I gave the car horn another long press, the sound slicing through the quiet of the night, marking the exact time of ten-fifty. Impatience bubbled inside me as I tapped the steering wheel, my legs jiggling uncontrollably beneath it, a physical manifestation of my growing anxiety. "What the hell are you doing in there, Gladys?" I muttered to no one, the words dissolving into the cold air of the car's interior.
Finally, the front door of the house swung open, and Gladys emerged, her movements hurried yet somehow still causing me to startle in my seat as the door slammed shut with a definitive bang. My heart skipped, not prepared for the sudden noise in the quiet evening.
"You're all dressed up," Gladys observed as she opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, her voice carrying a hint of surprise—or was it accusation?
"And you're not," I retorted, my irritation spilling over as I took in her casual attire of jeans against my own carefully chosen black dress. The contrast between us was obvious, highlighting the differences in our approach to... well, everything.
"Do you want me to get changed?" Gladys snapped back, her hand already on the door handle, ready to act on my critique.
"Don't worry about it," I huffed out, my frustration deflating as quickly as it had inflated. "No time for that now."
"You're in a mood," Gladys scoffed, her voice laced with that sibling knowingness that managed to be both infuriating and comforting in equal measure.
Choosing to ignore her comment, I focused on the road ahead, pulling away from the house as we began our journey. The silence that settled between us was a familiar companion, the unspoken words and tensions hovering like ghosts of our shared history.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I tried to steady my hands, the tremors a silent testament to the turmoil within me. The decision to meet up with Jarod loomed over me like a dark cloud, intensifying the sense of impending doom. It would only cause trouble, I chided myself, the thought echoing through my mind like a warning bell. Over the past few years, I'd painstakingly managed to curb the impulsive stealing habits that once defined me—a feat made easier, perhaps, by my self-imposed isolation from the very situations that tempted those darker impulses.
"Did you get anything for the memorial?" Gladys's voice cut through the heavy silence that had settled in the car, her question pulling me back from the edge of my thoughts.
"No," I replied, the word sharp, a reflection of my current state of mind, where the memorial seemed like just another drop in the stormy sea churning inside me.
"I got some scented candles," Gladys continued, undeterred by my terseness. She rummaged through her large handbag, her movements deliberate as she produced several small candles. "We can say they're from both of us, if you like?" Her offer, made with a genuine intent to include me, felt like a lifeline, albeit a flimsy one in the grand scheme of things.
I responded with a small shrug, the gesture laden with a mix of gratitude and indifference. The truth was, scented candles and their symbolic gesture of remembrance were the least of my concerns, dwarfed by the weight of the evening's earlier dealings that had taken place.
The car fell back into its awkward silence.
"Did you bring any spirits?" I found myself asking, the need for something, anything, to dull the sharp edges of my anxiety becoming overwhelming. A shot or two of liquid courage seemed like a necessary evil at this point.
"Cody is bringing the whiskey," Gladys responded, her voice carrying a note of casualness.
"Cody is coming?" The surprise in my voice was unmistakable. The addition of Cody to the evening's equation was a wildcard I hadn't anticipated.
"Yeah," Gladys confirmed. "He said he'll meet us there."
Several minutes later, as the car rolled to a stop in Luke's driveway, the solitude of the scene was marked by the lone presence of Jamie's car, its silent form the only other vehicle in the vicinity. The quiet seemed to underscore the purpose of our arrival.
"Let's wait for Cody," Gladys suggested, her hand clasping firmly around my arm as I reached for the car door.
The insistence in her voice grated against my already frayed nerves, prompting a visceral reaction. I yanked my arm free from her hold, the need for action, any action, overriding the patience she advocated. "I'm not waiting," I declared, a mix of determination and defiance colouring my tone. Exiting the car, I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing in the quiet of the driveway like a definitive end to the argument.
Standing on the small front porch, I took a moment to breathe, to allow the cool night air to wash over me and temper the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm. This is Joel's night now, I reminded myself, the mantra serving as a focal point, a centring thought amidst the earlier promises of the evening. It was a moment of tribute, of remembrance, and my personal conflicts had no place here.
Gladys quickly joined me on the porch. The front door's squeak seemed louder in the quiet atmosphere, a herald of our entrance. "Hey, Luke," we both said together, an unplanned chorus that momentarily lifted the heavy air.
The sound of a shot glass clattering against the stone benchtop marked our greeting, a sharp contrast to the softness of our voices. Cody's laughter, deep and hearty, filled the space, a brief respite from the evening's undercurrent of grief.
"You two couldn't even wait for us?" Gladys's voice carried a mix of mock indignation and genuine surprise, her words directed at Cody's premature libation.
"How rude," I chimed in, the words lighter than my heart felt, trying to inject a bit of levity into the room.
"I was just cheering Luke up," Cody defended, his tone light but his eyes avoiding ours.
