It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

In Memoriam (2)

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" he countered. "Where is Audrey?"

The boy shook his head, wiping his hands down his pants as he went back to the empty bedroom. "I forgot! I didn't mean to, but – "

"Calm down, Eli. I – slow down."

"Where are the matches?" he asked again.

Matthew nearly told him to stop, but the look in the eleven-year-old's eyes told him that this wasn't meant to be questioned, that this was more serious than any voodoo doll, any spell, anything he Eli had ever tried to do. "I'll get them," Matt whispered, a hand on Eli's shoulder. "Do you need a candle?"

Eli shook his head. "Have some."

Darting into the playroom/kitchen, Matthew disregarded the mound of dishes left in the sink, the overwhelming smell of burned cheese and onion, threw his leftovers into the fridge, and took some matches, moving back towards Eli with his feet pounding the concrete floor, piling everything to one side of the hall.

The office light was still on.

'How was this man still alive?'

Pausing, his breaths heavy, Eli held out his hand for the matches.

Matthew gave him one.

"I...I need two," he said, his voice quiet, pained. "Or, or do you – "

"Yeah," Matt whispered automatically, following the boy into the now-empty room.

A pillow sat before a very dusty side table, a scarf draped over the side of it, alongside two pictures, a small pot of lavender, and two candles, set so meticulously it made Matthew draw in a breath. An incense stick stuck out. His heart ached. His hands shook.

Elliot kneeled onto the pillow, his hands in his lap. He watched Matthew expectantly.

After a moment, Matthew kneeled beside him. "...I didn't want to ask," he whispered, lighting the first match. He tipped the match into the candle, which glowed pink and gold, flapping the flame out before it could lick his fingertips. Smoke waved through the air. "I know stuff like this can be hard for some people."

"I don't like thinking about it." Elliot's voice was small, trying to stay resolute. "But...it's like my Day of the Dead, or the Jewish shiva. But today...I – " He caught himself the moment his tone wavered. "It's the right thing."

Matthew snapped the second match alight. He lit the candle before flapping it out.

Eli reached for the incense stick, lit it in the flame of the candle, and set it back into its stand. He pressed his hands together, pointer finger pressed against the bridge of his nose. His eyes, in the soft gold light, squeezed shut. His breaths were steady, slow and billowy as he exhaled. Elliot clenched his jaw, withholding a frown.

The pictures – one black and white, the other color – seemed of a bygone era. The color picture featured a plump Elliot toddler (Matthew assumed, based on physical development) sat wedged between a man and a woman, his hands in theirs for a family picture. The black and white picture was of their wedding, a candid photo, elegant and proper in its presentation. Each picture fame had no dust, obviously taken care of.

"...do you want me to get your uncle?"

Eli shook his head. "No," he whispered, frown growing, the word dripping in an understood resignation. "He's too busy for something like this."

Matthew glanced back towards the loggia, aching for Mr. Yang to come around, to say his nephew was wrong and tell him he thought about Eli's parents every day, just like him. 'Wishful thinking,' he thought, standing. "I need to go put the matches back. I'll be back in a sec, okay?"

The boy nodded, his fingers still pressed against the bridge of his nose. "Come back soon?"

Matthew placed a hand on Eli's shoulder as a silent confirmation. Finally kicking off his shoes, feeling clumps of dust underfoot, he trotted down the hall and knocked on the office door, not waiting for a response before barging in.

Mr. Yang glanced up. "This is why I did not bother saying anything," he sighed. "You knock so specifically. Also, does Ms. Culpepper know where the vacuum is? It's painfully clear she does not."

"What day is it?"

The employer raised a brow.

"What day is it?"

"What has gotten into you, Mr. Robinson."

"Do not make me use your name with the door open, sir," Matthew hissed. "Why didn't you tell me Elliot was setting up a memorial next door?"

Mr. Yang stood. "Oh, he does that sometimes."

Matthew's eyes widened. "You know?"

"It's not the first time he's tried to set up an ancestral shrine in there," Mr. Yang sighed, shuffling towards some boxes tucked into the fireplace hearth.

Matthew wanted to cuss him out. His blood raged in such a way he thought he would pass out. Instead, his voice came out broken, disappointed – "You know he sets up a memorial for his parents every year?"

The older man paused. He glanced to Matthew, staring for what felt like eons, before swallowing, turning back to the boxes of papers. He whispered, "Yes."

Silence. "And you don't do anything?"

"We all mourn differently," Mr. Yang explained, continuing to glance over his papers. His physicality was casual but his tone was softer, his expression pained. "Elliot has his rituals; I have mine."

Matthew pressed his fingernails into his palms. "You don't do anything with him?"

Mr. Yang glanced back to him. "What should we be doing?" he asked, his words dripping with such melancholia it made Matthew's heart twist. "Shall we light paper lanterns, leave food offerings? We could go to their graves and clean them. Maybe I could let Elliot carve a pentagram on the floor and summon them."

"Don't mock me, sir."

"In all honesty, Mr. Robinson, I do not want to think about it."

"Why?" The word was harsh, quick, and needy.

"Because..." Mr. Yang turned his eyes away. He regarded the papers for a few more moments before whispering, "I do not want to think about it...Matt."