The Best Worst Day ( The Rhythm of Life: Chapter 6 | The Funeral Scene )
Sunday: August 13, 2006
Margaret clutched the folds of her black dress, as if the slippery fabric were a lifeline. Her father stood staring at the green cloth swathed chasm swallowing up her mother's coffin inch by merciless inch. The suffocating August heat threatened to drown her, to pull her down after her mother, and bury her in smog, dirt, and tears.
"I'll wait for you in the car," Henry murmured, his hand squeezing her elbow in a gesture of comfort.
The heated air coiled around Margaret, crawling into her lungs, into her chest, paralyzing her. Henry waited for her reply, and finally gave her elbow another squeeze. His departure was the first of the small crowd of graveside mourners who trickled away in clots of two or three people until only Margaret and her father remained.
Richard Hale's slight frame trembled, and he nearly collapsed back into one of the cloth covered metal chairs. He hid his face with his hands. Margaret fought against the heavy heated weight and managed to swallow.
"Dad?"
"I'd—like to be alone—please."
"Henry's waiting."
"Yes."
"In the car."
Her father nodded. The late afternoon sun caught and gilded his tears in bright gold. Margaret managed to turn her head away. She couldn't watch him. She shouldn't.
Margaret blinked at the rows of gravestones. Her feet stumbled forward, the spell suddenly broken, but she couldn't escape them—so many lives buried by time, by earth, their passing marked only with cold hard rocks wearing away to nothing under the sun and the wind and the rain. Margaret's lungs pinched as she tried breathe.
She hated them.
And she hated her mother most of all.
Margaret clutched at one of the markers, the rough hewed rock biting into her hand. The muffled sound of footsteps pulled her eyes up.
John Thornton stood among the gravestones, his hands in pockets, a gentleness in his whole demeanor as he watched her. Margaret stared at him. Had he been here the whole time? And why?
John looked as he had the day she first met him, dressed in a dark charcoal suit with a matching tie. His blue black hair was neat and combed, his face cleanly shaved. He stood easily, but the lines of his face told Margaret why he was here.
For her.
And her father.
John stepped forward and held out a white handkerchief. Margaret brushed at her wet cheeks. John's eyes softened, and something about them snapped the heavy cord holding Margaret together.
She sank to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and wept silently like the child she was. Her mother was dead and couldn't come back. Margaret knew she was being foolish to wish it, knew the yearning ache in her heart that demanded God return her mother to this earth was utterly selfish. Maria Hale was free of her sickness and suffering and Margaret ought to be glad.
But she couldn't. Not now.
The blistering heat suddenly shifted. Margaret felt her body relax, the intensity of the merciless sun lessened as John's shadow fell over her. She looked up.
He didn't touch her or try to fix her with gestures or words. He just stood there, like a dark silent sentinel, and waited, shielding her from the sun. Margaret pulled her knees to her chest, laid her head on them, and closed her eyes. She knew John would wait as long as she needed him. Margaret didn't know how she knew it, but she didn't really care. Her shoulders shuddered and a breath of cool wind rustled through the trees.
She looked back at the green tent. Two workmen waited in its shade, chatting with the funeral director. Her father had gone. Her stiff leg muscles cramped as she shifted, trying to stand, every movement draining the last reserves of her energy.
John crouched and offered his hand. She looked at it, and then at her own. The effort of moving it seemed too much. But John waited until Margaret managed to shift her hand towards his. He gripped her trembling fingers and helped her to stand.
Margaret swayed a little, dizzy with the heat and exhaustion. She knew she needed to find her father and Henry. They would be waiting for her in the car, the green tent next to her mother's grave a lurking obstacle. Her mind raced and tipped, the storm of grief and anger threatening to capsize her again. Margaret clung to John's hand like a anchor—warm, firm, and steady.
The happy trill of a mockingbird joined the warmth of John's hand, pulling her towards it. The grey and white bird, pleased with its own joyful song, perched near the top of a sycamore tree. The air beneath the tree shifted with a tiny hint of wind. The bird launched into the air flying towards a tree further on.
