Howie frantically pulled away from his grandmother, swiveling his head to find his mother. He wanted to ask his grandparents where she might be, but he also didn’t want to break his vow of silence for the day.
There she is.
Dressed all in black, face pale as the marble floors in the funeral home lobby, Howie’s mother made her way up the aisle. She looked thinner, older, not like herself. Howie almost burst into tears at the sight of her. It looked like all the joyful parts of her got left behind, and only the sad, tired parts of her showed up for the funeral. Like she was impersonating herself and failing.
She looks like a pseudo-Mommy.
She caught his eye. Desperate to do something, anything, to make her feel better, Howie blew her a kiss. It was something he’d seen his father do to cheer her up before. She stared at him, and tears began pouring down her cheeks. But then she reached up to catch the kiss, and held it to her wet cheek. Then someone walked up to her, blocking her from Howie’s view.
Howie started to panic, but then there she was, even sadder, paler, and thinner up close. Howie was relieved that at least his mother still smelled like herself. A little saltier; all those tears. It was Howie’s dad who taught him that tears have salt in them, telling Howie to lick his own tears after an uncharacteristic tantrum. That fascinating bit of information had ceased the tears immediately, and as Howie licked the briny sadness from his fingers, he filed away forever that tears were salty. It was one of the last things his father taught him, though not the very last.
“Howie,” his mother whispered. “You’re the only person I want to see today.”
The room was packed with people. And all of them seemed to want to talk to his mother. So he knew she’d have to see more than just him, but he decided against telling her that. It might just make her sadder. And anyway, he’d taken a vow of silence for the day. So he just moved a little closer to her, nodding. She put an arm around him, straightened her back and stared blankly at the front of the room, where a rickety old preacher-man was taking his position at the lectern.
“Friends and family of Ernest Fell,” said the preacher, looking out at the assembled. “We are united in mourning this sudden, tragic loss. Today we will remember the life of Ernest Fell. Ernest was a God-fearing man, who loved the Lord above all else. He carried Jesus in his heart.”
Howie was confused. He was pretty sure that his father loved him, and his baby brother, and his mother, above all else. His Daddy may have loved the Lord—he taught them the now I lay me down to sleep, pray the Lord my soul to keep before bedtime, and all. But he had never mentioned Jesus. Not to Howie. The little boy began to worry that there may have been some sort of mix-up, and that this preacher was accidentally sharing the details of someone else’s life.
Howie glanced nervously at the Reverend, who was staring forward, eyes locked on the preacher. Every few minutes, he sort of nodded. Howie then looked at his mother, her eyes damp with unshed tears. Howie was pretty sure she was not hearing a word the preacher-man said. She was too far away to listen. Her body was next to Howie, but her mind was somewhere else.
With Daddy, thought Howie. Wherever he really is, that’s where Mommy wants to be, too.
Not with me. With him.
“…and now, let us pray together for our Brother in Christ.”
The preacher gestured, and everyone rose. Squeaking pews and rustling shoes echoed dully in the funeral home’s bland sanctuary. Then the preacher did some sort of call-and-response prayer. Half of the assembled muttered along (the Reverend and Millie among the mutterers; Howie and his mother among the silent).
“We may be seated,” the preacher finally said, and everyone sat heavily. “Now. I’d like to take a few minutes to reflect more deeply on the life of our friend Ernest.”
Whose friend? Howie thought. Your friend? You never even met him. My father was not your friend. You’re a liar.
Howie decided, right then and there, that he abhorred funerals. He would live as long as possible, and die when he was an old man. But he would never want to have a funeral. He wouldn’t want anyone to talk about him when he was dead.
Because they’d probably get it all wrong anyway.
6
Chapter 5: FOUR
Edward Adams Kensington IV tugged at his signature ten-gallon cowboy hat, pulling it a little lower over his eyes. It was drizzling all morning, and although the sun was teasing, seductively suggesting that she just might step out and show a little leg, she hadn’t delivered on the promise yet.
The man in the cowboy hat was best known simply as “Four.” By the time he was born, the fourth of his name, his family had already run through every iteration of Edward—his great-granddaddy was Edward, his grand-daddy was Eddie, his father was Ed. Rather than go with a pansy derivative name like Ted, Edward Adams Kensington IV went by Four.
Most of his family still lived back out East, but he and his brother Bradley moved out West to oversee the family’s oil interests in the great state of Texas. His Connecticut relatives saw the West as a no man’s land, a place wild and uncultured, the rough-and-tumbleweed antithesis of their high-society lives. Four was just fine with them keeping their high-and-mighty distance.
He immersed himself upon arrival, wearing the hat and the boots, adding a drawl, cultivating a moneyed-cowboy image. Had they deigned to set foot in the Lone Star State, his East Coast family would have damaged his credibility in his adopted home state. He and Brad were built for Texas. They’d been somewhat out of place in Connecticut, but they were “Texas naturals,” as Four would tell anyone who asked (and anyone who didn’t).
“American by birth, Texan by the grace of God,” Four cracked as often as he could.
Four knew he’d never move back East. And if he wanted to be a long-term player in Texas, he needed to keep a high profile. Be seen where he needed to be seen. That’s why he was getting his good hat damp in the stubborn half-assed rain. The president would be coming through Dallas today, and the whole damn town was showing up just to wave at the guy. Well, the guy and his wife. Jackie Kennedy was at least as popular as the man she’d married, and most of the folks lining the streets were probably there to catch a glimpse of her.
Four wasn’t a fan of Jackie; he was a Marilyn man. He also wasn’t a big fan of Kennedy. The guy was too warm with those Civil Rights nut jobs, letting the country sink into the hands of inferiors. Not tough enough, abroad or at home, if you asked Four. But Four respected the office. Moreover, he believed in playing the game. If he sat in his office while every other mover and shaker was rubbing elbows, staring at JFK and Jackie, he might miss out on important conversations.
Brad appeared at Four’s elbow, adjusting his own hat, which was elaborately decorated with a wide bright band inlaid with turquoise, matching his similarly-patterned belt. Bit feminine for Four’s taste, but he didn’t comment on his brother’s attire.
“Rain looks like it’s lettin’ up.”
“It better,” Four said. “I’m not gonna stand in the damn drizzle all day just to wave at those godawful Kennedys.”
“Sure you will, ’cause everyone else sure as hell is,” Brad grinned. “Think we’ll get a good view of Jackie?”
Four shrugged. He didn’t understand his brother’s fascination with the first lady—or why the whole stupid country found her so intriguing. Jackie looked like every woman back up in Connecticut. Manicured, petite, demure, jacketed and hatted and boring as hell. Marilyn, now, she was a show-stopper. That woman was the one thing he and the president agreed on.
Brad nudged