Page 13 of Requiem

A neighbor maybe? One of the teachers from the elementary school where my mother works? Could she be a customer of my father’s garage? I feel as if I should know her, but I’m not sure why.

“Hard to imagine a conflict that would trump your own father’s funeral,” she observes a little coolly.

I’m sure people have been whispering about Jeremy’s conspicuous absence all day, but she’s the first one who’s had the nerve to comment on it. I’m about to reply when my mother walks into the kitchen with yet another cake.

“Leave him alone, Elise. He’s not going to tell you anymore than I did,” she says as she drops the three-layered German chocolate monstrosity next to an apple strudel.

“Elise?” I gape, a light bulb going off in my head. “As in Aunt Elise?”

“It’s okay,” she reassures, pulling me into her arms for a hug. “I didn’t expect you to recognize me after twenty years. It’s great to see you, Brett. I’ve been following your career carefully. I’ve been to see you nearly every time you’ve played in Chicago. You’re quite talented. And handsome, too.”

I give her a weak, confused embrace.

“I didn’t know you were here. Why didn’t you come sit with us at the church?”

“Oh, it seemed as if playing the part of the grieving sister-in-law would be a little hypocritical after I’ve been away for so long.”

“And why have you been away for so long?” I inquire with a little more edge than I’d intended.

She gives me a wry smile.

“I’m here now,” she replies by way of a non-answer and gestures toward the kitchen door with her head. “Come on, let’s you and I go out onto the back porch. I could use a smoke.”

I follow her outside, where cool air and relative quiet are a relief from the stuffy, crowded house. Elise pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one into her palm and offers it to me. I shake my head, and she pops it into her own mouth, cupping her hand around the end so she can light it. Finally, she takes a long, satisfied drag before expelling a steady stream of smoke. We stand next to each other, leaning over the rail of the deck and looking out into the backyard.

“Mom called you?”

“No. An old friend of hers thought I should know.” She turns to me, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “I’m so sorry about your dad, Brett. He was a good man.”

I nod, continuing to face forward.

“Was it Jeremy?”

Now I look at her. “Was what Jeremy?”

“Did he kill your father?”

“What?”

The single word implies that I’m shocked by the mere suggestion when, in fact, I’m shocked that she would know it to be a possibility.

Her eyebrows go up as she takes another drag and then exhales.

“Oh, I know all about it,” she discloses, as if reading my mind. “You could see it plain as day by the time he was four-years-old. That boy was trouble even back then. And that kind of trouble doesn’t get better with age. It gets bolder, more brazen and cunning.”

For the second time today, I have to will myself to close my gaping mouth.

“So did he?”

“Huh?”

“Did Jeremy kill Danny?”

“I – I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he was there, and he certainly didn’t do a damn thing to help him.”

She nods, as if this comes as no surprise to her, before taking one last drag on the cigarette and tossing it to the floor of the porch. She uses her foot to extinguish the butt.

“So, seriously, why have you been out of our lives for so long?” I press, more insistently this time.