Despite the solemnity of the afternoon, a low murmur of chuckles rose, then faded away.
"Mitch--what can I say? He was the kind of man who added something to everything he touched and everyone he came in contact with. I was envious of his view on life. He saw it all as a big game, where the only way to win was to be good to other people, to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and like what you see. Mitch . . ."
He closed his eyes hard, pushing back the tears.
"Mitch was everything I've ever wanted to be. . . ."
Taylor stepped back from the microphone, his head bowed, then made his way back into the crowd. The minister finished with the service, and people filed by the coffin, where a picture of Mitch had been placed. In the photo he was smiling broadly, standing over the grill in his backyard. Like the picture of Taylor's father, it captured the very essence of who he was.
Afterward Taylor drove alone back to Melissa's house.
It was crowded at the house as people came by after the funeral to offer Melissa their condolences. Unlike the day before--a gathering of close friends and family--this time everyone who'd been at the service was there, including some Melissa barely knew.
Judy and Melissa's mother tended to the busywork of feeding the masses; because it was so packed inside, Denise wandered into the backyard to watch Kyle and the other children who'd also attended the funeral. Mainly nephews and nieces, they were young and, like Kyle, unable to fully understand everything that was going on. Dressed in formal clothes, they were running around, playing with each other as if the situation were nothing more than a family reunion.
Denise had needed to get out of the house. The grief could be stifling at times, even to her. After hugging Melissa and sharing a few words of sympathy, she had left Melissa to the care of her family and Mitch's. She knew that Melissa would have the support she needed today; Melissa's parents intended to stay for a week. While her mother would be there to listen and hold her, Melissa's father could begin with the numbing paperwork that always followed an event like this.
Denise stood from her chair and walked to the edge of the pool, her arms crossed, when Judy saw her through the kitchen window. She opened the sliding glass door and started toward her.
Denise heard her approaching and glanced over her shoulder, smiling warily.
Judy laid a gentle hand on her back. "How're you holding up?" she asked.
Denise shook her head. "I should be asking you that. You knew Mitch a lot longer than I did."
"I know. But you look like you need a friend right now."
Denise uncrossed her arms and glanced toward the house. People could be seen in every room.
"I'm okay. Just thinking about Mitch. And Melissa."
"And Taylor?"
Despite the fact that it was over between them, she couldn't lie.
"Him too."
Two hours later the crowd was finally thinning. Most of the distant friends had come and gone; a few members of the family had flights to catch and had left as well.
Melissa was sitting with her immediate family in the living room; her boys had changed their clothes and had gone outside, to the front yard. Taylor was standing in Mitch's den alone when Denise approached him.
Taylor saw her, then returned his attention to the walls of the den. The shelves were filled with books, trophies the boys had won in soccer and Little League baseball, pictures of Mitch's family. In one corner was a rolltop desk, the cover pulled shut.
"Your words at the service were beautiful," Denise said. "I know Melissa was really touched by what you said."
Taylor simply nodded without responding. Denise ran her hand through her hair.
"I'm really sorry, Taylor. I just wanted you to know that if you need to talk, you know where I am."
"I don't need anyone," he whispered, his voice ragged. With that he turned from her and walked away.
What neither of them knew was that Judy had witnessed the whole thing.
Chapter 26
Taylor bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding, his mouth dry. For a moment he was inside the burning warehouse again, adrenaline surging through his system. He couldn't breathe, and his eyes stung with pain. Flames were everywhere, and though he tried to scream, no sounds escaped from his throat. He was suffocating on imaginary smoke.
Then, just as suddenly, he realized he was imagining it. He looked around the room and blinked hard as reality pressed in around him, making him ache in a different way, weighing heavily on his chest and limbs.
Mitch Johnson was dead.
It was Tuesday. Since the funeral he hadn't left his house, hadn't answered the phone. He vowed to change today. He had things to do: an ongoing job, small problems at the site that needed his attention. Checking the clock, he saw that it was already past nine. He should have been there an hour ago.
Instead of getting up, however, he simply lay back down, unable to summon the energy to rise.
