CHAPTER FOUR
Age Nineteen
I stood just inside the door of The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home, wearing one of the two suits Leonard had bought for me and feeling more like myself than I ever had.
Although I wasn’t yet a licensed mortician, I was well on my way at nineteen, already working through my associate’s degree, and Leonard was now comfortable having me oversee the viewings as his official apprentice.
A room full of grieving family members was off to my left, in the same room where I’d waited for Leonard when that police officer brought my brothers and me back after I’d stolen cigarettes from the gas station.
I hadn’t been in trouble with the law since then. Somehow, I had managed to keep myself on a straighter path throughout the last couple of years, all for the sole purpose of giving Leonard a reason to look at me with approval and pride.
But I itched for trouble.
There was nothing about being good that satisfied that itch.
I tamped it down though, managing to stifle that little voice in my head, saying to swipe something at the store. I guessed it was my conscience and sense of maturity growing louder as I grew older, and I hoped that, one day, maybe I could silence that craving for trouble altogether.
The front door of the funeral home opened, bringing in the sounds of the outside world to add to the classical melodies playing inside.
In walked two women, dressed in black, and judging from their clothes and the fact that there was only one wake on the schedule, I knew what had brought them in tonight.
But still, I asked in my gentlest voice, “Good evening, ladies. Can I help you?”
One of the two women didn’t bother to look in my direction as she gestured toward the open doors of the viewing room while the other was already wandering into the throng of mourners.
“We’re just here for the Malloy wake,” she said with a genteel smile and a nod.
Bowing my head, I replied, “Of course.”
She walked away, and I sighed, turning toward the stairs and pacing the few steps before turning around to face the door again.
I wished someone else were around tonight to deal with the public.
Leonard was out with a friend of his. Shawn was working on a paper for one of his classes. Ike was supposedly working on homework, but I had a feeling he just didn’t feel like keeping me company.
The wakes only lasted a couple of hours each. Luckily, Leonard had said he’d be back before it was over, but the time was dragging at an insufferable pace, and I was growing more bored by the second.
I glanced at the clock to find that only five minutes had passed since I’d last checked.
Some nights were more eventful than others. There was more to do, more problems to address and more to handle. Unfortunately, tonight wasn’t one of those.
“Excuse me.”
Gratitude itself spun me on my heel, and I was thrilled to have someone to assist.
"Yes?" I asked, facing the wife of the deceased Ronny Malloy. "How can I help you, Mrs. Malloy?"
The elderly woman smiled kindly, but couldn't hide the air of overstimulation as she fluttered a hand in the direction of the viewing room.
"We need more water,” she said, flustered and frazzled. “I tried to find it myself, but I don't even know where to look, and I've had three people now come up to me—"
"It's all right," I said with a nod I hoped seemed reassuring. "I'll take care of it."
She led the way into the room, leaning against the cane she carried. Her daughter—a middle-aged blonde with a permanent expression of exasperation—spotted us immediately and sighed, slapping her hands against her thighs.
"Mom," she groaned, pushing through a group of suited men when she could've easily walked around them. "I told you I would handle the water."
"Well, you were talking with what's her name over there, and three people asked me if there was something to drink—"
"It was five minutes, Mom! Three people did not ask for water in five minutes!"
I forced a smile that hopefully said none of this back-and-forth was grating on my nerves and held up my hands.
"I have it all under control," I said gently, facing the daughter. "I'll get the pitchers filled up and—"
"Where is Leonard?” she asked, peering around me into the foyer. "I wanted to have a word with him about the prayer cards."
"Is there a problem with the cards?"
Mrs. Malloy’s white brows pinched as she shook her head.
"What are you talking about, Whitney? There wasn't anything wrong with the prayer cards.
I thought they were lovely." She extended a hand to lay it over my wrist, and I fought the urge to pull away.
"Please tell Leonard that they are absolutely beautiful. The foiling is the perfect—"
"They look awful! I specifically asked for Jesus to be centered, but he's not. It looks sloppy. Very unprofessional."
People were strange when they were grieving, I’d found.
They focused on the things that didn't matter to distract themselves from the things that did.
Clearly, Whitney was choosing to fixate on a slight misalignment of a generic stock photo of Christ Almighty instead of the open casket of her beloved father.
Leonard lectured me on the importance of patience and empathy on a regular basis, and I was getting better.
But there was only so much of this I'd be able to take before my tongue was completely severed from my mouth from biting it so hard.
I folded my hands over my middle and bowed my head with a curt nod. "I will let Leonard know that you're unhappy with the quality of the prayer cards. I'm sure he'll—"
"Where is he? I was unaware he wouldn't be here tonight. If I'd known he was going to leave a child in charge—"
"Ma'am," I interjected gently, "Leonard had to step out for a minute, but he'll be back soon. If you'd like to talk to him, I will be sure to let him know as soon as—"
"I think I've made it very clear that that's exactly what I'd like to do."
With a tight smile, I nodded once more. "Of course. I'll send him in the moment he's back."
I was already on my way to the first of the water pitchers when Whitney stopped me.
"Are you forgetting about the water?!"
"Taking care of it right now, ma'am," I said, fighting the urge to grind my teeth together.
As it turned out, all three pitchers were empty, and I silently berated myself for not topping them off sooner.
Leonard would've checked. Leonard would've made it a point to take a quick pass through the room every few minutes.
That was what I should've been doing instead of being bored in the foyer.
I huffed, irritated with myself, as I left the room with two of the pitchers, only to be stopped in my tracks.
There, standing right inside the door, was a man in a worn leather jacket and blue jeans. His hair was scraggly, his beard unkempt. Everything about his appearance said he might be homeless, but the heavy gold chain around his neck suggested otherwise.
Fear flooded my chest, making it hard for my lungs to fill with the air they needed to breathe.
But that fear wasn't directed at my own well-being.
No, I was scared for Leonard.
"How the hell did you find us?" I demanded in a low voice, clenching the handles of the pitchers in twin iron fists.
He pouted, sticking out his bottom lip. The look was mocking. "Oh, Abraham," he said, followed by a tsk-tsk. "Is that any way to speak to your father?"
Two people had taken part in my conception.
I remembered little about my mother. She had been young, a junkie who had run away from home for reasons unbeknownst to me, but I could make an educated guess that it’d had something to do with her taste for drugs.
I knew nothing about her family or her interests, apart from getting high, but I knew she’d loved my brother and me.
And as far as I was concerned, the wrong parent had died fifteen years ago.
Gerald Crowley reached out to pluck his fingers against the hem of my suit jacket. "Nice digs there, my boy." With a long, low whistle, he swung his gaze around the foyer of the old Victorian. "Damn. Real cushy deal you got here, huh?"
"Get the fuck out of here."
With a glance around me, he peered toward the assembly of grieving family members and friends of Ronny Malloy. "You really think it's smart to make a scene right now? In front of all these people?"
I looked down my nose at the man who’d done his part to ensure my existence. The man who had slipped in and out of our lives when it was convenient for him, never once considering what was best for us.
He was shorter than I remembered from the last time I'd seen him, though I couldn't recall when that was.
Four, maybe five years ago? I knew I was taller now, bigger, and likely stronger.
But I hadn't realized how much I'd grown.
Not until the moment I could stare down into the eyes of my snake of a father.
"Tell me how you found us." I rephrased myself, a demand now instead of a question.
My father nodded slowly, like he was willing to make a deal. But that was how it always was for him. He couldn’t insert himself into our lives for virtuous reasons. There had to be something in it for him.
What does he want now?
"Can we, uh …" He swept his gaze around the foyer once again, his eyes landing on the staircase. "Can we talk somewhere?"
"I'm working. I can't leave right now."
He grunted, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets. "Fine, can we talk here?"
"Can you?"
The last time my father had wanted a little chat, his fists had done more of the talking than his lying, thieving mouth.
He nodded curtly. "I'll play nice."
I opened my lips to speak when a throat cleared behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the scowling face of Whitney, Mrs. Malloy’s daughter.
Her arms were crossed over her chest, her toe tapping on the carpeted floor.
When her eyes met mine, she jabbed her chin in my direction, her gaze dropping to the pitchers in my hands.
Shit.
My heart galloped. I was screwing this up.
Because of him.