His mother is still inside. He doesn't want to go back. To hear how proud he should be of his father, the false smiles and empty hand shakes. But he goes, quickly moving pass some of the people leaving, hearing parts of their conversations.
"-such a tragedy-"
"-he was under so much stress-"
"-can you believe that Officer Davis showed up?"
"-awfully suspicious-"
Brendan slams the door shut, causing his mother to startle. She gives him a glare before turning back to another officer, paying respects. Jenny sits next to Marion, dark eyes focus on the floor, welding. She was a daddy's girl.
"I'm going up stairs for a minute," he says to no one and no one notices that he is gone. He stands in the hallway looking at all the family portraits. He doesn't know his father at all. Not anymore.
He knows that his father killed or arranged the death of Ty Davis, Sr. If he didn't, he wouldn't have taken the cowards way out. He didn't even care about Marion, Jenny or little Ryan.
Ryan. Brendan doesn't recall seeing his brother at all since Marion put him in his nice clothes. Brendan goes to the room at the end of the hall and pushes the door open. Ryan sits on the bed, kicking his feet and holding a frame in his fingers. He's only twelve and had idolized his father his whole life and is going to be a cop too.
"Hey buddy," he says and walks in, sitting down. "Lots of food down stairs if your hungry."
Ryan shakes his head. "Not hungry."
"I'm sure Mom wants to see you,"
"If she was that worried, she would have come up here by now,"
"She's just dealin' with everyone downstairs," Brendan tries to rationalize. "Why don't you come down. They got some nice things to say about Dad, and will want to shake your hand."
"I just want to stay here," Ryan moves further up his bed to lie down.
Brendan nods. "I'll tell Mom you're up here," he makes a quiet exit back down stairs. There are more handshakes and condolences. Brendan is next to Marion the whole time. He is surprised that his mother doesn't really cry, that she puts on a good show for the officers and friends and family. He has to put on a show too. He's the man of the house now. He has to be strong, be the one that holds the family together from now on. Though he feels it in his chest and stomach, he can't cry, not in front of Marion and surely not in front of his father's colleges.
It's night before she finally closes the door for good.
Jenny breaks away and finally runs up stairs to her room, loudly sobbing. Marion keeps it inside. "Brendan, honey, help me with some of these dishes?"
He silently starts to pick up the plates of casseroles and salads, bringing them to the kitchen. "Ryan still up stairs."
"I know," she sighs. "I'll talk to him tonight. It was nice of your friend Ty to stop by."
"Yeah," he scratches the back of his neck.
"And your friend Grace. She's very lovely,"
"Yeah, she is," he actually smiles.
They put the dishes away in quiet sequence. He kisses her cheek and she goes up stairs to talk to her son and daughter. Brendan doesn't want to be inside the house anymore. It's cold and he's only wearing the long sleeved shirt and slacks. He starts to walk until reaching the end of the block and hails a taxi. He didn't tell Marion he was leaving, but she will probably be too busy with Ryan and Jenny.
Brendan gives the cabbie a tip and presses the buzzer on the building next to her name.
"Hello?" at least she isn't angry, but then again it's not late, not like when he got his stitches.
"It's me," he breathes.
"Brendan? Is everything okay?" she knows its a stupid question.
"No, no it's not,"
"Well, come on up, I'll put on some coffee,"
There is a beep and the door opens and he goes up the three flights and finds that she has left the door open a crack. When he pushes in, she is behind her counter, fiddling with a cup and putting another in the microwave.
"I'm actually...I don't need anything," he says.
"Oh," she feels defeated and puts the mug down. "Well, have a seat," she has long since changed out of her dress outfit from the wake and is now in old jeans and a sweat shirt.
He sits on the couch and she does the same. He knows that she tried her best to comfort him earlier, but he needs a bit more, he needs to crack, because he knows that he can't keep it all inside anymore and he can't fall apart in front of his family.
They are silent. She purses her lips, unsure of what to do. She doesn't want to rush him, his head is lowered a bit. She reaches out and touches his knee.
"It wasn't an accident," he says. "My father killed himself."
"Oh my God," she breathes out, holding her hands back at her lap. "How-"
"He did something...real bad and he calls me and tells me...I'm twenty-three years old, Grace and the first time I ever hear my father tell me that he loves me is six minutes before I find his dead body in the garage," a tear finally slips. He is not yelling, but his voice is cracking. And he knows that it was six minutes because he had counted the second he hung up until he reached the garage.
"Brendan-" she inches closer.
"He never..." finally more tears and he feels the bridge in his chest collapsing. "He never said it."
"Come here," she gently says, offering her hands. She understands why he had said that he couldn't think of a single good memory of his father.
Brendan goes into her arms, finally sobbing, letting it go, letting the pain wash out, the fear, the anger, the disappointment, becoming a child. She holds him close, with a slight rock, stroking his hair and whispering "It'll be okay."
His tears stain her shirt and he sniffles, crying coming out in heaved sobs. She just holds him tighter, raking her fingers. His arms are around her waist.
As she coos solace, she also kisses the top of his head and the side of his face. He finally stops a minute, though the tears still falling and looks up at her. She smiles, letting him know that she will be there and it's okay to be okay. She wipes his cheeks and he lifts up to kiss her, just once, before going back into her arms.
"I love you," she whispers, too quiet for him to hear.
He continues to cry, the glue melting and the pieces coming apart, shattering to the floor.