But I guess we’ve both committed to making it happen anyway.
It’s been four days since we learned that Harry died.
In those four days, not much has happened.
Rose never returned my text.
Ada continues to give me one-word answers.
My father hasn’t been any more forthcoming.
I’ve stuck by Dex’s side the entire time, not even leaving the house to walk the dog by myself.
At least I made a gynecologist appointment for next week.
Three days ago, there was an obituary for Harry in the newspapers and they also did a brief write-up about him and his “accidental drowning” in the lake. They mentioned that people had seen him walk straight to the shore, strip himself of his clothes, and then walk right into Lake Washington, swimming out into the middle where he went under.
I wish I could have talked to the witnesses myself. I would have asked them if it looked like Harry was trying to rescue someone, or if he looked like he was walking into the water in a daze, like he was compelled. I’m actually surprised they didn’t rule it a suicide, or maybe they did and didn’t want to put it in the paper.
Harry’s funeral is today at 2 p.m. at a cemetery in Bellevue. Obviously, getting a hold of Atlas hasn’t worked at all, so Dex and I are crashing the funeral in hopes of seeing him there.
I know that sounds disrespectful, but we’re also there for Harry, too. I never met the guy, but Dex did, and he did give us enough money to change our life, at least for a while. I just hope the man is at peace and that his death wasn’t at the hands of the very wife he loved so much.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Dex says to me as he parks the Highlander outside the cemetery. It’s pouring rain, the sound of the drops on the roof filling the car, and in the distance, people with umbrellas have gathered in the middle of the graves.
“Do what?”
“Be the mysterious person at the funeral lurking in the background, holding the big black umbrella.” He reaches around into the backseat and grabs the black umbrella, giving me a devious grin.
Figures.
He exits the vehicle and then comes over to my side, opening the door and holding out the giant umbrella so it shields us both.
Unfortunately, we end up doing just as Dex wanted his fantasy to play out. We lurk in the background, trying to look respectful while also looking deeply suspicious, our eyes searching for Atlas.
And that’s when we spot him.
Actually, it’s rather hard not to.
After one person finishes speaking by the open grave, Atlas, dressed in all black, naturally, steps out of the front row and takes his place in front of the crowd.
He doesn’t have an umbrella at all, and is getting absolutely drenched by the rain until the priest comes over, using his own umbrella to shield him.
“Well, I’ll be,” Dex muses. “The ghost has an audience.”
“I don’t think he’s a ghost, Dex.”
We can’t hear what Atlas is saying, obviously talking about his stepfather, and it’s not long before he’s sitting back in the crowd and a woman goes up to speak, maybe an aunt.
“What should we do?” I ask Dex.
“Wait and see.”
So we wait. It’s cold and I’m huddled under Dex’s arm, clouds of our breath rising in the air, the rain rhythmic on the umbrella.
Finally people start to disperse.
Atlas solemnly greets a few people, shakes a few hands, and suddenly I feel kind of bad that we’ve been hating on him (or assuming he’s a ghost) when he just lost his stepfather. For all we know, he might not have his biological father around anymore, and now he has no family at all.
“Hey.” I nudge Dex in the ribs. “Be nice to him, okay?”
He nods, seeming to understand.
We watch until Atlas leaves the crowd and then starts walking in the opposite direction from most of the attendees.
We start walking after him. I don’t think he’s seen us, but even so we don’t want to lose sight of him either.
He’s almost out of the cemetery gates when Dex yells, “Hey, Poe!”
So subtle.
Atlas stops in his tracks, glancing at us over his shoulder. He doesn’t run, but he does look resigned to see us.
We quickly catch up.
“I knew you were here,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“We’re really sorry about your stepfather,” I tell him. “I can’t imagine how hard it is.”
“Is that why you’ve been calling me all day and night?” he asks, eyeing Dex.
Dex shrugs. “We wanted to offer our condolences.”
“But we also have questions and we really need you to answer them,” I tell him. “Please,” I add, practically begging.
He eyes the both of us, then pushes his wet black hair off his face. His green eyes match the color of the cedars today. “Okay,” he says with a tired sigh. “I knew this was coming.”
“What else do you supposedly know?” Dex squints at him.
“More than any man should,” Atlas answers. “I saw a coffee shop around the corner,” he says and then starts walking.
“You don’t want the umbrella?” Dex asks, though I’m momentarily horrified that if he’s offering his spot, that means I have to share it with Atlas.
Atlas waves his hand dismissively. “I like the rain. It’s cleansing.”
He keeps going.
I exchange a wary glance with Dex, and we follow.
Fifteen
In hindsight, walking wasn’t the best idea. It would have been better to drive, and by the time we finally get to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop turned diner, my jeans are splashed with water and I’m freezing. Of course Atlas looks like a drowned rat, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
The shop is dim and almost empty except for an elderly couple in a booth in the corner and a blue-collar type man at the counter, talking to the waitress.
We take a booth by the window and Atlas excuses himself to use the restroom.
“He better fucking talk,” Dex practically growls as Atlas walks away, though the minute the waitress comes by he turns on all the charm.
“Hello, Flo,” he says to her, though her nametag says Kim. “What kind of pie do you have on this beautiful day?”
I kick Dex under the table but it does no good.
She gives him a wry look and absently taps her nametag. “Apple.”
“What kind of apples?”
“Apple,” Kim repeats, looking at him like he’s stupid. “Like from a tree.”
“We’ll just have two coffees,” I tell her quickly, smiling big to make up for Dex. “Cream and sugar.”
“Okie dokie,” she says, walking away.
“You never let me have any fun anymore,” Dex whines. “You know I’m particular about my pie.” Then he straightens up when Atlas walks back.
For whatever reason, Atlas is mostly dry now. Like his hair is only wet at the ends.
“How the hell are you dry?” I ask him.
He slides into the seat across from us and gives me an odd glance. “Huh?”
“You were soaked.”