Margaret and John wandered slowly through the cemetery grounds, from one tree to the next, first following the bird and then simply walking. Margaret was afraid if she stopped she might not move again. They reached a gate on the opposite side of the cemetery leading out towards the city. Cars whirled past in gusts of thick heated air, sending small pieces of litter and leaves dancing in their wake.
Her mobile buzzed. Margaret dug it out of her purse with one hand. A text lit the screen, Henry demanding to know where she'd gone and was she alright and her father needed rest and she should probably come back so they could get dinner—
Margaret pressed her eyes closed. She didn't want to see anyone or be with anyone or talk to anyone or do anything. John shifted next to her, studying the street sign and the traffic. Her grip on his hand tightened and he glanced down. Somehow he was only person Margaret wanted and she hadn't known she wanted him until he was there.
She tapped out a quick reply to Henry, and shoved the phone out of sight. Then she looked up at John, not caring what happened next. With John she didn't have to care or take care of anything. He glanced up and down the street, then turned left. He clipped his long strides to match her short ones as much as possible and Margaret did her best to lengthen her own until they found a comfortable pace. Margaret's thoughts wandered as trees, buildings, street lamps, cars, and people all flowed past them. She studied the expressions of the people, wondering about their own sorrows and hidden stories. An older couple, arm and arm, smiled warmly at her.
"Keep hold of that one," the old woman commented as they passed.
A small smile stole across Margaret's face in return, and she shifted closer to John. He wasn't actually hers to keep, as the old woman implied, but the idea intrigued her. They certainly seemed like a couple in their formal clothes, holding hands, strolling through the city.
Margaret never let her imagination run away with every fancy it crossed, but today she no longer felt like herself. As the city unfolded around them, she played with the idea that they were on a date, wondering what it would be like.
Perhaps John asked her out for coffee after class and—
No, that was too easy and John Thornton was anything but easy. He was, she finally admitted to herself, rather fascinating once you got used to him. It reminded Margaret of her first time eating sushi. She thought she hated it but Edith insisted she try it again and then again until the abrupt assault of the foreign food on her taste buds familiarized into something delicious. She glanced up at John. If this were a date he wouldn't take her for sushi. Ice cream maybe, but never sushi. Still that would require him actually asking her out.
How would John ask a girl out?
No—not any girl—how would he ask her out?
It would be tricky, she decided. John was eight years older than her, and they didn't really get on most days. Which of course meant he was secretly harboring intense attraction for her and she for him. Margaret smiled a little more.
What utter nonsense. But now that she'd begun her little daydream, she didn't want to stop.
They'd been at a fancy party neither of them wished to be at, both in attendance because their parents insisted.
Yes. That was plausible.
John stood in a corner, arms crossed, all his focus spent on keeping a neutral demeanor. Margaret, a mild expression of amused boredom plastered on her face, was stuck between her father and two old men smelling of moth balls, too much cologne, and cigarettes. She spotted John, excused herself, wove through the crowd, and collapsed against the back wall with a sigh of relief.
Margaret nodded to herself, enjoying the picture—she would do that.
They bickered, of course. But this time there was camaraderie in their mutual hatred of stuffy parties. The conversation grew playful and Margaret brazenly flirted just to see what John would do. His eyes flashed with mischief. He knew what she was doing. Then he asked her to ditch the damn party for a hot date with him.
He would put her on the spot like that, impossible man.
She'd agreed to his challenge, enjoying the look of pleased surprise which swept over him. They'd escaped out the back door, Margaret giggling about what his mother would say. John's response was to take her hand and he still hadn't let go.
Yes, that was it. So now they were walking the streets, enjoying the silent freedom of each other's company. When John stopped by a street vendor selling pretzels, hotdogs, and cheap ice cream, she hid a small laugh. Ice cream was part of the date, just as she'd predicted.
