Chapter 1: The Funeral

Jocelyn By the time I reached the front pew, Valerie Jones had already decided who was allowed to mourn her son. Apparently, I hadn’t made the list. “Not there, sweetheart.” She caught my elbow before I could sit beside Dad. Her lipstick was perfect, her eyes red, and the black dress she’d chosen probably cost more than my flight from Chicago. “I need that seat for someone who’s helping me through today.” I looked at the empty cushion, then at Dad. He stood beside the pew with a folded funeral program in his hands, looking as though he hadn’t slept in days. Valerie was Dad’s ex-wife and Luke’s biological mother. Dad had married my mother when I was little, and he’d been the only father I’d ever known. Mom died years ago, but that hadn’t changed our relationship. I was still his daughter, and he was still Dad. Losing Luke didn’t make him any less entitled to have me beside him. “I’m sitting with my father,” I said. Valerie blinked. “Of course you are. I only meant there are people Luke would have wanted close.” “Dad gets to decide who sits beside him.” A woman from the funeral home approached before Valerie could answer and asked whether we were ready to begin. Valerie turned toward her, instantly tearful, and I sat down beside Dad while she explained how difficult everything had been for her. Dad rested a hand over mine. “You don’t have to fight with her.” “I’m not fighting.” His mouth moved almost enough to become a smile. “Your courtroom voice says otherwise.” I squeezed his hand. I’d arrived in New Mexico late last night with a carry-on bag, a rental car, and a return ticket for Sunday. Outside, the Vipers had filled the parking lot with motorcycles, their black leather cuts an unmistakable reminder of the club Luke had once led. Luke had been my stepbrother, but that description barely covered a childhood spent in the same house. I remembered him teaching me to ride a bicycle and laughing when I fell into the grass. I also remembered the years when a simple disagreement could turn him vicious, when he demanded loyalty from everyone and offered none in return. The boy I’d grown up with and the man he’d become were both real. I didn’t know how to grieve one without acknowledging the other. Valerie apparently had no such difficulty. When the minister started the service, she cried loudly enough that two women moved from their seats to comfort her. The tears were real. I could see that much. She’d lost her son, and whatever else I thought of her, I wasn’t going to question whether she loved him. But when the minister invited family members to share memories, Valerie rose before he finished speaking. She’d brought three handwritten pages. At first she told stories I recognized, about Luke bringing home injured animals and refusing to admit when he’d been frightened. Then she began talking about the burden of being the only person who never gave up on him. “Some people find it easy to walk away when loving someone becomes difficult,” she said, looking toward our pew. “A mother doesn’t have that luxury.” Dad lowered his eyes. I kept mine on her. She’d never forgiven Dad for remarrying, and she’d reserved a special kind of resentment for my mother. Even after Mom died, Valerie had continued treating our family as something she’d been cheated out of. She was especially good at making an insult sound like a lesson in devotion. She paused to accept a tissue from a woman beside the podium, then continued describing Luke as brave, generous, and misunderstood. There wasn’t room in her version of him for the people he’d frightened or the harm he’d done. Perhaps there wasn’t room for that at a funeral. But every time she said no one had understood her boy, I watched Dad fold the program into a smaller and smaller square. When Valerie finally stepped down, the minister thanked her and began to move to the closing prayer. Dad glanced at the inside pocket of his jacket. I’d seen him put a single sheet of paper there in the car, covered with a few sentences he’d rewritten three times on the drive over. “Dad,” I whispered. “Did you change your mind?” He shook his head. “She told them I wasn’t speaking. Said I was too upset.” “Are you?” “Of course I am.” His voice was rough. “He’s my son.” “That isn’t what I asked.” He looked at me, and I could see the decision before he made it. He stood, still holding the program. “Excuse me,” I said, just loudly enough for the minister to hear. “My father has something he’d like to say.” A few heads turned. Valerie turned all the way around. Dad walked to the podium with the folded sheet in one hand. He didn’t use it. “I loved my son,” he said. “I know not everyone found Luke easy to love. Sometimes I didn’t, either. But there’s a difference between knowing somebody did wrong and wishing you’d had more time to reach them.” His voice faltered, and I had to look down at my lap. “I wish I’d had more time,” he finished. He returned to our pew without waiting for a response. I stood to meet him, and he held me for several seconds before we sat. The minister waited until Dad was ready, then continued. Valerie didn’t look at either of us again until the casket was being taken out. By then, she’d gathered an audience near the doorway, accepting embraces and speaking about how much responsibility had fallen on her. She was still crying when she reached for Dad’s arm. “You should’ve warned me you planned to speak,” she told him. “I could’ve helped you find something kinder to say.” Dad went still. I knew that expression. He was deciding whether a response would be worth the trouble, a decision he’d made around Valerie for most of my childhood. “He spoke about loving Luke,” I said. “I thought it was beautiful.” Valerie’s fingers loosened around his sleeve. Her gaze moved to me, and the warmth she’d been showing everyone else disappeared. “Of course you did.” Her voice stayed sweet enough for the people nearby. “You’ve always been so sure you understand this family. Even from a thousand miles away.” I could’ve answered, but arguing while Luke was being carried out would only give her another audience. Instead, I slipped my arm through Dad’s and helped him toward the exit. Behind us, Valerie called toward the men waiting beyond the chapel doors. “Boys, come here. I need you.” I didn’t have to turn around to know they would answer. They always had.