I didn't attend the ceremony. I don't really know why, but being in a church with all the close friends and family was more than I thought I could bear. From afar, half hidden behind a set of shrubs, I watch the small congregation leave the chapel of the cemetery. From their hunched shoulders and comforting gestures with each other, I imagine that the funeral service must have been as emotional as I had imagined it to be.
My eyes search for her—and finally find her, her father's arm wrapped around her, her head resting on his shoulder, clutching a Kleenex. She is wearing a long, black coat which, I surmise, hides a black dress that will undoubtedly look intensely beautiful on her. I close the buttons of my own dark gray coat with gloved hands. Winter in Maryland may feel mild in comparison to the Windy City, but temperatures in the 20's are still cold enough to make your ears go numb and your breath condense. Now I wish I hadn't left the woolen hat at home. How ironic, I muse, when I used to wear those things all the time in High School, even in the summer.
Following the small crowd at a safe distance, I choose to hide as best as I can. Grace was right, I shouldn't have come. I hang back as everyone assembles around the grave, a huge gaping hole in the middle into which the light brown, wooden casket is being lowered.
I can faintly hear Father Ken holding a short speech and then family members and friends saying a few words of remembrance and consolation. They are a blur of sounds to me; I am not close enough to make out what they are saying. My own mother's funeral is still fuzzy in my mind, but I vaguely remember speeches laden with sorrow, memories being recapped—both sad and happy—and people you've never even seen before shaking your hand.
I wipe one gloved hand across my cheek to get rid of the single tear that has trickled down my face. My other hand closes round the sculpture I took with me and I direct a last glance at the mourners. I detect a flicker of movement from her as she suddenly stares in my direction—and almost instinctively I take a step back to hide from view behind the tree trunk next to me. I don't know if she saw or recognized me, because when I dare look back, her gaze is on her mother's grave again.
Turning around, the frozen ground crunches beneath my soles as I walk away, deciding that I will say my goodbyes in a less intimidating, quieter setting at a later point. I wonder if that makes me a coward. I guess I am, because experience has taught me that whenever I left myself vulnerable, something or someone would come and exploit it. So I had decided to not let it happen again. By this point, I had gotten avoidance and shallowness down to an art, and this was just another example of it.
--...----...----...--
As the car door closes with a snap and I hit the symbol with the lock on my car key's remote control, the indicators blink twice and the faint clicking sound tells me that the central locking system is doing its bidding. I look up at the town houses around, this is one of Arcadia's more frequented districts. Finding a space to park the car was hard enough, but I don't mind the five minute walk to Grace's and Tom's apartment.
I had driven back to our house after the funeral, accompanied by jazzy trombone sounds blaring from the car's speakers. Grace later called to invite me over for dinner at their place. I said yes, because, let's face it, did I have anything better to do?
I ring the bell next to the little sign that says 'Hailey/Polk' and the door buzzer sounds to indicate it will let me open the front door. I climb up the cold stone staircase to their second story apartment, where a doormat exclaiming 'wipe or leave' greets me. I have to grin at that, because it's definitely Grace speaking from the doormat. As I am about to knock, the door opens and Grace's figure greets me.
I quickly study her, she has put on a couple of pounds, but not enough to make her look chubby. If anything, she is glowing with liveliness despite the glum circumstances that brought us back together. "Rove," she greets me the way she always has. I am completely taken by surprise when she pulls me into a hug and I carefully return it. I almost don't recognize this mellowed version of Grace and I wonder briefly what Tom has done with the old Grace.
She looks at me, saying, "You cut your hair."
Almost embarrassed, I run my hand through my now fairly short hair that is at a length so that it just starts to curl ever so slightly. "Yeah. So did you." Her formerly shoulder-length mane is now cut short in a sort of perkily frazzled style, which definitely suits her.
I hang my coat on the coat rack in the hallway and follow her into the kitchen. The aromatic smell of fried food greets me from a sizzling frying pan on the stove. A closer look tells me it's something Asian with lots of vegetables and some meat—chicken by the looks of it. She takes the rice off the stove and gestures for me to sit down at the rectangle table set for two close to the wooden and gray kitchenette.
"I hope you're hungry," she says, making it sound like a mock threat.
I laugh. "Starving," I reply.
