Sarah Arndt’s sleeveless blue denim dress billowed out in waves
at about mid-thigh, and she covered her shoulders with a brown denim jacket. A
pair of orange Chuck Taylors completed her funeral outfit. Her short hair was
styled so that her long bangs rolled like the surf on the top of head while the
sides were cut down to the stubble. The bangs were dyed sliver with the rest
toned a dark gray. She stood out, to say the least, among the collared shirts
and modest midwestern dresses. Richie noticed her, that’s for sure, as she
approached in the receiving line of the visitation before the service. First
question: What the hell was she was doing there? She was known as the Queen of
Shadows. She smoked, she cursed, she ruled the seedy underbelly of Jordan High
School. He was a mere mental case a year behind her. The second question, when would
he see her again? She murmured condolences to his father before greeting Richie
with an awkward embrace and placing her lips to his left ear.
“Today the world is old. You flew away and time grew cold.
Where is that star that shone so bright ages ago last night?” She whispered and
before walking away added, “I got my eyes on you, Little Richie.”
She retreated to the back row of folding chairs where she
sat two spaces away from the next person. His eyes kept drifting toward her,
and he felt guilty for being distracted by a girl during the mother’s
visitation, but he barely knew most of the people passing through the line and
they all had the same empty condolences: “She’s in a better place,” “the Lord
called her home,” and “At least she’s not hurting anymore.” Plus, they all
wanted to touch him. Hug him. Kiss him. Shake his hand. His father refused to
let him wear gloves, and his skin was crawling with prickles from the germs.
The germs that were burrowing deeper and deeper into his follicles, invading his
blood stream, one domino after biological domino falling until he was in an urn
alongside his mother.
As far as mourning, he couldn’t cry anymore. There was
simply a gap in his heart where she once was, and the events of funeral didn’t
feel like they were going to change anything. It just let everyone else wash
their hands of the whole sad affair while he and his dad were left without the
sun that kept their orbits on comfortable paths.
The last person passed by, and Richie and his father were
ushered to a pair of chairs in front. While the pastor, who had never met his
mother, regurgitated their memories, and in turn, co-opted them as his own, he
could feel Sarah Arndt’s eyes on the back of his head. It made no sense that
she was here among the grieving, and it made even less sense that she’d have
her eyes on Richie Dean Glenn. What did she want? He was nothing to her. She
was a legend of Jordan High, known for her far-out fashion and smoking
marijuana in the girl’s room. Did Richie attract outlaws, or something? His
mother’s urn rested on a pedestal surrounded by an embarrassment of flowers. Richie
wished that the stupid holy man would shut up and lead everyone else out of the
room so that Richie could ask his mother’s ashes what to do about Sarah Arndt. She
would have answered with something clever.
“Give the girl a chance,” He could hear his mom saying. “The
unique ones are always the best ones.”
Or maybe she’d be off put by Sarah’s assumption of belonging
at the service. His mom could be a stickler for social etiquette.
“Send her packing, Richie. Trouble is as trouble does, and
that girls does trouble.”
His father didn’t flinch the entire service, his wide
features reddening in the heat of wearing the three-piece suit. His tie was
loosened to accommodate his massive neck and his beard was tangled and uneven.
Shaving had become optional in the last couple weeks. R.J. Dean hadn’t
registered any of the attendees at the funeral, simply providing quiet
acknowledgements of their condolences. He had forewarned Richie that he
intended to drink that night, and that he was welcome to stay at any friend’s
house that Richie wished. So much for grieving together. Richie’s grandmother sat
beside him, and he intended to stay on the sofa at her assisted living home. He’d
checked out a Dean Koontz book from the school library the day before, and he
planned on reading it to her. They both liked a good scare, and it’d be nice to
disappear into the pages of fiction for a few hours. He’d have to do all the
reading now, as her eyesight had diminished to near nothing in the last two
years.
The service ended and they drove to the cemetery where
thankfully the pastor stuck to the basic lines of scripture. The ground was
soft from rain the day before, and ducks quacked in a man-made pond centered in
the cemetery. Sarah Arndt smoked a cigarette next to a tree about a football
field away from the plot, her arms folded over her chest. If it were a movie,
Richie would have assumed she were some sort of assassin, just waiting to get a
clean shot of him before moving on to her next assignment. Was that what he was
to her? Some sort of challenge? Or was she elaborately messing with the most
tormented kid at Jordan High? Richie’s usual suspicions about people’s motives
were buzzing in his head, but for the first time, they were losing out by a tug
at his groin. Jesus, how messed up was he? The pastor finished, Richie looked
down at the hole where the urn would be placed, and when his eyes rose, Sarah
Arndt was gone. Maybe he’d imagined her the entire time.
Richie rode back in a limousine with his dad and grandma,
she commented on how the grass was beginning to green finally after a long cold
winter. She could probably barely tell. His dad mumbled a few things on the
ride, but none of it was important or even all that intelligible. They weren’t
in their house more than ten minutes before he cracked open his first can of
beer, not bother to shed his suit.
Richie packed the book, a change of clothes, a few CDS and his
portable disc player after slipping into some jeans and a sweatshirt. His dad
was slumped in his recliner in the living room as Richie made to leave.
“I’m heading over to Grandmas.”
“All right,” he said, not looking up.
“Don’t drink too much.”
“Yeah, yeah, now you sound like…” He didn’t finish the line,
just sort of snorted. He was going to say, “my mother,” before catching
himself.
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“Is it?”
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