Just looking at him does things to me that I don’t want to think about. Especially not now. I hate the way I feel when I looked at him when we got off the train. Like a horny teenager desperate for sex. It’s Jody’s funeral, for crying out loud.
Why is my body even reacting this way at the sight of him? I’ve heard that sometimes grief can make you act weird but this is off the charts. I see him coming toward me and I want to tear his clothes off him, for crying out loud. That’s not right, is it? My own sister’s funeral and he’s making me feel like this? I have to get away from him.
It’s easy enough to do. People are flocking to him. It’s like they all came here to see him, not to say goodbye to my sister. Is he a celebrity or something?
I turn away in disgust, finding the priest is here, a beatific smile on his face. “I’m sure she is in a better place,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I can’t help but notice he’s got a piece of spinach in his teeth. I decide not to mention it.
The priest walks over to the altar and calls for everyone to take their seats. Piped music starts to play through the speakers above our heads. Green Day. Jody’s favorite. It’s an instrumental version of Basket Case and it sounds bizarre to me. If she’s up there watching this, she’ll be laughing at the choice. Her will obviously had a few jokes just for her, like the lifesize photo of Nicolas Cage’s gurning face on a stand next to the altar.
Everyone sits down. I don’t look around. I don’t want to know where that guy is sitting. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want my body to feel those things. I want to think about why I’m here. I want to say goodbye to Jody. The easiest way to do that is to not see that guy again.
I can’t look at him. Not those broad shoulders or the crisp white of his shirt inside that exquisitely tailored gray suit. I don’t want to see those lips that look perfect for kissing, or maybe for going down on me. I especially don’t want to see those dominating eyes of his. They exuded power and control. One look at the people on the train and they ran in fear. I don’t want to run when I look into his eyes. I want to grovel at his feet, Ideally naked and on my knees, waiting to be told what to do. I shudder to think what those eyes could make me do.
His arrogant manner in trying to help me with Wordle didn’t help. Told me he knows his power, knows how good looking he is, how he can get away with talking to women like that. Not to me, he can’t. I don’t need mansplaining from him.
The priest clears his throat. “We’re gathered here to say goodbye to Jody Fletcher,” he says and I kick myself for even thinking about anything else but her.
When we rise for the first hymn, I glance around, feeling his eyes on me.
I can’t see him. Wherever he is, he’s out of my eyeline. I look back to the front, strangely disappointed. I sing with the others as the coffin is brought in through the door, slowly moving down the aisle.
That brings it home to me. This is real. She’s inside that box. She’s not asleep. She’s not injured like my parents. She’s dead. She’s never coming back. Anger builds inside me. It shouldn’t be this way. She shouldn’t be dead. It’s not fair. She can’t be dead. I was talking to her last week. It’s not possible. That piece of shit took her from me and he got away with it. I want him dead. I want to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. Damn the consequences. I want justice for what he did to my family.
The coffin is set down and the pallbearers move respectfully to the sides, heads bowed. The priest motions for me to come up to the altar, talking to the assembled mourners. “At this point, Jody’s sister has agreed to say a few words to us all on behalf of their parents who remain in hospital at this time.”
I face the mourners. I have no script. I don’t need one. “Jody was a good sister,” I begin. “A good sister and a good person. Not good. She was a great person and I know she will be missed by her clients, several of whom are here today. I miss her too, despite her Nicolas Cage obsession and her ridiculous taste in music.”
A wave of grief hits me and for a moment I can’t speak. I look out and the guy is there at the back, staring at me. His eyes are different. Caring, comforting. They give me breath and I suck down the air they provide until I’m able to continue. “When we were little, Jody used to make toys for me out of boxes. She made mailboxes for me to post things through. A lego wig that gave me this scar on my forehead when I fell over wearing it. When I told her I wanted to be a singer, she got me a toy microphone for my birthday. She said I could be a singer if I wanted to. She said I could be anything. I was six years old and I never forgot her telling me that. You can be anything. You can have anything. Well, I want my sister back and I can’t have her.”
I find myself crying and I have to stop for a moment to wipe my eyes. “She never told anyone this but she always wanted to be an actor someday. Now, she can’t be anything anymore because of one man’s decision to drink and drive.”
I look out at the mourners. I’m not supposed to talk about this and they probably know that but now I’ve started I can’t stop myself. “That asshole got behind the wheel and now my sister’s dead. Our parents are in the hospital because of him and I’m not supposed to talk about it?”
I find my fingers curling into clenched fists, tension boiling over inside me, forcing its way out. “I’m just supposed to ask for donations for my parents’ medical bills and not mention why they’re in the hospital? Well, fuck the Colombo famiglia and fuck Alessandro. He killed my sister and we’re all just supposed to pretend like it didn’t happen because Don Colombo is so influential in this city?”
I notice a couple of people have left the church, presumably to report back to the Don what I’ve been saying. I’m probably going to get killed for this but I can’t stop myself. I have to keep going for Jody. “She deserved better than this. She didn’t deserve what happened to her and the only comfort I get from all of this is knowing that some day Alessandro will face justice for what he’s done to my family. His mafia famiglia might think they can get away with this but he’s torn my family apart and I hope one day he understands my pain.”
The priest is tapping me on the shoulder, trying to get me to stop talking. I turn and lash out at him. “You tell me where God was in all this? Why did he let my sister die? She never hurt anyone. Why her? Tell me that? What did she ever do to anyone?”
I collapse into sobs. Several pairs of hands guide me away from the altar. I don’t bother looking up at any of them. I have to get outside. I can’t be in here anymore. I said I’d be strong for my parents but I can’t do it. I can’t pretend this is all right. Jody is dead and it’s Alessandro Colombo’s fault. And he’ll get away with it because he’s a criminal. It’s not right.
I don’t sit on the pew like they try to make me. I shove past and get outside to the street. I take several gulping breaths of air, moving away from the church.
I sink onto the steps near the sidewalk, the tears coming thick and fast. I don’t realize a shadow has fallen over me until a hand settles on my shoulder. It’s far more comforting than the hand of the priest. Who does it belong to?
I turn and look up and of course it’s the guy from the train. “Not now,” I snap at him. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
If he’s offended by my anger, he doesn’t show it. “That was quite a speech in there,” he says, sitting on the step beside me.
“Yeah, well it’ll probably get me killed but you know what? Right now, I don’t give a shit.”
“Maybe I can help.”
I sniff loudly. “With what?”
“Getting the justice you deserve.”
“You? How can you help? What are you even doing here anyway? I don’t know you. Jody didn’t know you. She’d have said if she knew an arrogant asshole who mansplains everything.”