Things We Left Behind （Knockemout, #3）
Lucy Score
1
Funeral Burrito
Sloane
The swing creaked rhythmically under me as I used a toe to push off against the porch floorboards. The chilly fingers of January slipped their way under the blanket and through the layers of my clothes. But the joke was on them because I was already frozen inside.
The droopy Christmas wreath on the proudly purple front door drew my eye.
I needed to take it down.
I needed to go back to work.
I needed to go back upstairs and put on the deodorant I’d forgotten.
Apparently, I needed to do a lot of things. All of them felt monumental, as if going back inside and climbing the stairs to my bedroom required the same amount of energy as trekking to the top of Everest.
Sorry, Knockemout. You’re just going to have to deal with a librarian with body odor.
I sucked a breath of razor-sharp air into my lungs. It was funny how I needed to remind myself to do something as automatic as breathing. Grief had a way of infiltrating everything, even when you were prepared for it.
I lifted my dad’s Opposing Counsel’s Tears mug and took a fortifying sip of breakfast wine.
I would be spending the rest of the day in the cloying heat of Knock ’Em Stiff, Knockemout’s irreverently named funeral home. The funeral home’s thermostat never budged below seventy-five degrees to accommodate the thinner blood of the elderly crowds it usually entertained.
My breath left me in a silver cloud. When it dissipated, my view of the house next door was restored.
It was a nondescript two-story with beige siding and utilitarian landscaping.
To be fair, my whimsical Victorian made most homes look dull in comparison with its wraparound porch and unsubtle turret. But there was an emptiness to the place next door that made the contrast more notable. The only signs of life for more than a decade had been limited to the crew that came to maintain the yard and sporadic visits by its obnoxious owner.
I wondered why he hadn’t just sold it or burned it to the ground. Or whatever ridiculously wealthy men did to places that held shadows and secrets.
It annoyed me that he still owned it. That he still stayed there on occasion. Neither one of us wanted to be saddled with those memories. Neither one of us wanted to share a property line.
My front door opened, and out stepped my mother.
Karen Walton had always been beautiful to me. Even today, even with fresh grief painted on her face, she was still lovely.
“What do you think? Is it too much?” she asked, doing a slow twirl in her new little black dress. The dignified boatneck and long sleeves gave way to a flirty party skirt with dark tulle that sparkled. Her sleek blond bob was held back with a velvet headband.
My friend Lina had taken us shopping a few days ago to help us find our funeral outfits. My dress was a short, fitted ebony knit with pockets hidden in the seams of the skirt. It was beautiful and I was never going to wear it again.
“You look great. It’s perfect,” I assured her, lifting up a corner of the blanket in invitation.
She sat and patted my knee as I covered us both.
This swing had been at the center of our family forever. We’d congregated here for after-school snacks and gossip. My parents met on this swing for a weekly year-round happy hour. After the Thanksgiving dishes were done, we’d all lounge out here with our favorite books and cozy blankets.
I’d inherited the ridiculous beast of a home with its olive-green, purple, and navy paint two years ago when my parents moved to DC to be closer to Dad’s doctors. I had always loved it. There was no other place on earth that would ever feel like home. But it was moments like this that made me realize that instead of growing, our family was getting smaller.
Mom blew out a breath. “Well, this sucks.”
“At least we look good while it sucks,” I pointed out.
“It’s the Walton way,” she agreed.
The front door opened again and my sister, Maeve, joined us. She wore a no-nonsense black pantsuit and a wool coat, and she clutched a steaming mug of tea. She looked pretty as always, but tired. I made a mental note to harass her after the funeral to make sure nothing else was going on with her.
“Where’s Chloe?” Mom asked.
Maeve rolled her eyes. “She’s got it narrowed down to two outfits and told me she needed some time with each one before she could make her final decision,” she said, squeezing herself onto the cushion next to our mother.
My niece was a fashionista of the highest caliber. At least the highest caliber a twelve-year-old on a limited allowance in rural Virginia could achieve.