they were pleading me to consider his offer. "but I have a son to take care of."

Scrooge nodded, "Bring him with you!" He placed his feathered hand on my shoulder. "I know things aren't good for you right now, believe me, this is going to be one of the hardest decisions in your life. If you ever need me, please let me know." He embraced me again, "I just want you to be happy."

He was like an uncle to me. I never spoke ill of him, he was always a respectable man of business and humanity. I embraced him back this time, I wanted so much to get into the car, drive home, get Pedro and get out this town, away from the memories and fear, but I couldn't. I was stuck in the rain.

Scrooge let go of me and got back in the car which waited patiently for him. The car then drove off and turned a corner.

The divorce attorney's office or "The Miniature Erechtheion" was located in a small white marble building on the end of Main Street. A caryatid was on the left side of the stairs. She was beautiful, radiant like the sun. Her eyes turning away from the atlas who was on the other side of her. He was built like a centaur and had the appearance of one. For a moment I thought he was looking at me, disowning me from his brotherhood or denying me protection. It was a feeling of loneliness.

Above the doorway of the building was the Spanish phrase: Te imaginas.

Translation: You Messed Up.

"Ah, Mister Gonzales, I've been expecting you."

"I'm a bit early for my appointment should I leave or-"

"No, you can go ahead and sit down."

The divorce attorney was a woman who was too happy about her job, it's as if she took joy in ending relationships. She wore a business suit with a yellow flower. A daisy, which reminded me that I needed to call her. She was probably crying in her hotel room by now.

"So, you wish to get a divorce?" She asked.

I looked at her name tag which was on the desk: Ann Desmond

"Did you drink coffee this morning?" I asked her, because there was no way that this woman was this happy about coming to work on a Saturday.

"Oh no," Ann said, "I don't believe in it."

"Then why are you so happy?"

"I just love my job. Now, the reason you want a divorce sir?"

If you were expecting me, I thought, then you should know my case.

"Abuse." I said.

"What kind of abuse?" She said.

"Physical, psychological, she's crazy to put it simply."

"I see," she scribbled something down on a paper and handed it to me. "You need to come in with your wife so we can talk about the issue." She pulled out a file folder and put divorce papers inside.

A cup full of pens was on her desk.

"Can I borrow a pen?" I asked. She nodded.

I took the file folder from her and filed it out. Both parts. Both parties. Yeah, I forged Clara's signature. Justice obtained.

"Sir," she said, "you're going to have to leave, by law, you've just committed a felony."

I stood up.

"Honestly Senorita Desmond, I don't care if I committed a hundred felons just now. My best friend was put in the ground less than an hour ago and my son is probably going through hell right now. If you'll excuse me, I have to fix my mistakes, so unless you want to stop me from walking out the door, I'll be seeing you later."

I took the divorce papers and walked out.

My house is nothing special. It's a small two story house from the 1970's. It was covered with white paneling that was beginning to yellow due to age. There were two rose bushes right beside the small porch. The mailbox was fell off the post as I ran across the yard and pounded against the door.

Clara opened the door still in her nightgown and having a cigarette in her hand. She took up smoking about three months ago.

I removed the cigarette from her hand and threw it across the yard.

"Hey!" She said, "I was smoking that."

"I know." I answered, "get out of my house."

"Your house, it's our house honey." Clara said threateningly.

I rolled my eyes and walked in, she moved to the side and closed the door.

The place was a mess, it was never orderly by any means, but trash (beer cans, candy wrappers, McDonald's drink holders, and empty Wendy's cups) covered the living room floor as I were running a City Dump. Pedro was sitting in this mess, dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans watching television. SpongeBob had just started.

I ignored the garbage for now and looked at Pedro: "How's my little man doing today?"

"Fine padre," Pedro said, he was learning Spanish at home and English at school. He was six years old. "wanna watch TV with me?"

"I would love to." I said. I cleared a space off the couch which was an old leather antique from my grandmother. I put on a face for my son and a completely different face for Clara who walked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I never kept alcohol in the house. I was going to have a conversation with her later, the only thing that mattered to me right now was my son. We watched television.

