The Red Strokes

Chapter 10 - Lilah

The commotion, the tension, the air of sadness, together they left me feeling beat up and haggard. I want nothing more than to go home and barricade the door, slip into something flannel, and then sit on the porch and vegetate until it's time for bed. It occurs to me while driving; I haven't cried. I feel sorrow and loss. I feel an emotional ache in my heart. But other than one or two stray tears while watching Dad's video, and a brief well-up during the church service, I have yet to cry. Somehow, that makes me feel guilty. As if the absence of tears means the absence of grief, and in my often-simplified way of thinking, the absence of grief equates to the absence of love. As silly as it sounds, maybe my lack of tears is the result of subconscious vanity. The fact is, I'm not a pretty crier. When I cry, my face turns thirteen shades of mottled red and distorts until I resemble a Shar Pei. I don't have Mia's petite face. When Mia cries, her eyes seem to droop on their outside corners, tears flow evenly and in straight lines down her cheeks and somehow, her makeup never runs. And rather than the walrus sobs that leave others feeling uncomfortable and searching for an exit, her cries sound more like snivels, frightened puppy whimpers that have the power to engage others in her emotion. She has a crier voice and face that cause men and women alike to whip out their hankies and fight over who will dab her eyes and rock her calm.

Everyone knows tears are part of the package when you lose someone you love. Since I'll have the house to myself once Val and Michelle leave maybe that's what I'll do, dedicate the afternoon to a good old-fashioned crying jag over old pictures and cheesecake.

I pull into the driveway and see a man in a blue-gray suit sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch just as peaceful as if he lived there. I shut the car off and stare straight ahead for a moment. I look back to the porch. Still there. Pulling my purse behind me, I step out of the car. He stands when the door slams shut behind me.

Even before I reach him, I ask, "Can I help you?"

"Yes. Well, no. I live next door." He motions to the house to my right. "My name is Nixon. Nixon Shepard. I came by the other day."

I give him a subtle once over; So, you're Adonis. "I believe my sister mentioned that. I'm sorry. It's just... Well, I've had my hands full this week and I know I should have stopped by, but—"

"I'm the one who should be apologizing," he interrupts. "When I came by, I had no idea... only afterward did I learn of your father's passing." He shifts his weight and extends a hand. "I went to the funeral but couldn't get in, so I thought I'd come by to offer my condolences in person. I'm so sorry. I didn't know your father personally, but," he holds the pads of two fingers together, "in a small way, I felt like I did. I've read everything he's ever written."

I accept his outstretched hand. "Thank you, very much." I look to the front door, and then back to Nixon who has yet to release my hand. I ignore the temperamental voice in my head that's screaming, "get rid of him," and instead ask, "Would you like to come in for a minute?"

"No thank you." His answer comes fast. "I mean, yes I would, but not today." My nerves relax in collective relief, and he lets go of my hand. "I'll take a rain-check though."

I offer a less-than-excited "absolutely." The truth is that to be left alone I would have agreed to almost anything.

"Great. I'll just take my rain-check and be going then." He turns and covers the distance between our homes with long strides through the wet grass. I watch him for a moment and then unlock the front door.

"Hey..." I turn toward the sound of his voice. "I meant to tell you, I'm sorry about the hole my dog dug. As soon as the rain lets up I'll be over to fill it."