"Good. Because I didn't stand here for an hour, cutting vegetables for nothing."
That's the old Grace, the one I remember, and I'm glad she has not completely vanished. There's something to be said for constancy in life.
The food is delicious and we banter over insignificances for a while. She explains that Tom left in the afternoon for a conference in Europe for a couple of days. She talks about her work as a carpenter (which is weird, because I never pictured her as a handy person) and I tell her about the advertising agency and one of my latest ad projects. It takes us about half an hour to catch up on current developments. After all, we keep in touch on occasion.
Licking the last remnants of chocolate pudding off my tablespoon, I watch her putting hers down, leaning back in her chair. A gesture that says, 'Boy, I'm full. Aren't you?' She then leans forward again and places her jaw in both hands with her elbows on the table. Her blue eyes pierce mine as she asks more than states, "You weren't at the funeral."
I look down, suddenly not able to withstand her enquiring gaze. "Yes. No. I... I mean, I was." I look up again, my eyes meeting hers. "I couldn't do it, Grace. I stood there and watched from a distance for a while, but you were right. I shouldn't have come."
"I'm not so sure anymore, dude. I told Joan that you were here. I think she may have appreciated you there."
My eyes widen at these words. So maybe she was looking for me at the funeral when I thought she may have seen me hiding out in the background.
"Yeah, right," I reply sarcastically. "That would have been a real rejoicing fest."
"Rove, what the hell happened between you two anyway?" Grace asks me, sounding too casual to pose such an important question.
I stare at her incredulously. "Joan never told you? In all those years?"
Grace shakes her head. "No. I mean, not really. Just that you were the biggest asshole she ever knew and something about perfidy and lying and that you should never dare show your cheating ass round here ever again."
"Yeah, that about covers it," I sigh. "Although she kinda left out the hitting thing."
Grace's mouth falls open. "You hit her?"
"Once. I didn't mean to. I, I don't know what came over me. One minute we were arguing, shouting at each other, she was accusing me of all the things I'd done, and the next thing I knew, my palm collided with her cheek. I don't know if I was angrier at her or myself, it kinda just happened."
"It kinda just happened?" Grace repeats, mocking my feeble attempt at an explanation. "Rove, you hit your girlfriend, and the best you can come up with is 'it kinda just happened'!"
I sigh again, burying my face in my hands. "I... I don't know," I stammer. "Everything was so out of control. I mean, things weren't remotely rosy between us then, and, yes, I was sort of seeing another woman at that point. It was like everything was spiraling out of hand.
"The second I had done it, I hated myself for it. And I still do. I can still see the look of complete shock and surprise in her eyes, that look haunts me to this day."
"Boy, this is some revelation. No wonder she jilted you. I would have, too. I mean... she forgave you for screwing around with Bonnie, and then you cheat on her again? I gotta hand it to you, Rove, you have a knack for messing up."
Grace shakes her head again as if she can't believe it. "You just don't hit a woman." She looks at me contemplatively. "You didn't hit Maria too, did you?" she suddenly asks, alluding to the Italian girl I had gone out with for about a year during college.
"What? No. No." I deny vehemently. "Look, no matter what you might think, I'm not one of those abusive types that goes round, hitting his girlfriends," I tell her with a certain amount of contempt in my voice. "You should know me better than that," I accuse her.
She tilts her head slightly, a gesture that tells me she is mulling something over in her mind. "The Adam Rove I thought I knew would never hit a girl," she states.
"Yeah, well," I mutter in resignation. "Guess you didn't know me well enough. But I swear to you, that's not the guy I am today. At least I hope not," I add under my breath.
"So, are you going to see her at all?" Grace asks me brazenly.
"I don't know," I reply earnestly. "I don't think I should. It'll just rip open old wounds."
"Or it might heal them," she interjects carefully.
I look at her with a hint of surprise glinting in my eyes. "I'll see." It doesn't sound terribly convincing. I want to end this topic, stop discussing this rather depressing chapter of my life now. "If I don't, can you tell her that... that I'm sorry?"
"For what?" Grace asks.
That's a good question. For everything, I guess. But to Grace I say, "For her mother's death. Offer her my condolences. Please."
Grace nods and that's that.
--...----...----...--
