I stood alone at my stepmother’s funeral, fondling a plant, watching rain bead down the fogged window. The funeral parlor’s black walls, and black curtains were heavy-handed leaning too much on the death knell. Ten lines of bright red chairs clashed with a maroon carpet. The organ music droned like it always did—my whole life.
My cousin Neecy charged up to me. Like I had been touching a child instead of a plant. She said, “Go stand by him!” Him, being my father, standing alone in his only black suit, under the lights, by my stepmother’s shiny white casket.
I stood in the customary spot. Feeling like an invaluable member of the family. Neecy had her head down sitting in a chair, crying like a sad little wallflower. I thought, is she crying for Dad’s loss, or for how I disgraced him? I should go over and ask her. Get all the details.
My father, not seeing me, held my Aunt Gloria’s wilting hand, accepting her tears. I hovered over Dad’s shoulder like an unfocused picture. People look at me with a spear point of judgement in their eyes, but they can’t see me at all.
I am the younger him with brown thinning hair and the same wire-framed glasses. We both have that nerdy sort of pear shape with small white hands like flippers on a fat dolphin. If you need someone to set up your dot matrix printer. I’m your man. Sorry, I’m stuck in a time warp… Now I’m much more careful with those urges and downloads, since prison. I’m fighting them.
Auntie Gloria’s face of sadness flashed into anger. I smiled and reached out like Dad, trying to mimic him. I say like Dad, “So glad you came.”
She reared back, her eyes were green daggers over dark circles. She’s had a hard life since her son’s suicide. Drugs. Can’t blame that on me. Tony rode the pink pony. Now he’s graveyard chow mein. Just say, NO.
I had no feelings for her or anything that went on. She stiffened, like a mean old cat that hates being touched on the head. Her thin miserly lips turned white, and left my hand, as they say, “Hanging,” and walked.
I said again, like a parrot, a parrot that might say anything, “Glad you came.” I should say, Fuck off and die. Dad looked at me then down at his scuffed Florsheim’s. He reached out and laid his hand on the cool casket. Like it held a comfort for him. He spent all of his money on that dirt diver.
Our blue eyes met. His, full of some kind of disturbance. Like he was working on one of those impossible math problems in WORDS about travelling salesmen. How far and fast did they go? Was the trip home quicker? Dad’s eyebrows sank down—hang dog, and he said, “It might take a while for everyone to adjust.”
“Sure, Dad.” I said from a green spring of optimism.
Old Mike came up, one of Dad’s friends. Snow white hair, a ruddy man of the outdoors. He once took an interest in me. We walked around his pond, where he invited us to fish, and through the woods on a spiritual journey. Mike was a Blackfoot Indian, another agent enlisted by Dad to help me. He said the Indian words that floated on the air and became a part of nature like caressing a tree or petting a bug. The variegated sunshine flashed through a canopy of the green full summer leaves, and there was a sense of peace and the possibility of healing. I still meditate on that day.
Sometimes he exaggerated and talked Indian. Not saying obvious things like “How,” or “Me do this.” More in his stunted almost blurted words and forceful tone. I think it was a cultural thing like Ebonics. A way to survive the extermination and appropriation of his culture. He gave me an eagle feather, which the white man made illegal. I smashed it between the pages of a King James Bible like a flower.
Mike no longer appeared friendly toward me. I thought he might even hit me for a second when he got too close, expostulating his coffee breath. I could almost see a brown vapor.
“Hey, Chomo.” Dad didn’t hear that, consoling Aunt Gwen. His sisters were crying more than he was.
“Hey, Mike.” I smiled with a sort of vacuous glow. I’ve heard every insult imaginable—beat—and raped in prison. The guards put dead cockroaches on my bologna sandwiches. The cook, a little street negro, jacked a starfish of semen onto my cornbread. Yummy. I like cornbread with ham and beans topped with raw onions—just another day.
Mike’s face softened a little. I could see that he still wanted to help me. Some people never give up…
There was a kindly Methodist preacher in the prison chapel. Reverend Rohrs, a short, forty something man with a black widow’s peak and a constant smile on his round face. He found his mission in the correctional system. “The Rev” had been working on me, hard. He said, “Even the worst people can be forgiven. We’re all bad.” I took note, kind of hard to miss, but it gave me hope. I wasn’t always a pariah.
One day, I sort of offhandedly converted and agreed to pass out the sacraments on Sunday to get out of my cell. He was so proud of me, but more proud of himself after this wonderful breakthrough. I felt a little ashamed to see how happy he was. He kept saying, “Isn’t it great! To be born again!” A true believer is something to behold, they are every bit the joyful, Jihad.
If he could redeem a vile creature like me. His mission was real and worthy. It was kind of embarrassing to see the devotion in his eyes. He was on my side. Then I stole his car keys, and sunglasses from his coat, and they put me in the hole. After I got out looking like a grey slack skinned corpse. Reverend Rohrs, said. “I forgive you, we are all thieves.”
