Saturday’s Child by JT Hume 16 - Guardians of Stone If you want to see how powerful someone is in Washington, don’t go to their office. Go to their funeral. The most powerful will get the full effect: the burial at Arlington National Cemetery, with the United States Army’s 3rd Infantry Regiment in regalia acting as escort to the sounds of drummers and the commands of a color guard. The three branches of the government will be represented by senior, and sometimes their most-senior, representatives. If the honoree was a veteran, which happens less often in Congress these days, a twenty-one-gun salute might be followed by a Missing Man formation flying overhead. Screw around with a staff worker and appear on the cover of the National Enquirer, and the kind folks at Arlington National Cemetery will tell you of the years-long waiting lists and the need to have pre-approval before you die, no matter the number of years in public service. It’s a peaceful ceremony in a private graveyard in northern Virginia. The trees are changing, and it’s quite beautiful and peaceful. Maybe Daddy wanted a plot in Robert E. Lee’s old backyard, the site of the national cemetery. He didn’t say. His new home and final resting place is on a small hill overlooking a valley of trees. We hear a playground on the wind, for a second here and there, and this place is not so lonely. The crowd saying good-bye to Daddy is a decent size, though not as big as Mommy wants. The congressmen and senators, past and present, are somber, and the Secretary of Commerce reminds us of when she and Daddy were freshmen on the Hill together. Staff members from his office make an appearance, and a preacher starts a sermon as his coffin is poised over the hole in the ground. The finite number of chairs are occupied by Mother and her daughters, plus their significant others. Lacey’s partner is her clone, down to her long legs and Jimmy Choos, and Sissy brought her councilman, who has the hungry look of a congressman-to-be as he picks out
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume the D.C. famous faces, as few as there are. It’s dead quiet in the moment (forgive the pun), with no lost grandchildren looking for solace in the small crowd, as Daddy’s daughters are childless. With no leftover chairs, I’m standing in the second row, with Grandmother on one side and Devon on the other. His parents are in the back, out of view, supporting me. When we’re done, Grandmother will fly us home. We will not be going to the wake. We were invited, but pointedly not invited. I know how to read the signs, the frozen stares around the air I occupy. Mommy is not ready to settle things at the house, so I spent yesterday in Daddy’s office with his lawyer, me as the executrix, going over his will and other papers. At first glance, it’s odd that Daddy asked me to get his life and death organized, considering I have the least legal training of his descendants. It wasn’t strange to him. He said I had the most humanity and empathy of the five of us. I was going to need it. Bert and I finished with the will, and we rubbed our eyes, with me wondering if bifocals were in my near future. Mommy got the house and forty percent of the estate earned through “various means.” Considering his history and weak moral ethics, I don’t want to think about Daddy’s sources of incomes. He hadn’t updated his will in over a decade, long before the economic crash wiped out his wife’s fortune, and he was never wealthy by her standards. He left her living at a level well below what she’s used to. She may have to sell the house she owns to survive. Grandmother predicted this ahead of the reading, and told me not to worry. I will anyway. She may be angry and not talking to me, and maybe she won’t talk to me ever again, but she’s my mommy. We were getting to the properties and possessions, and Daddy gave his executrix specific instructions on who got what from his personal belongings. I told Bert I don’t want my share of the knickknacks. None of them carry good memories. They’ll go to my sisters or in boxes to be sold for charity.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume The doorbell rang, and I heard Devon’s voice talking to someone. He’s been with me through the ordeal, flying back and forth on weekends as Daddy lingered, and I’m grateful. My family behaves in his presence, and worse, he’s forcing me to be the proper daughter and sibling. He was right, though: being angry solves nothing. Things are changing back home. Someone leaked the transcript from the meeting in the Family Court basement to Dick Fitzpatrick, a loathsome employee of the local newspaper. He soaked the worst day of my life for all it was worth, though his editors insisted on obscuring Sissy’s and my identities. To his credit, Fitzpatrick did a fair piece of investigative journalism to find three other young lovers who lost their virginity to the mayor. The noise grew to thunder, with even his loyal lackeys calling for his head, as I guessed. Edgar Hart emptied his office in the Castle in the middle of the night, taped a resignation letter to the office door, and moved out of the mansion the next day, disappearing from the face of the Earth. Who leaked the transcript? It’s not hard to guess. I did not, Judge Davis wouldn’t, and Chief Walsh is the better man. I bet FBI Special Agent in Charge Marty Groban knows where the ex-mayor is hiding. The city council will hold a special election, and Trevor is not in the running. Not this time, anyway. On the other hand, he politely accepted the council’s offer to drop the word “Interim” from his job title. Things are changing at CPS, too. David Montgomery received a buy-out offer and is no longer the DHS administrator. Devon says Marsha pushed hard for the job and pissed off the wrong people in the process, and she was transferred to the WSU as the interim chief (their current chief, Maggie, is the interim DHS boss). A lot of people pushed for Barb to take over as MSU chief, and she won’t say what she’s going to do. She’s holding down the chief’s desk until Maggie makes a final decision. My guy tells me these things, and I pretend to care. Maybe I should care, but I don’t. My father’s illness and death was a wrenching experience, and the reason I don’t want his things is
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume because they remind me of what he used to be and not the man he became as he was dying. This was someone I was proud of, still am, and he showed his love for me at the end with no conditions. As we held each other in his hospital bed, followed by his hospice bed, he shared stories and secrets of his time in Congress. He was his own worst judge, ashamed of how he made decisions on what was most politically expedient, not the most honorable. I couldn’t argue with him, and I found I loved him anew for his honesty and newfound humility. He knew he couldn’t get those decisions back, and he admitted maybe he couldn’t make up for all the bad times and the distance between us. For his last few weeks, his one hope was maybe he could be my father, and maybe I would be his little girl again. Mission accomplished, Daddy. I was his full-time caregiver while Mommy and my sisters stayed away. He begged me not to judge them. He said they don’t understand our time is finite and we are mortal, whereas I know from sad, firsthand experience even children can die. The last night was simple. The two of us knew it was the last night. I texted them all and begged them to come. In the end, it was me hugging him, with Devon in a chair beside the bed. I was whispering what had become his favorite song, of how we’ll meet again someday on some sunny day. One minute he was smiling. The next, he was with his parents. Gone. Back in his office, Bert and I were finishing the paperwork when Devon appeared in the door. “Emma, someone to see you. I can tell her to come back.” I blinked a couple of times and guessed who it was. Bert looked at me, concerned. “We should do this together.” “No, it’s okay. We’ve been doing this all day. I can deal.” I threw most of the papers into a box beside the desk. He patted my arm. “Okay. You have my number.” “See you tomorrow?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “First thing.” Bert gathered his things and left, another honorable member of the legal profession. My sisters could learn from him. They won’t. Their loss. Devon gave me a quick hug. “Stay or go?” “Go. This is something I have to do.” “Then I’ll go get dinner and be back in…?” “An hour should be good.” He kissed my forehead and left the room, and I heard him talking to her. I parked myself behind Daddy’s bare desk, save for a pipe stand and a small family portrait taken when I was ten. It was his Christmas card to his “special” constituents for the year. She was standing in the doorway and was nothing I had imagined. I knew she was from Guam and worked in various congressional offices before becoming Daddy’s vice chief of staff. She had the reputation for being a tough negotiator who took no prisoners. None of the descriptions included her physical beauty. The way she stood reminded me of royalty, classy and confident, with beautiful brown eyes. She was in a simple black dress and low pumps, like me. She was in mourning, too. We looked at each other from across the room, and she spoke first. “I suppose you hate me, Emma.” I shook my head. “No, Patrice. I can’t. He told me not to.” I couldn’t decide if I should ask her to sit or what, then I decided to go with what felt right. I got up and pulled her into my arms, hugging her as someone who loved my daddy. She hesitated then hugged back. “It’s good to meet you.” She held me at arm’s length with a grin. “You sure?” “I am.” I rolled my eyes. “Maybe not last year. Now, yes.” She laughed. “I get it.” I imitated my mother, the gracious hostess. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Got a pot on. Something stronger?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “No, thank you. I wanted to meet you and tell you I won’t be at the funeral.” “You sure?” “Yes, it would be…complicated.” The understatement of the year. “I understand. Um…” I looked over the office. “I don’t know what’s proper…” “For your father’s mistress?” She smiled, her eyes moist. “I was thinking ‘lover.’” She squeezed my arm. “I would ask one thing.” She looked at the desk, and I understood right away. “Brilliant. I was struggling with the same question. Which one?” “The black one?” I walked to the desk, picked up the pipe stand, and offered it to her. She took the pipe on the far right and put it in her handbag. I pocketed the pipe made from our old maple tree. She smiled at the gesture. “Well, I guess this is good-bye.” “It doesn’t have to be.” Her eyes lit up with hope. “No?” “Come in the kitchen. Have some coffee, and we’ll tell sad stories.” Devon found us at the table, and we split dinner three ways. On the hill over the valley, I wish I’d insisted Patrice join us. As we got to know each other over Thai carryout, I admired this beautiful woman and wished Daddy had made her a part of our lives, as he said during those last days. After all, my mother and sisters were doing more damage to the health of our family unit now than Daddy and his lover ever did. They stand up in front of me, and I realize I’ve missed the service while I was lost in my thoughts. The mourners line up and drop a single rose on his casket, one by one. I wait for the crowd to leave, then the three of us with Devon’s parents approach the grave, and they add to the pile. My boyfriend smiles at me. “No rose.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume He’s holding one hand, and my other is in my coat pocket, holding Daddy’s pipe. “No. He gets me.” “Okay.” The four of them take turns hugging me, then we all hug each other before we head back to the parking lot. It feels right. As we approach Bruce and the long limo, Grandmother pulls me back and waits for them to climb into the car. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to ask this…” “Yes, Grandmother?” “You’re going with them? With him?” “Yes, Grandmother, for many reasons.” She watches the cars leave the parking lot for a moment, looking lost. No one spoke to her at the service, and Mommy turned away from us when we approached. “I get it. Can I visit?” I wrap my arms around her neck. “You better. No one else can make Harris behave.” She laughs and kisses my cheek. “He’s bad for me.” I look at her and see a light of happiness missing for many years. “In a very good way.” “Oh, yeah.” I laugh again at her frank admission. “Come on, Grandmother, let’s go home.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume
This serial and book are solely owned by its creator, JT Hume (a pseudonym). Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved in all countries and languages. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Third-party vendors providing electronic means to create, edit, and/or publish/post this serial and book have no literary and/or financial claim (including wi-fi network owners and operators). For more information and permission requests, the author may be contacted via email only: jthumebooks at gmail dot com. Twitter: @JT_Hume Website: http://www.jthumebooks.com
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