Then again, in the oppressive throes of mourning, all enjoyed the release of a chuckle. Why not more than a chuckle, then? Humans laughed at absurdity. And what greater absurdity could there be than having decades of sights, smells, sounds, touches, tastes and thoughts flicked off like a light-switch? The soul’s candle-flame, flickering precariously between nature’s twitchy thumb and forefinger.
Keep it straight.
James perused the eulogy. The speech wasn’t great—only a few line-edits beyond a first draft. Teresa might get mad. She won’t know. He’d promised he’d give one, even though he felt disingenuous doing it.
He studied every face filing into the room. Old. Dumb-eyed. Kids with no attention span. More old people. They’d be forgetful, perhaps. Nothing he said would stay with any of these people.
And through all the movement, all the talk and all the thoughts, Thomas Locke, Teresa’s father, lay peacefully gray in the open casket.
One of Locke’s old business associates, an Abe Worswick, gave James a firm handshake as he shook his head.
“James,” said Worswick. “You’re the artist?”
James blinked. “I suppose. I’m an attorney.”
“Oh,” said the old man. “I remember Tom mentioning your shared love of art. He said something about opening a gallery with you. Whatever happened with that?”
James grinned, wide as the event would allow. “You’ll find out soon enough, actually.”
In good time, all were seated. A Reverend Mathis made opening remarks, discussed Thomas Locke and his life and his legacy. The usual, plus Him. God this, God that.
James sat glazed. At one point, Teresa slid her lithe hand into his and he held it.
“...we will now hear from Mr. James Cannon, dear friend of Mr. Locke.”
James approached the podium, buttoning his suit. He thanked Mathis. He felt blood drain, tingling, from his face. He looked at the papers before him, coughed, then began.
“I know the pain of meeting the parents,” he said. “I know it’s kind of a cultural staple, this ‘meeting the parents’ of a significant other. The clammy hands, the stare-down, the interrogation. I’ve been shaken to my core in my day, and to put that in perspective, I’m a lawyer.”
Chuckling.
James shook his head. “But there was none of that with Tom. We shared a lot. First time we met, I think my girlfriend Teresa, his lovely daughter,” he gestured, “was jealous of how long we spoke. A big handshake and a big heart, those were the two things instantly recognizable about him.
“Many of you who knew Tom I’m sure are aware that, in addition to being a shrewd businessman, he was also a sucker for the arts. He and I shared that passion, and although it never came to fruition while he was alive, Tom and I often talked about working together to put up our own gallery here in Los Angeles. And today, I’m proud to announce that, with Tom’s generous bequest, I will be opening the Cannon-Locke Gallery in Venice, and hope to have it open in the summer.”
An approving murmur through the crowd. In the rustling flowerbed of discussion bloomed nice little adjectives like “honorable” and “wonderful” and “great” and—and what else were they saying? What else?
He met eyes with Teresa. Between the tear streaks on her face, a proud smile broke.
Chapter 6
I
“So one strawberry says to another, if you hadn’t been so fresh last night, we wouldn’t be in this jam today!”
Southwest was telling jokes again, at least this pilot was, and the effort brightened Ritter. It was a family-friendly joke, a joke with combed hair and a wide 1950s smile. Wholesome.
Not like the world going haywire below him.
I gotta become a real writer. Whatever the hell that meant.
Chuckling next to him. Ritter noticed his neighbor, a man with a bushy mustache, shake his head.
“My friend was on a Southwest flight one time,” said the neighbor, “where the pilot told a joke that probably got him fired.”
“Oh yeah?”
“The captain asked the co-pilot if he blew bubbles when he was a kid. The co-pilot said yes, and the captain said that he’d seen him that morning, and that he said hi.”
“Wait, what?”
“Bubbles. He said that he’d seen Bubbles. You don’t get it?”
“Oh, that he blew a guy named Bubbles.” This time Ritter shook his head. “Har har.”
“Best part was the static shock it sent through the plane. You could feel it.” The man advanced a callused hand. “I’m Walt, by the way.”
“Norm.”
They shook hands. Ritter noticed a butterfly tattoo on the back of Walt’s hand.
“Should I leave you alone during this flight?” Walt asked.
“Why? Do I look like I want to be left alone?”
Walt made a mas-o-menos gesture. “Borderline, I’d say. You look like you got something on your mind.”
“I’m definitely a little disoriented after this trip. I was in Twilight Falls for an art exhibition. Rather strange one, too.”
“You an artist?”
“No. More a critic. Journalist. I write for an art magazine in Los Angeles. Direct Canvas?” Ritter produced his business card.
Walt studied it, wistfully. “Sounds like one hell of a review’s in store.”
In the back of his mind, Ritter thought about Max Higgins and the girl who had come to see him. They had interrupted the show. Had it been an act contrived by Feldman? Who knew. Maybe he ought to contact Max when he got back. See if there was some sense to be made of the parallel universe glimpsed in Twilight Falls that was edging into his own.
“You be careful with that arsenal you got,” Walt said randomly.
Ritter raised an eyebrow. “Arsenal?”
“Yeah. The English language. With one little stab or pinch of a nicely-sharpened word, you can kill things. Or, even worse, make them immortal.”
“I want to illuminate,” Ritter said. “Instruct. Inspire.”
“Without being in a classroom, I take it?”
“Well, what if the city is my classroom?”
Walt chuckled. Down the aisle, flight attendants brought drinks and pretzels and wide fixed smiles. Walt popped open his bag of pretzels and crammed them past his salt-and-pepper mustache.
Bong. The captain came on. Descent toward Los Angeles had begun. And had they heard the