Clara, who didn't have a speck of culinary skills, left me to do the cooking of dinner. I, having no idea what we had to eat, looked around and found the one thing I said I would never eat. Chicken. It was the tenderloins that you see in the restaurants. I never buy the stuff. I don't condone cannibalism. The only other thing that I could do was to make ham, turkey and cheese sandwiches.

"Um," Clara said, as soon as she saw her plate with a sandwich and chips. "what is this?"

"Dinner." I said as I sat down and prayed, Pedro joined me:

"Father, we give thanks for this meal and-"

"This has to be a joke right?" Clara said interrupting us, "You make me a sandwich?"

I ignored her and continued, "for the people we have in our lives. We pray for good fortune, good health, good friends-"

"This is ridiculous, I'm ordering a pizza." She stood up and moved for the phone.

"and a long life. These things we pray in your name, Amen."

I looked at Pedro, "Un momento Pedro."

"Está bien." He said.

"Muy bien." I replied and walked towards Clara.

"Yes," she called the nearest Domino's. "I would like a large-"

I took the phone away from her. "Lo siento, most apologizes, she won't be ordering anything."

"That's quite alright." The Domino's guy said.

"Have a good night." I said and hung up the phone.

Clara looked at me, giving me the 'what the hell was that for?' look.

I walked into the hallway and motioned for her to follow. She did so. I entered the bedroom. "Close the door behind you." I said. She did.

Our bedroom, was for some reason like the rest of the house, a trash heap. We had a California King with beautiful quilts and covers, homemade curtains from my Tia y Tio in Mexico, and more antiques from my side of the family made up the rest of the furniture. I stood in the middle of the room.

"Sit down." I said. Clara walked over to the bed, cleared off a spot and sat down.

"Did you have to clear a spot for yourself in order to sit down?" I asked. She nodded.

"Don't you think that's a problem?"

She didn't answer that.

"What was that back there about?" She asked instead.

"That," I said, "was you not being grateful."

"It was me being hungry." Clara said.

"No, it was you being spiteful, spoiled, rude, and not being a role model to Pedro."

"I don't have to be a role model, he's your son." Clara said.

"My son? I believe that you bore the kid for nine months. So who's son is it really?"

"You're unbelievable!"

"And you're a slob!" I cried, "Look at the place, it's covered in trash. COVERED."

"Are you saying that I did this by myself?"

"Well it wasn't like this when I left this morning to go to the funeral. Why didn't you go anyway?"

"To watch Pedro." Clara said. "He doesn't need to be around that."

"You could've gone in my place, if anything I didn't need to be there." I said.

"No, he was your friend, you deserved to be there." Clara replied.

A knock at the door. "Are you guys alright?" It was Pedro.

"Mommy and Daddy are talking!" Clara yelled.

"Hey!" I shouted back, "¡No se dirija a él así!"

"Don't you start that Spanish shit with me!" Clara shouted with equal volume. "I can say whatever I want to him!"

"But he's not your son, you said so yourself," I said, "so what gives you the right to say anything to him. What gives you the right to be around him if you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him."

"Mentirosa!" I shouted.

Clara slapped me. I partially deserved it. A red mark instantly appeared on my face, it stung a scar (also inflicted by this woman). Pedro, who heard the striking, knocked on the door again: "Are you okay Daddy?"

"Si." I said, "Daddy's okay."

Clara hit me in the same spot again, harder this time and also drawing blood with her nails. I fell to the floor. She kicked me in the groin once, twice, a third. I winced, but showed no signs of submission. Satisfied with my beating, she opened the door. Pedro was still in the doorway.

"Mommy and Daddy are having a conversation." Clara said with force. Pedro looked past her and to me. "Daddy!" He cried in fear seeing my blood. He ran towards me and hugged my neck. I embraced him. "It's alright," I said to him, kissing him in comfort, "I'm alright. It's just a scratch."

"Pedro," Clara said, "leave Daddy alone."

"No, you hurt him!" Pedro said.

"I said, leave him alone!" She stormed towards us. Pedro bravely stood his ground. I was so proud of him. Clara placed her hands on him and lifted him up off me. He screamed in protest.

"No, no, no! I won't let you hurt Daddy!"