I still think about him, too. I miss the chapel. There was a moment in the chapel under the cross’s power, literally shining on my forehead from the skylight that affected me in a bewildering and wonderful way—nothing less than supernatural. I felt God’s presence, and it was the cleanest, warmest feeling I’ve ever had. My soul felt as light as a butterfly flitting from flower to beautiful flower. Jesus is real. I loved him for that beautiful moment, but the red stripes of my past bull whipped him out of my heart.
People are right—you know—about us. We can’t change. But ever since the chapel I felt like I could do the impossible. When in doubt, I tell myself how Ted Bundy accepted the Lord.
The funeral organ played a little too loud from a speaker cocked up in the black tapestries sounding almost like, “The House of the Rising Sun,” (The Animals). Then the tempo changed, and it sounded horribly, like HERE COMES THE BRIDE. I imagined The Bride of Death wearing a black veil standing at a bloody golden altar taking vows with the Devil.
My feeling as an invaluable member of the family waned, as the strange event of paying respects and disrespect continued. They would come to my Dad and shake his hand, see me, and do a wide circle or an about-face. Every time like Dad, I would say to a departing mourner. “I’m glad you came.” I was doing my part no matter if they shunned me or not, I was there for my Dad. You can’t take that away.
I saw my cousin Jenny and her two kids walk up. I said, looking away wincing in a terrible guilt, like they were made of some blinding angelic light. “Got to go, Dad. You know my conditions of parole.”
“Glad you came.” I thought he was talking to me, but I saw him smiling at cousin, Jenny. He looked happy in his sadness.
Image: A shiny white coffin with a sheaf of white flowers on the top from Pixabay.com.
literally stories 
Christopher
Brilliant through and through. Not slobbering evil, which makes him very hard to be around. The “parole conditions” explains everything.
The descriptions of the Native fella and Methodist are perfect. Pervs are the Big Test of Faith. And bully dispensers of “justice” are not superior beings. And yet he feels God, but in a strange cynical way. He appears to be possibly at the treshhold of becoming truly dangerous, not just pervo dangerous (if “just” can be applied).
The Northwest breeded Bundy, the Green River Killer, the Pig Farmer (some fools around here take a horrible pride in this, which makes me wonder), but the worst one of all, a guy who tried to abduct a kid from a theatre just one block away from where I now write this (the kid got away), Westley Dodd is what this MC could become.
This is unsettling and extremely well done.
Leila
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Hi Leila
Yes, the Northwest has some of the worst of the worst. I looked up Westley Dodd—BAD person… Way understatement.
That’s an alarming fact to live so close to where he operated.
Thanks so much! Glad you liked the story!
Christopher
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Hi again CJA
This story has stuck with me still. Utterly first rate. Nothing new to add, but it deserves continued praise.
Leila
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Hi Leila
Thanks so much! Glad it resonated. I had qualms about sending it but now I’m glad I did!
Christopher
PS I don’t think I’ve ever written the word “qualms.” lol but true.
Christopher
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Wow, this is dark. The thing that struck me was the sympathy I felt for the narrator. Not a lot of jolliness but it was enthralling and sad and very believable. thank you – dd
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Hi Diane
Glad you liked the story! Thanks for your comments and kind words!
Christopher
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Hi Christopher,
This is a brilliant example of the unsaid. It is all very subtle up until the end with the young cousins. It was interesting that he managed to face everything and then obvious that he couldn’t face them. I also think that leaves a rather open question – Was he guilty of wanting them and did that cause him to seek out what he was jailed for. The reason that I think on them being more of catalyst than victims, is them being there.
No matter what, as I said, this is a brilliant example of the unsaid.
I also thought it was a clever idea to omit his own thoughts on what he did as so many blame or try to say the right things to give an excuse. We are simply left with the afterwards.
Superb my fine friend.
Hugh
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Hi Hugh
Yes, the unsaid seemed the way to go in this story. Trying to deal with such a person was tricky. I wanted to show other people’s reactions to him and sort of shade him into the setting.
Thanks for your excellent comments!
Christopher
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Chilling and made even more so by the gradual (and masterful) reveal of the monster the MC is. Perfect ending. And beginning and middle.
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Hi David
That’s high praise–really appreciate it! Thanks!
Christopher
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Ananias
It takes a Christlike act of the imagination to try and get into the head/s of the worst of the worst of the worst of the worst of us. You succeed brilliantly in this spiritual task that has been placed upon you. You tell the truth, unlike so much that we see in the mass media where these things are sensationalized, made into entertainment, shallow entertainment with commercial breaks in between. Your take on all this is much-needed because it’s REAL, not generated for suspense and amusement and titillation and to sell things in the middle.
