Chapter 6 #2
And of course, there’s the high and mighty Axel Rhodes.
He sits at the end of the row behind them.
I haven’t run into him since that first night, and I don’t really know his role in all of this, but judging by the seat he has been assigned, I’m assuming he’s not family, but he’s not merely staff either. Maybe a close family friend?
He is wearing a black suit with an immaculate white shirt and a black tie.
His broad shoulders are straining against the fabric, not in a way that implies his suit isn’t a good fit, but in a way that implies he is muscular and terribly powerful.
His dark hair is pushed back today, severe and controlled, more appropriate for the occasion than the previous floppy style, although I kind of liked the tousled look.
His green eyes scan the room once, assessing, searching. For a split second, they land on me. My stomach flips, and I tell myself to get a grip. This is a funeral, not a bar. And besides, he has made his feelings towards me perfectly clear in the minute I spent in his company.
Recognition flickers on his face, though not surprise. He knew I’d be here. His gaze lingers on mine for a fraction of a second before sliding away. The service begins before I have time to overthink what that split-second look might mean.
A low organ note vibrates through the space, and the few whispered conversations fade off. The vicar steps forward, folding his hands over the lectern. His voice is steady, resonant, filled with warmth and solemnity, trained by decades of guiding people through grief.
“Today we gather not only to mourn a man, but to honor a life that altered the shape of our modern world,” he begins.
“Joseph Manswell was called many things in his lifetime. Innovator, disruptor, visionary, pioneer… genius. Investors called him fearless. Competitors called him relentless. History, I suspect, will call him transformative.”
A quiet ripple moves through the congregation, murmured words of agreement coming from industry leaders, old colleagues, and dignitaries.
“But those titles,” the vicar continues gently, “only describe what he did. They do not tell us who he was.”
He pauses and looks up, and for a moment, it feels like he makes eye contact with everyone in that room.
“Joseph possessed a mind that saw possibility where others saw limitation. When an early prototype failed, and many did, he would smile and say, ‘Good, now we know one more way not to do it’. He believed that failure was simply information in disguise.”
A faint, knowing chuckle comes from somewhere near the front, perhaps from one of his former engineers.
“He built technologies that connected continents. He funded research that saved lives. He gave quietly and often to causes including hospitals, schools, and scholarships for students who would otherwise never have had the chance to sit in a laboratory or a lecture hall. He once told me that innovation meant nothing if it did not lift someone else with it.”
The vicar turns slightly toward the front pew.
“To Lydia, who stood beside Joseph during the years when ambition consumed more hours than sleep ever did, we acknowledge your partnership in building that extraordinary life.”
He gives her a respectful nod, which she returns.
“To Sheldon, his son, your father spoke of you with a pride that softened even his sharpest edges. He once described you to me not as just my son, but as ‘my greatest experiment in hope.’”
There’s a soft murmur of approval at that.
“And to Axel,” the vicar goes on, and his gaze shifts subtly to the second row. “Axel, who shared not only professional battles but personal loyalty with Joseph. He valued your counsel. He trusted your steel.”
The vicar pauses for a second to let the words settle.
“But for all his global reach, Joseph’s truest and happiest moments were often the quietest ones.
He loved playing chess with his friends on Sunday mornings after church, though he rarely admitted when he was beaten.
He believed good coffee was a moral necessity.
He kept a worn leather notebook by his bed filled with questions and thoughts. ”
He pauses again, and when he speaks once more, he uses a softer tone.
“There was, in Joseph, a private tenderness few saw. He understood that brilliance without love is hollow. That achievement without connection echoes. In one of our final conversations, he spoke to me about unfinished bridges. He said that some structures are built from steel and glass, and some are built from courage. He hoped, he said, that the bridges he had not yet crossed might one day be finished by hands braver than his own.”
The words hang there, ambiguous to most, but startlingly accurate to me. Am I his unfinished bridge? The one that needed courage rather than steel?
“But perhaps that is the truth of legacy in its truest form, not what we complete, but what we set in motion.”
The vicar looks around the entire congregation once more and then he closes the folder in front of him gently.
“Joseph Manswell changed industries. He altered trajectories. He dared to ask what if and then insisted on asking why not. But beyond the myth, beyond the legend, was a man who sought redemption in creation, who loved imperfectly but deeply, and who believed above all that the future is built by those willing to reach for it.”
The vicar bows his head.
“May he rest in eternal peace. And may we honor him not only by remembering what he achieved, but by finishing building the bridges that he began. Let us pray.”
I bow my head and listen to the vicar as he prays for my father, all the while trying to reconcile the titan described in the eulogy with the abstract concept of an estranged father. Father. Even the word feels utterly foreign.
The prayer ends and the vicar moves to one side, and a montage begins to play on screens set discreetly along the walls.
There are photographs of Joseph as a child, a teenager, and a young man.
Photographs of his wedding, of Sheldon as a baby.
Photographs of days out, and vacations. Photographs from conferences.
Photographs from ribbon cuttings. Photographs from charity galas.
There are photographs of Joseph shaking hands with presidents, Joseph laughing on stage, Joseph standing in front of rockets, solar arrays, and glass buildings.
He looks charismatic. Sharp. Alive. I search for any resemblance between us. There certainly isn’t any between Sheldon and me. Sheldon looks a lot like Lydia.
It occurs to me suddenly that the line of my father’s jaw is similar to mine. And I definitely have his eyes.
My chest aches suddenly. Not because I knew him. But because I didn’t. Because there are no photos of him holding me as a baby. No birthdays. No school plays. No graduations. An entire parallel life existed without me in it. And yet, biologically, I am a part of him.
I blink hard, surprised to feel tears gathering in my eyes. Why does this hurt? Joseph was a stranger to me. But he wasn’t just any stranger. He was a possibility. And now that possibility is sealed in a coffin at the front of the room.