There was a knock on my front door. I was asleep on my living room sofa, thankful for a hot shower and a great night’s rest. I snapped a selfie when I put my phone on the charger. I was in jail for less than a week, but it felt like years. Jail definitely wasn’t for me. I opened my eyes, looking over two wine glasses on the low table. An empty bottle of Liberty Creek Sweet Red next to my wallet. My head spun so fast I couldn’t think straight.
I was trying to gather myself, getting used to never waking up inside my husband’s eyes ever again. The thought crippled me. The burning in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. I was a widow now. I couldn’t believe this. Why couldn’t I die with my husband? Just looking at our wedding picture framed above the mantle of a fake fireplace drove me back into the bands of sadness.
Another knock on the front door. This time a fiercer rapping. “Harry Waters!”
Oh, shit. I forgot about my meeting with one of the funeral home directors today. When I got home from jail last night I saw his business card in the screen of my front door. He told me to call, no matter how late it was.
I called him around 7:30 pm, and set up a meeting for today. As much as I tried to run from my problems, I had to take care of Jonathan’s body. Have it buried. Cremation was out of the question.
Hopping off the sofa I was naked. I smelled of a cologne I never wore a day in my life. Putting it out of my mind I slid into a bathrobe and a pair of gym shorts.
I answered the door just as the funeral director, Todd Stephens, was about to knock again. I firmly shook my guest’s hand. He was on time. Eight am sharp.
I dreaded this day because I had to plan my husband’s funeral services and I had a day to do it. Location, what suit I was going to choose for him, the repass. He deserved to be laid to rest, and the director of Jays Funeral Home wasn’t leaving until it was all set.
We sat at my dining room table in silence for a minute. I was still devastated that through some unfair means Bob Grimes, my ex-boyfriend/fuck buddy, walked. All of the charges dropped, with the agreement to do an anti-drinking while driving commercial (his compensation given to MADD).
Hadn’t he brought me home last night? Why couldn’t I remember for the life in me? Those two wine glasses didn’t sit themselves on my low table.
My ass was a bit sore. To add insult to irony, Judge Hills has been cleared, his legacy intact. And Lynn has been invited to tons of news programs, including Good Morning America, to talk about her ordeal. They were making her out to be Sister Mary Clarence from Sister Act, like the bitch was back in the habit.
“We can do this another day, Harry. Obviously you’re still grieving.”
“We’ll do it now. Private ceremony. Family and close friends. Mount Pleasant church in Perrine. By invite only. I’ll go through his photos and pick a few for the obituary. I’ll write it out right now and I’ll write the poem as well. It’ll mean more if it came from me. I’ll pay for armed security. Lynn Waters is banned from attending. I don’t care if it is his mother.”
“As you wish.”