"I'm going to hurt more that Daddy if you keep this up!" She said. She started shaking him. I stood up and punched her in the jaw. She let go of Pedro, sitting him down before she staggered and tripped over a small box of wedding photos. She fell to the floor and looked up at me.

"You are never allowed to touch my son ever again do you understand me?" I said, leaning down in her face. She nodded.

"I'm done, through, I won't let him grow up like this. Divorce papers are on the fridge."

"What? You can't do this to me!" She cried in protest. "I'm your wife!"

I picked up Pedro and walked out. "Not anymore." I said.

Five minutes later, we were out of the house. Donald would've been proud of me.

We drove to the hotel that Senor Scrooge and Jose were staying in. Scrooge watched Pedro while I went over to Jose's room. They were next door to each other.

"Panchito," Jose said as I entered the room and took a standard chair near the standard table both of which were in the standard position near the dresser with a television on top.

"how are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better but not great." I replied.

"Oh, how so?"

"I finally did it Jose, I finally told her off. I already signed the papers, all we need to do is make it official."

"Congratulations," Jose said as he walked over to the mini-fridge. "Jack Daniels?" He said offering me a beer.

"I don't drink alcohol Jose." I said.

"Oh yeah," he said walking over to the bed, "why though? I remember a time when you used to."

"That mi amigo is a story that involves a tuna sandwich and Cheshire Cat."

Jose smiled at the mentioning of Cheshire's name. "Does he know why?"

"Yes he does, but he's not going to tell you."

"Why is that?" Jose asked, taking a drink of the beer.

"Because he's the one who caused it." I said.

"Do you know who did it?" Jose asked.

"Who did what?"

"Killed Donald." Jose said. "Do you know who did it?"

I nodded. "Si, I do, his name is Harris Penny. Hernandez, the local barkeep up the street told me just before the funeral."

"Where is he?" Jose asked.

"Who, Harris or Hernandez?"

"Senor Harris."

"He's at home I suspect." I answered.

"Kill him." Jose said. "Kill him so we can move on with our lives."

"I can't do that Jose," I said, "it's on ethical grounds but he gets a fair jury of his peers."

"So what, he killed Donald!" Jose cried. I nodded, as much as I wanted to end it now and get it over with, something in my head told me to wait.

"What are you going to do?" The parrot asked.

"Be the good private investigator and put on my sombrero." I said. Jose knew what that meant. He was a criminal defense lawyer, which basically meant that he could get me out of anything.

"I can get you out of anything Panchito," Jose said, "kill that bastard!"

"I can't Jose, think about it. Mexican kills white guy for revenge. Do you know what that looks like?" I asked.

"Bad news." Jose said. "What are we going to do for closure? Sit and wait around doing nothing?"

"For now, yes, that's exactly what you do." I said. "Don't worry, there's going to be justice in the end."

I stood, shook the parrot's hand and left the room.

As I was about to enter Senor McDuck's room, I saw Daisy come down the hallway with two bag of groceries. She was apparently staying here too. The one bag contained a loaf of bread, a can of tuna and some tomatoes. The other some celery, cabbage, a ham and three boxes of cereal. She was having trouble and tripped over her high heels. The groceries spilled all over the floor along with her.

"Oh no, I, Donald!" She called. "Can you help-" she stopped herself, realizing what she just said and cried tears.

I rushed over to help. I bent down and picked up as many things as I could, for the bags were ripped. Daisy picked the rest up but placed them back on the floor and tried to curl up in a ball, she was still crying. I sat down the groceries next to the other ones and did the only thing I could do, I wrapped her in my arms and started singing:

"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer's gone, and all the leaves are falling. T'is you, T'is you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer's in the meadow. Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow. t'is I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow. Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so."

Daisy looked at me, her eyes filled with salted water and a glimmer of hope. I sang "Danny Boy" because I knew more than anybody else, that it was Donald's favorite song to sing when he was depressed. It was the simplest kindness I could do for her and I could tell in by the way she looked at me that she needed those two extra minutes with Donald. Those two extra minutes. I was just happy I could assist, because truthfully, I needed those two extra minutes too.

The beginning of this chapter was inspired the short story: "A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner