Then again, maybe some people were mourning this man. I glanced down the pew, to where Landon’s mother sat in a wrinkled black dress. He eyes were downturned, a Kleenex crumped in her fist.
In high school, Annie had met a guy who swept her off her feet. Who said everything she’d ever wanted to hear, and took her out to fancy dinners in the city. Annie would float home and then call me, rehashing every perfect thing he’d said.
Hell, he told her she was perfect, that he couldn’t find any fault in her. She relished every word, but the whole thing put me on edge. Sometimes he’d say something under his breath, and the light in her eyes would dim. Sometimes he’d grab her arm, a little too hard.
Somewhere along the way, Annie lost herself. The gregarious, louder-than-life girl I’d always known became a shadow, always excusing what her boyfriend said or did.
It exploded at the school dance, when he shoved her into a bay of lockers. Matt knocked him out with one punch, and she spent the next three days at my house, filling me on everything he’d ever said and done. It took her months to go back to who she’d been before. He’d dug into her, made her think that she was worthless. That she deserved his abuse, and that it was excusable.
And as I flicked glances over at his mom, taking in her genuine grief, I couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing was happening here. She had to have been with Landon’s dad for nearly thirty years. He’d probably twisted her around, made her feel alone and worthless, until he was all she had left.
And then he died. And now she was in this world alone. If Landon hadn’t in the picture—if she hadn’t stood by while her husband had turned his fists on his own son—I would feel more empathy for her. For the loss I knew she was feeling.
But I couldn’t muster more than pity.
“We’re here today to celebrate the life of Jackson Hill,” the pastor said, opening a small booklet.
Landon muttered something under his breath. I wasn’t not sure what, but I could fill in the blanks. There was no way he wanted to celebrate anything about his father.
“Jackson was a loving husband, a doting father, and a long time member of the Orting Community.”
A muscle ticked in Landon’s jaw, and his grip on my knee tightened.
“His wife, Mrs. Melinda Hill, is here to give his eulogy.”
I raised a brow. I thought of his mother as meek, too quiet to stand in front of a crowd and speak. Where the pastor was in his comfort zone, she seemed to shrink as she mounted the steps, stood behind the podium.
But then she spread out a sheet of paper and stood tall.
“Thank you all for joining me here today. My husband would be grateful.”
I was frozen, staring at her and waiting for an inevitable train wreck. I could barely breathe, couldn’t feel anything but Landon’s strong grip on my knee.
“Jackson was taken from us much too early, and will be dearly missed, by myself, his son, and the men he worked with at the mill.”
I scanned the crowd, watching a group of men nodding. They must’ve been his coworkers.
“Jackson was the sort of man you could always count on. He was there through thick and thin, providing for his family. After nearly thirty years at WaPac, he still only missed a handful of days. That was Jackson, in a nutshell. Reliable. Honest. The kind of guy who would show up to change your flat tire in the rain, and ask for nothing in return.”
“Bullshit.”
It took me a minute to realize it was Landon who spoke.
The room fell silent, his mom’s eyes growing wide.
Landon stood, but I was rooted to the seat.
“This is all bullshit.”
A guy two pews back stands. “It’s not bullshit. He did that. He showed up with a jack and helped me change my flat.”
Landon whirled around, and if not for me grabbing his arm, standing up next to him, he might’ve closed the distance between the two of them and gotten in the guy’s face.
“Yeah? And then what? Let me guess. You guys went out for a beer. Maybe seven. And then he drove home drunk.”
“Landon,” I whispered.
“And then he got home, and he was in a mood, and if he wanted to smack you or me—“
“Landon! That’s enough,” his mother said. “You don’t need to make trouble.”
“Make trouble? You’re in denial. That’s not a Eulogy on that paper, that’s a fairy tale.”
“Landon, shut up,” Matt muttered, from the pew behind us. “You’re just making it worse.”
“Shut up?” Landon said, raising his voice and turning on his best friend. “You know damn well what kind of man my father was. He was a fucking asshole and we’re all here acting like the world’s not a better place without him.”
“Seriously,” Matt said, standing. He implored Landon with his eyes. “Just shut up.”
“Matt,” I snapped. “This is not your fight.”
“And it’s yours?” he said, pointedly glancing down at where my hand still rested on Landon’s elbow.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I said.
“Don’t deny what you’re trying to pull,” Matt said.