John led them into a small park spotted with old dogwood trees. They sat on a bench, and ate in silence. The ice cream wasn't very good but it was cold. She watched John out of the corner of her eye. He finished his ice cream and licked his fingers clean, still holding her hand. Margaret did the same, both of them looking like two school children.
He held her hand the entire first date. His were large and hard, the skin rough against her own, but she loved how their hands fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle.
Margaret turned John's hand and studied it, noting every callous, every crease, every mark. She wanted to know the stories behind them. Some things were easy to guess—the faint thin line of black around his nails was definitely engine grease; the callouses probably from lifting weights. But what was the small round scar between his thumb and first finger? Or the tight white line running down the outside of his little finger?
John's thumb rubbed the back of her hand and Margaret glanced up. They stared at each other, in silence and perfect ease. Then Margaret scooted closer, laying her head on his shoulder. The wind rustled the tree leaves like a song and she closed her eyes. She was exactly where she wanted to be.
Their first date was a silent one. The next would be a talking one, full of bickering and stories. But the silent ones would always be her favorite. . .
. . .
Margaret started awake, blinking. She was wedged into John's side, a solid wall of comfortable warmth. How long had he let her sleep? He had one arm slung around her. He held a paperback in his other hand, reading steadily as the light melted into the golden hints of the coming sunset.
John would bring a book on all their dates. It was just a habit, like bringing a wallet and keys. On the fifth date he brought two books, so they could just sit and read together on the hood of his truck, away from the bustle of the world.
Margaret shifted, sitting up, and he shut the novel, tucking it into his jacket pocket. He slid his hand into hers and helped her to her feet.
John took the long way for the walk back to the cemetery. The sun dipped lower in the sky, pouring through the brilliant stained glass golden-green of the summer foliage. John's rusted blue truck waited for them in a small empty car park just outside the cemetery. He dug his keys from his inside jacket pocket and held the door for her.
There was only one way to end such a lovely and unexpected first date. She would always think of it as her first real kiss—
Enough of that. Margaret flinched and shook herself.
John hung his jacket on his seat before climbing in next to her. A church bell rang in the distance, telling her it was time to go back—back to her father, back to the world of cares, back to hating John Thornton. Only she didn't hate him. Not after today. Maybe she never had.
Margaret realized she didn't want to lose what she'd found with this impossible man on such an awful day—a day he taken and transformed into the best worst day of her life. She slid closer and brushed his cheek with her fingers. But he just sat there—not moving, not saying anything. John knew she wanted to kiss him, didn't he? Then he shifted forward.
He knew.
Margaret raised her other hand, cradling his face. He was waiting, like he'd waited all day in silence. Just for her. She barely brushed his lips with hers and then pulled back a little. The corner of his mouth twitched, a spark of mischief in his face. Margaret sighed. He would laugh at her hesitant first attempts. Impossible man.
"John," she tried to hide the pleading edge in her voice with a smirk. "Please."
His eyes flashed, bright blazing blue in the fading light before he—and oh—it was a kiss worth begging for.
It was also the hardest and easiest thing she'd ever done. Easy because his mouth fit to hers like their hands fit together, like their silence, and their bickering fit together. Hard because he didn't hesitate or hedge, because he knew exactly what he wanted, because he reached into her very heart like he belonged there. John skipped the polite first-snog standards, and kissed Margaret like a soldier kisses his lover the day he sets foot back on his native soil, pouring his whole self into her, demanding hers in return. And then it was over.
Margaret sat back, a little dazed.
"Good?" John asked.
"Very."
"More tomorrow." It wasn't really a question. Margaret blushed as he pulled her into his lap, winding his arms around her. This whole day he'd known exactly what she wanted, what she needed, from him. Somehow he always knew, and he always would.
She smiled as he held her close. "Definitely more tomorrow."
It was an excellent end to the first of many dates.
AN: I wrote this with as little dialogue as possible just to challenge myself (dialogue is my favorite).
Did it work for you?
Drop a review if you would and tell me what you think. Cheers.