After leaving the funeral home last night, I’d meant to text her Saturday’s details, but instead I texted Deidre-from-6A and had her come over for a nightcap—and to suck my cock.
“Fine, Mother. The memorial is Saturday morning. Eight to ten.”
“Such a tragedy, isn’t it?” She clucks her tongue, staring toward the scenic city abyss behind me. “Honestly, it was for the best.”
“Excuse me?”
“Since the moment she came into our lives, she’s caused nothing but trouble.” She keeps her voice low despite the fact that this office is sound-proofed and a world away from anyone else who may or may not be nosy enough to listen in. “You know, I never liked that girl.”
“You don’t like anyone.”
It’s an incurable sickness.
Bred into the Tuppance DNA.
Passed down generation to generation like a genetic defect.
We don’t tend to care much for anyone unless they’re serving a direct and useful self-serving purpose.
“Fair to assume you won’t be attending?” I lift a brow.
My mother gasps, a hand splayed across her heart. “Can you imagine what people would say if I didn’t? My God, Bennett. You know how they talk around here. Would I rather be meeting the ladies for brunch at The Marigold that morning? Yes. Of course I would. But not going isn’t an option.”
A simple yes, I’ll be there would have sufficed …
“Your honesty is … refreshing,” I say.
“It’s much too early for sarcasm, darling. Please. Enough.”
“Have you spoken with Errol yet?” I change the subject.
Tugging at her pearls, she draws a resigned breath. “I have. He’s aware of Larissa’s untimely passing, and he plans to attend her memorial, but he won’t be bringing his wife. We both know that’s a good thing. Larissa and Beth never got along. Oil and water, those two.”
It probably didn’t help that my mother poisoned their relationship early on, pitting them against one another like some sick and twisted game solely for her own amusement.
All of their differences aside, Beth and Larissa never stood a chance where my mother was involved.
She’s a destroyer, that woman.
She destroys all that is good in this world, whether she means to or not.
She destroyed our family, her marriage, my father …
It’s as if she can’t help but to meddle, to ensure everyone else is as miserable as she is.
“All right, well.” She rises, straightening the hem of her boucle jacket. “I’ve got a million little things to do this morning and I’m sure you do as well, so I’ll leave you be.”
Thank God.
My email chimes with Margaux’s expense report—fifteen hours late.
“And Bennett?” My mother stops at the door, turning back to me. “Call your brother. You and Errol haven’t been on speaking terms for years, and I’d hate for things to be awkward Saturday morning.”
“Will do,” I lie.
Whoever said death brings families closer never met the Schoenbachs.
Five
Astaire
* * *
The sound of children laughing and shuffling down the hallway Friday morning is my cue to silence my phone.
I tuck it into my top drawer for the day and reach for my coffee, stealing a few more sips before the craziness of the day ensues.
I found the Schoenbach obituary—if you can call it that—earlier this morning. The funeral home posted it sometime last night.
Her name was Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach, and she was twenty-seven when she passed. It mentioned no family, no cause of death, no photograph. Nothing more than a birthdate and a single line about a private sunrise memorial service tomorrow morning and the words INVITATION ONLY in bold red letters. All caps.
I spent a few minutes Googling “Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach” earlier this morning. But I couldn’t find a thing.
No social media.
No LinkedIn.
No archived newspaper articles of any kind.
No graduation archives; high school, college or otherwise.
It’s as if this woman never existed.
“Good morning, good morning!” I take my place at the front of the room, grinning and waving and trying to psych them up for the day. Fridays are hard. The kids are exhausted, attention spans are waning. My students hang their jackets and bags on their hooks and then make their way to their assigned square on the rug. “Happy Friday!”
I maintain the smile on my face, sing our morning song, and begin the day’s lesson, but today I can’t help but feel like I’m merely going through the motions. My mind is fixated on that man from the bar last night—and the mystery woman he’s burying.
With the hyphenated name and similar age, it’s fair to assume she was his wife.
At first I thought it seemed odd that she’d have a private sunrise memorial service, but maybe sunrises were her thing? And maybe her passing was so tragic and unspeakable that all he wants is to protect her privacy?
By the time the kids head out for first recess ninety minutes later, I’ve concocted a beautiful love story for the two of them. I’ve imagined a passionate, love-at-first-sight romance.
Trips to Paris.
A sunset proposal.
Slow dances in empty bars.
Lazy Sunday afternoons sipping tea and trading poetry.
Saturday strolls in Lincoln Park.
New Year’s Eve kisses on snowy hotel balconies, her lashes covered in snowflakes as he wraps her tight to keep her warm.
In my heart of hearts, I want to believe he was beautifully, wonderfully kind to her.
That he loved her more than anything in the entire world.
That her death shattered his heart into a million, irreparable pieces.
I want to believe that that was the cause of his cruelty last night.
That he’s simply angry at the world for taking the love of his life away from him.
Death and loss can do a number on you. It can change your entire personality if you let it. Some of my darkest days came in the months following Trevor’s passing.
I want to believe Bennett has friends and family getting him through this, but last night, Eduardo mentioned that when Bennett stops in, he never talks to anyone—which leads me to assume he only comes solo.
Maybe he’s painfully private?
Maybe she was his entire world? All he had?
Maybe they’d had a falling out and weren’t speaking when she died?
The kids return from recess, peeling out of their scarves and gloves, cheeks flushed and eyes wet from the cold. Making my way to the front of the classroom to start the next lesson, I decide to do what Trevor would do if he were still here: I give the cruel stranger from last night the benefit of the doubt.
And then I carry on with my day.
The final bell of the day chimes at 2:55, and I walk my class to the bus line.
Five minutes pass, then ten, and by the time the buses and jam-packed mini vans and shiny Suburbans, Denalis, and Escalades are long gone, I’m left with one remaining student.
“Guess it’s just us,” I say to a despondent-looking Honor Smith. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time she’s late being picked up. “Why don’t you come back to the classroom? We can wait for Lucy there.”