On Wednesday, midmorning, Taylor sat in the kitchen, dressed only in a pair of jeans. He'd made scrambled eggs and bacon and had stared at the plate before finally rinsing the untouched food down the disposal. He hadn't eaten anything in two days. He couldn't sleep, nor did he want to. He refused to talk to anyone; instead he let his answering machine pick up his calls. He didn't deserve those things. Those things could provide pleasure, they could provide escape--they were for people who deserved them, not for him. He was exhausted. His mind and body were being drained of the things they needed to survive; if he wanted, he knew he could continue along this path forever. It would be easy, an escape of a different sort. Taylor shook his head. No, he couldn't go that far. He wasn't worthy of that, either.
Instead he forced down a piece of toast. His stomach still growled, but he refused to eat any more than necessary. It was his way of acknowledging the truth as he saw it. Each hunger pang would remind him of his guilt, his own self-loathing. Because of him, his friend had died.
Just like his father.
Last night, while sitting on the porch, he had tried to bring Mitch to life again, but strangely, Mitch's face was already frozen in time. He could remember the picture, he could see Mitch's face, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what Mitch looked like when he laughed or joked or slapped him on the back. Already his friend was leaving him. Soon his image would be gone forever.
Just like his father.
Inside, Taylor hadn't turned on any lights. It was dark on the porch, and Taylor sat in the blackness, feeling his insides turn to stone.
He made it into work on Thursday; he spoke with the owners and made a dozen decisions. Fortunately his workers were present when he spoke with the owners and knew enough to proceed on their own. An hour later Taylor remembered nothing about the conversation.
Early Saturday morning, awakened by nightmares once more, Taylor forced himself out of bed. He hooked up the trailer to his truck, then loaded his riding mower onto it, along with a weed whacker, edger, and trimmer. Ten minutes later he was parked in front of Melissa's house. She came out just as he finished unloading.
"I drove by and saw the lawn was getting a little high," he said without meeting her eyes. After a moment of awkward silence, he ventured, "How're you holding up?"
"Okay," she said without much emotion. Her eyes were rimmed with red. "How about you?"
Taylor shrugged, swallowing the lump in his throat.
He spent the next eight hours outside, working steadily, making her yard look as if a professional landscaper had come by. In the early afternoon a load of pine straw was delivered, and he placed it carefully around the trees, in the flower beds, along the house. As he worked he made mental lists of other things to do, and after loading the equipment back on the trailer, he donned his tool belt. He reattached a few broken planks in the fence, caulked around three of the windows, mended a screen that had been broken, changed the burned-out light bulbs in the outdoor lights. Focusing next on the pool, he added chlorine, emptied the baskets, cleared t
he water of debris, and backwashed the filter.
He didn't go inside to visit with Melissa until he was finally ready to leave, and even then he stayed only briefly.
"There are a few more things to do," he said on his way out the door. "I'll be by tomorrow to take care of them."
The next day he worked until nightfall, possessed.
Melissa's parents left the following week, and Taylor filled the void in their absence. As he'd done with Denise during the summer months, he began swinging by Melissa's home nearly every day. He brought dinner with him twice--pizza first, then fried chicken--and though he still felt vaguely uncomfortable around Melissa, he felt a sense of responsibility regarding the boys.
They needed a father figure.
He'd made the decision earlier in the week, after yet another sleepless night. The idea, however, had initially come to him while he was still in the hospital. He knew he couldn't take Mitch's place and didn't intend to. Nor would he hinder Melissa's life in any way. In time, if she met someone new, he would slip quietly from the picture. In the meantime he would be there for them, doing the things that Mitch had done. The lawn. Ball games and fishing trips with the boys. Odds and ends around the house. Whatever.
He knew what it was like to grow up without a father. He remembered longing for someone besides his mother to talk to. He remembered lying in his bed, listening to the quiet sounds of his mother's sobbing in the adjoining room, and how difficult it had been to talk to her in the year following his father's death. Thinking back, he saw clearly how his childhood had been stripped away.