The Red Strokes

Chapter 9 - Lilah

I hear Val and Michelle stir about the time I try on my fourth outfit. Val was never one to put much thought into what she wore, and Mia always put too much thought into her appearance. I give my appearance just enough thought to realize everything I own loses its appeal somewhere between the hanger and my body. I tear my closet apart in search of every black piece of clothing I own, but not for the obvious reason. Now that everyone knows of my father's passing there is sure to be a photographer or two looming among the fans outside the gates of the cemetery, and even I know the ten pounds the camera puts on only looks like five in black.

* * *

It's rained every day since my father died, making my trek through the cemetery as difficult as riding a bicycle through sand. But as hard as it is, pushing past the huge crowd swarming the main entrance is worse. Now I understand my father's wish to keep his funeral quiet.

I seem to be the first of my family to arrive. While I wait, I lose myself in the conversations around me. "I hear he had an autobiography in the works," spoken by a small man with Benjamin Franklin spectacles. A well-dressed man and his wife argue about the exact number of books my father had written and which were his best, while a woman with hardened features and too tight clothing looks from her watch to the gate every minute or so.

In an attempt to keep my emotions in check, I watch the people who are wandering between the gray stones that stand like dominoes, erect and in perfect rows for as far as the eye can see. I can't say I know many of my father's friends. Most of them are either peers or colleagues, erudite types who prefer the company of words and scotch to people. One man in particular catches my attention. His dress is ordinary enough: black trousers with a pressed pleat, a white dress shirt, and gray tie. But there's something about him that looks English. I study him a little longer and realize he's wearing a Bowler, something I've always considered English apparel. Although I'm not sure that alone would indicate British, the pearl-handled cane he holds off the ground and halfway up its shaft makes him look like a spectator at a polo match. As I watch, I notice people are stopping in front of him, some to shake his hand and others to lean in and speak into his ear. After a brief exchange, they move on and are replaced by another single person or couple who repeat the interaction. The scene looks like a condolence line, a stream of mourners paying their respects. Even more bizarre, he seems to be watching me although he's too far away to be sure. Like one of those creepy paintings found in old castles and horror movies, his eyes seem to follow me as I walk toward the casket.

Val and Michelle startle me from behind. Happy to have a diversion, I ask the first random thought that comes to mind, "Where did you park?"

"The back gate. If I'd known we were going to have to wade through mud I would have taken on the crowd out front. Where's Doriah?" Val asks.

"Still with Bryan." I look to their shoes, which true to Val's word are covered in mud. "I didn't know there was a back entrance, but trust me, pushing through the crowd was no picnic either."

Val surveys the mob that didn't make the guest list. "I do my best to avoid this type of thing and here these people are plastered against the gate as if it were the social event of the summer."

"You do your best to avoid all types of things, but especially the unpleasant."

We turn in unison to find Mia standing with an arm linked through Roger's, Rowan and Stevie standing off to the side. Playing the part of the grieving daughter to a tearful audience, Mia sports a black pencil skirt and waist-hugging jacket with a wide-brimmed hat, the only contrast to the outfit being a string of pearls draped around her neck and a white, silk hanky to accentuate her grief.