"I'm sure," Gladys retorted, her skepticism thinly veiled, a protective edge sharpening her words.
Approaching the bench, I observed as Luke methodically arranged his glass among the others, each one a silent testament to the night's intent. Cody filled the line-up without hesitation, his movements deliberate, perhaps a distraction from the evening's weight.
"So how—" I began, the question hanging in the air, unfinished, as Luke cut me off.
"I really don't want to talk about it," he said quickly, a weariness in his voice that belied the strength it took to utter those words. "I'm really tired."
"Or drunk," Gladys couldn't resist adding, her observation sharp, yet not without concern.
For a moment, Gladys and I shared a glance, a rare instance of silent agreement in our often discordant interactions
Luke's response, "Not yet," was both a concession and a defiance, a recognition of his state and a declaration of his intent to find solace in whatever way he could. The simplicity of the exchange, the interplay of concern, sarcasm, and tired resignation, painted a picture of our shared history, of connections forged in better times and tested by the worst. As we stood there, in the kitchen that had witnessed countless moments of joy and now, profound sorrow, the realisation that we were all grappling with loss, each in our own way, was both a comfort and a challenge.
"We've brought the candles," I announced, a declaration that momentarily shifted the focus from the tension hanging in the air. Encouraging Gladys, I watched as she lifted her handbag onto the bench, an unspoken signal for me to delve into its depths. My hands worked through the assortment of candles she had thoughtfully packed, their varied colours and sizes a small testament to her effort to bring warmth to the night's sombre occasion.
Luke, moving with a purpose that seemed to momentarily dispel the cloud of sorrow enveloping him, began rummaging through the kitchen drawers in search of the gas lighter. I took the lighter from him, a silent exchange of understanding passing between us, and began the methodical process of lighting each candle.
"Are you sure you have enough candles?" Cody's chuckle, meant to lighten the mood, instead felt like an intrusion into the solemnity of the moment. My response was a glare, a silent reprimand for the levity in a time that demanded reverence.
"Turn the lights off," I instructed Luke, my voice carrying a soft but firm command. There was a power in the act of extinguishing the artificial light, a symbolism in embracing the candlelight that spoke more eloquently than words could.
Within moments, the house fell into darkness, save for the flickering candlelight that now held dominion over the space. The shadows danced around the kitchen and living room, cast by the gentle flames, transforming the familiar surroundings into something ethereal. In the soft, undulating light, the room took on a different character, one that seemed to bridge the gap between the here and now and the eternal.
The four of us stood in a tight circle around the island bench, the solemnity of the moment enveloping us like a shroud as Cody passed out the shot glasses. The ritual felt ancient, a way to honour a life that had brushed ours only briefly, yet left an indelible mark.
"Do you have a picture of him?" The question escaped my lips before I could think better of it, my curiosity a faint attempt to connect with the person we were about to honour.
Luke's response was a gentle shake of his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "No," he admitted. "We only learnt about him a few months ago." The regret in his voice was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the lost opportunities to know the person whose absence we mourned.
Gladys's expression mirrored the grief that suddenly filled the room, her question voiced with a tenderness that spoke volumes of her compassion. "Does... does Jamie know he's dead yet?" she asked, her voice laced with a delicacy born of understanding the weight of the news we were withholding.
I found myself biting my bottom lip, an unconscious reaction to the tension that tightened around us with Luke's subsequent denial. "No," he confirmed, his head shaking in a silent negation that felt final. "And he won't ever find out. Cody took care of it," he added, a glance towards Cody laden with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.
"Yeah," Cody affirmed, though his gaze remained fixed on the row of shot glasses before him, as if the answers to the unspoken questions lay hidden in their depths. "I took care of it."
"It's so sad," I couldn't help but whisper, the reality of the young life lost washing over me in waves of disbelief. "He looked so young."
"He was," Luke agreed, the pain evident in his voice. "He was only nineteen."
"Tragic," Gladys murmured, wiping away a tear.
Then, as if driven by a force greater than ourselves, Luke raised his shot glass, a silent summons for us to join him in this act of remembrance. We all followed, each of us holding our glass like a torch in the darkness, a beacon of memory for a soul gone too soon.
"What do we say?" Gladys's voice broke the silence, her question echoing the uncertainty that hovered around the edges of our gathering. "We never really knew him."
"You say whatever is in your heart to say," Cody's answer came, a simple directive that somehow made the impossible task before us seem bearable.
And so, standing in the dim candlelight that transformed the familiar into a place of sacred memory, we prepared to honour a life that had intersected with ours in the most unexpected of ways. With Cody's words as our guide, we ventured into the territory of the heart, ready to give voice to the unspoken, to the grief and the gratitude that intertwined within us.
"I'll go first," I declared, a sense of resolve steadying my trembling hands as I grasped my glass and held it before me. My intention was clear, yet when the moment came to speak, my voice faltered, words caught in the web of emotion that had woven itself tightly around my heart. I leaned towards Luke, seeking reassurance in a whisper. "What's his name again?" The question was a lifeline, my mind grappling with the tumultuous mix of nerves and the solemnity of the occasion.
