“It doesn’t matter what you meant, does it?”
If I concentrate hard enough, I know I can push his voice out of my head. And I do. Because I need to see who shows up to say goodbye to Donnie and make an assessment as to whether or not any of them might have played a hand in putting him in the ground.
Thunder cracks above me. It’s like the sky's about to open up right over my fucking head, but I still have a few minutes to make some notes.
There aren’t a ton of people here. A few hoodies pulled over some faces, a couple of adult-type figures, ten, maybe twenty more I don’t care to elaborate on, and the preacher, grasping his Bible like it’s a goddamn security blanket.
I expected more based on the number of kids who were ready to rumble for him the other night, but I guess it makes sense, them not being here. Most of Donnie’s associations were probably criminals, and the rest, well, they most likely didn’t want to come out in the middle of what looks like the beginning of a pretty disastrous storm.
One person, who’s notably standing just outside the crowd of attendees, is the girl from the street race. The one who kissed Donnie good luck and whispered sweet somethings into his ear. She isn’t the happy, bubbly young girl in love from the other night. Now she looks stoic, frozen, and much older as she watches the generic scene unfold in front of her. Kind of how my mom looked the last time we stood about fifty feet from where I’m standing.
“I’m sorry, Ma.”
She couldn’t look at me, and it drove an ice pick straight into my chest. The more I tried to make amends, the more she cried. The more she cried, the more my dad reminded me I wasn’t wanted there to begin with.
“Why don’t you take some of your own advice, son? Go home.”
I’m not gonna lie and say it didn’t hurt. But it was one of those learning moments I was awarded in life.
Don’t open up a wound and people can’t pour salt in it.
I did better than go home. I moved out that day.
The priest, down below, begins a speech. I keep my distance for a lot of reasons. It’s not like I need to be down there to know what’s going on. It’s easy to imagine what’s being said. Some form or another of “ashes to ashes and dust to dust” that doesn’t really apply to real world bullshit on any level whatsoever; and the way the preacher says it makes you think he’s repeated it so many times even he doesn’t know what it means any more. And when the dirt starts getting shoveled on top of the person you’re trying desperately to hold onto, you realize you’re never getting him back. So what fucking difference does it make what anyone says, anyway?
A police cruiser pulls up to the site and everyone, including Donnie’s girl, distances themselves from the plot. In fact, hardly anyone’s left as the casket starts to lower, save the cops who showed up last minute and a couple of stragglers who must not have anything to hide today. My feet take a few steps backward. It’s time for me to get outta Dodge myself.
“Sorry, kid.” The words sting and feel empty. Don’t get me wrong, I mean them. But are they enough?
When I can’t see his casket any more, I turn to go.
Just in time, it seems, as the first raindrops begin to fall from the sky.
Mikey’s grave isn’t too far from where I’m standing. I can almost see it in the distance. His headstone pulls at me like a magnet, but I fight against it. I’m fucking tired of trips down memory lane today.
I’m out.
“Stiles?” A curious voice calls out from the bottom of the hill. And just when I thought I was gonna make a clean getaway, too.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
Is lightning about to strike me dead?
Affirmative.
I could pretend I didn’t hear her. Go on about my business. But something about Green’s pompous attitude, every goddamn time I see her, makes me wanna run her off a high bridge into some shallow water.
For now, I don’t have the fucking energy. So I wave and figure that’s that.
“Are you following me?” she calls out.
My feet screech to a halt. Am I… Did she just…
“No.” Seriously? “Why would I-”
“What are you doing here, Stiles?” She pulls her pad and paper out of the bag she’s got flung over her shoulder. “I mean, it can’t possibly be for Donnie Leary’s funeral since you have no idea what’s going on with that.”
I’d say something but the words inside my head aren’t quite forming a logical thought.
Yet.
“Unless you lied.” She waits a beat. “Did you lie to me, Stiles?” She readies her pen and paper for something to write.
How did she get right up into my personal space so fast?
“Like I’m gonna spill my guts to the woman who wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked her in the face.”
I don’t fucking think so.
“Is it another case? Or…” She thinks it over and a thought strikes her. “Are you actually following me?”