When I say the worst of “us,” I mean to draw attention to the fact that ALL humans ARE humans. Even the ones who act like monsters. Which means that WE, as a species, are all capable (in the end) of committing monstrous acts, under the right circumstances, or if we make the wrong choices. Much has to do with brain chemistry, and more probably has to do with Satan. It is so easy to cast stones. Which is worse, blowing up five thousand women and children in a war or killing fifty women or children also for no real reason? The WAR PIGS, as Ozzie called them, are just as bad as the serial killers or mass murderers. Certainly not better.
John Wayne Gacy was photographed holding hands with the First Lady of the USA, Rosalynn Carter, just months before they busted him. Both of them were grinning and wearing red (red coats and red ties). How horrible, and how meaningful somehow! (He was well-known in Chicago politics.)
It also bears repeating that Gacy always cited Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo as his two greatest influences. He chose these two because (he believed) they were artists like he was. And he also knew they had spent much time dissecting corpses. Again, how horrible, and yet how human! He never confessed to any of his crimes, even though at another point he claimed to be getting rid of the dregs of the society (and falling in love with them, which is why he saved their bodies). His last words, right before they sank the needle in, were, “Kiss my ass.” His father used to beat the literal hell out of him on a regular basis when he was a little kid, as well as constantly using verbal abuse against him, such as: “You stupid little faggot” and so forth.
If the human species wants to grow and evolve in the right direction, it needs to start trying to understand itself better. AI is going to produce more, not fewer, mass murderers and serial killers, unless we (the human species) are very, very, very, very careful (which we aren’t being right now, at all, and far from it).
Jesus said, “If you think it, you’ve already done it.” Many criminals are acting out the pathology of their society without knowing it. Then the society kills them off without dealing with, or recognizing, the pathology that caused the crime.
Your work is tough-minded, sympathetic, and profound! Your subtle way of dealing with these topics is so much more revealing than the usual way of dealing with them. Yours are not horror stories, they are realistic stories of the horrible real, told with profound imagination.
Dale
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Hi DWB
It’s really great to get your take on this story. Your insights are invaluable!
Yes, humans are capable of anything. I remember this Abnormal PSY. prof. saying this, and I realized he was very much talking about himself too.
This societal sickness is no doubt part of the cause for these psychopaths and sociopaths that are as common as regular people, or seeming so…
In 1518 “The Mass Dancing Plague” caused hundreds of people to dance themselves into exhausting with bleeding feet, even death. It was started by one hysterical female (sexist I know, but she was hysterical). It sounds insane but for some reason this goes with what you are saying about the pathology of society. Another symptom acted out in a kind of mass defiance.
Gacy now there’s a defiant soul or soulless. Interesting how he admired Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. Then when you mentioned the corpses it made perfect sense. Disturbing how he viewed art. I think I saw that picture of Gacy with Carter. He was quite the politician. A big Jaycees’ man, and a KFC restaurateur. His father played his part–for sure!
I agree that society needs to stand in front of the looking glass. The human race evolving to a higher state looks bleak. Deeper sin and destruction are most likely
Thanks for your excellent comments!
CJA
PS I left a comment for your essay on Sunday but it took a day or two to post. The ol’ (waiting for comment moderation).
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CJA
You are very much like an American Chekhov and a new Raymond Carver in the way you can get inside the head of these sick mo’ fo’s!
That dancing thing you mentioned reminded me of a staggering scene in Bergman’s THE SEVENTH SEAL, that great film (sometimes hilarious, sometimes terrifying) currently available for free on YT.
Thanks for the comment on my Sunday thing, haven’t read it yet but am gonna now!
DWB
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DWB
Those are great people to be like–fo sho, thanks!
I’ll have to check that movie out–Max Von Sydow is awesome!
CJA
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…Thanks to the intrepid Editors of LS for putting out material like this!…
The Drifter
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Quite impressive descriptions and absorbing dark humor story, the main character reminds me of Alex in “Clockwork Orange,” also unrepentant. “Old Mike” seems like a character maybe the MC saw in a movie. The descriptions of prison seemed also from a movie, quite over the top and very fun because it’s almost like the protagonist was making up the story for us. Seeing just how he could shock his audience, because we know he’s “antisocial personality disordered.” they do like to spin their tales, but the MC apparently likes his dad… We don’t know what the MC did to be a convict but he’s out walking around on parole. And a satisfying ending for me, with the protagonst’s telling us of his dramatic guilt feelings around Jennie and the Dad’s comment. I wonder if we’ll be as taken in as the Reverend.
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Hi Harrison
Yes, he does seem to suffer or revel in his anti-personality disorder. And, good point, he wants to shock his audience.
I once had an apartment next door to a group home for child molesters. (The rental agent neglected to share that information). I would go outside and there was this dark, three story, shingle-sided house sort of leering over me, and I knew they were inside, sitting around in there. Kind of a weird situation. lol.
Thanks for your excellent comments!
Christopher
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I have to say reading thru the story again we do know why the guy was in prison. Obviously, he’d be in protected custody, so this makes his tale even more intriguing. Great descriptions of family members.
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