Luke's response was a gentle smile, a beacon of warmth in the cool, shadowed room. "Joel," he whispered back, his voice a soft echo that carried the weight of unspoken stories and unwritten futures.
Turning back to face the bench, the word felt more solid, more real, as I spoke it aloud. "Joel," I began again, this time with a firmer voice, though it quivered with the effort of keeping my emotions at bay. "We never had the chance to know you. But we love Jamie. And you are his blood." The words were a bridge, linking us to Joel, to each other, to the very essence of what it means to be connected by unseen bonds. As I spoke, the image of Brody filled my vision, a poignant reminder of another life touched by tragedy, another soul whose absence was a constant presence.
With a deep breath, I pushed through the ache in my chest, determined to honour Joel with the dignity he deserved. "And so, we love you too." The declaration was a testament to our collective capacity for love, extending beyond the confines of direct acquaintance to embrace a young life taken too soon.
"To Jamie's son," I announced, lifting my shot glass as a salute to a life we wished we'd known, to the fragile threads that tied us to Jamie, and through him, to Joel. The liquid burned its way down, a fiery tribute to the memory of a boy who had become part of our story in the most haunting of ways.
"To Jamie's son," the others echoed, their voices a chorus of solidarity. Together, we raised our glasses, a silent vow to remember, to mourn, and to celebrate the ties that bound us, however tenuous they might seem. The glasses were drained and returned to the bench.
Gladys took her glass from Cody with a steadiness that belied the emotion behind her words. "Joel," she began, her voice carrying a mix of sorrow and hope, a heartfelt wish for a connection never made. "May your soul one day know your father and know the good man that he is." Her words, simple yet profound, struck a chord, resonating deeply within the silent spaces of our gathering.
Blinking quickly to ward off the tears that threatened to spill, I found myself reaching up to dab at my eyes. The emotion of the moment, coupled with Gladys's poignant toast, overwhelmed the barriers I had meticulously built around my heart.
"To Joel," said Gladys, her voice a beacon in the dimly lit room as she raised her glass of whiskey.
"To Joel," we echoed in unison, each of us participating in the ritual, allowing the whiskey to burn a path down our throats.
In the silence that followed, we waited, a collective breath held in anticipation for Cody to refill our glasses and continue the cycle of tribute. But instead, Cody paused, his glass held aloft as if it were a chalice of memories and unspoken words. His gaze, fixed intently on the empty vessel, seemed to search its depths for answers or perhaps solace. In the soft, undulating light cast by the candles, his eyes glistened, a visible sign of the emotion he too was grappling with.
"Joel," Cody began, his voice carrying the weight of the moment, heavy with emotion. "You met unfortunate circumstances. But—" His words faltered, a visible struggle against the tide of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. "But—" he tried again, his voice catching, a raw display of vulnerability that was both heart-wrenching and sincere.
Beside me, Gladys and I found ourselves caught in the wave of Cody's grief, our sniffles breaking the charged silence in almost perfect unison.
"Death is but a mere process, and when we learn to master that process, we will master death itself," Cody continued, his gaze intensely fixed on Luke. The words, though cryptic, resonated with a depth that was both unsettling and profound. They hung in the air, a solemn mantra that seemed to bridge the gap between the tangible and the unknown.
The room fell into a heavy silence, the kind that envelops you like a cloak, thick with thought and reflection. A cool shiver traced my spine, the words echoing in my mind. I didn't fully grasp their meaning, yet they stirred something within me, a yearning for understanding, for closure. I found myself wishing Brody were here; he would have understood, would have found solace in Cody's words, or perhaps even challenged their premise with his characteristic insight.
"To Joel," Cody intoned once more, lifting his empty glass as though it were a vessel filled with memories and unspoken farewells.
"To Joel," we echoed, our voices a chorus of respect and remembrance.
As the moment passed and we each retreated into our personal reveries, I found myself distracted by a loose thread on the lace sleeve of my black dress. My fingers toyed with it absently, the action a metaphor for the unravelling thoughts and emotions that the evening had stirred. The irony of the situation was not lost on me—I was here, mourning the loss of a young man involved in a murder I hadn't committed but had helped to conceal. And this, mere moments after agreeing to revisit the very habits that had indirectly led to the downfall of my greatest love.
This dress, a silent witness to both Brody's funeral and now this solemn gathering, seemed to carry the weight of my guilt and grief. This dress is cursed, I mused darkly, the decision forming in my heart with a resolve born of the night's reflections. And when I get home, I'm going to burn it. The thought was a silent vow, a promise to myself to shed the tangible reminders of the past, to perhaps find a way to begin anew, even as the complexities of my current choices loomed large, a poignant reminder of the cyclical nature of decision and consequence.
