Chapter Thirty Two

GRAYSON

I'm jostled away from a deep slumber by the alarm on my phone. Perhaps for the first time in a week. I hesitate to rise immediately from the bed, but it seems the alarm has woken Boo Radley also. His smooth, moist tongue licks all over my chin and mouth. And his breath could stand to be freshened, though I doubt there's anything in his go-bag to remedy it. I stretch my legs while my arms do much of the same. After a cavernous yawn, the soles of my feet feel the stringent fibers of our hotel carpeting. I slip into a pair of black polyester shorts with the Yankees logo, patting my thigh to signal to Boo Bear that we're heading out for his morning piss.

I need to pee too, but I'm sure my little bastard needs to go. I'd rather wait to relieve myself, saving the carpet's integrity. With my feet slipped into my shoes, I perform my usual morning hobble, making my way into the sitting area where Boo's leash is bound to be somewhere. He follows my lead as I scan the room. Of course, if it were a snake, it would have bitten me. I hook the leash to his collar before we set out for the elevator in the hallway.

Outside, he leads me around the corner to a shaded patch of grass so he can do his deed. It's only been a couple of minutes, and I can already feel beads of sweat building up between the cloth of my shirt and my back. I seriously doubt the barometer changed any through the night, even if our hotel is well air conditioned. If there's one good thing to come from today, it's the fact Julian's funeral is being held inside St. Valentine's Cathedral. Not outside, since he ultimately won't be buried.

Boo Radley and I head back upstairs so I can finally do my morning business. And shower. We reach the door when I realize I've left my keycard in my messenger bag, which is on the bench at the foot of the bed. Out of pure luck, Alex answers when I knock. They've just woken. Perhaps it was the noise we made before tottering into the hallway.

"Hey guys," he says, waving us inside as if we're guests. "Potty time huh?"

I nod while unclasping the dog leash. "Yeah," I reply, darting straight to my bathroom.

The warmth of relieving my bladder causes my eyes to roll straight back. A minute longer and I probably wouldn't have made it. As I return the shorts to my waist, I think just how lucky I am that I didn't spill my guts into the toilet like I did many other mornings this past ten days. It might just be the only good thing to come from drinking very little. With that thought, I start the shower so it can get warm while I wash my hands at the sink. It may be a thousand fucking degrees outside, but I'll always take a warm shower no matter the weather.

With the aid of very effective water pressure, I spend several minutes cleaning up before reaching out for a fresh towel. At the sink, I grab my toothbrush, quickly scrubbing it around both jaws. I can smell the incredibly fresh scent of bacon wafting in from the sitting area, but there's no chance I'll be hungry until I've said my last goodbye. If anything, I've felt the pit in my stomach return since three or four in the morning. Well, it never really left, rather less intense. But today of all days, I'm sending my Puerto Rican sensation off in style. Eating away at my heart like a worm to the core of an apple in the process.

The shirt I bought—or rather Alex did—hangs from a hook out on the closet door. I retrieve it, my black slacks, and belt, then return to the bathroom mirror. I dress quickly because I must be at the church before everyone else. The only second that I pause is to study my reflection striking a different sentiment now.

No doubt, I still feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow. But my satin paisley shirt in the colors of a peacock and gold tie is very similar to what I wore the night I proposed to Julian. If I'd have chosen to wear black like every other person probably will, I know I'd hear him screaming from the other dimension. Excluding pants, his bright spirit rarely allowed any shade of black to see the light of day.

Slipping the blazer over my shoulder, I gather the messenger bag to step out into the sitting area. Miles and Alex are finishing their breakfast while Boo Radley is between them, chomping at the bit just waiting for Miles to feebly drop his bacon.

"I'll see you guys at the church," I affirm over my shoulder, saluting them at my right temple. Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt anymore.

Both guys respond similarly. "Yeah, we'll be there soon."

In the car, I prop my blazer over the passenger seat before fastening my seatbelt. The half-empty Tums bottle graces my lips as I press the ignition button. Bluetooth finishes connecting immediately before I even finish retreating from my parking spot. I set out East on State Road 10, slipping the shades over my face.

Josh Groban's "Si Volvieras a Mi" plays, sending chills down my spine. It's a very emphatic song in Spanish, telling the story about a lost lover. Miles happened upon it by accident on Tuesday night when me and the guys sat down, scrubbing the deep corners of the web for funeral music.

A smoke rests between my fingers as I continue the twenty or so minutes into Felton. I can't imagine what all today will bring. Besides a fuckton of tears and possibly a couple of emotions I've yet to experience. If that's even possible. But at this moment, I don't feel too awful. It's amazing what reuniting with Ma and Jake has done in providing me some basic comfort from two people I didn't imagine coming from in the first place.

St. Valentine's Cathedral rests just six miles on the opposite side of Felton, in Washington Parish. Contrary to how things are in New York City, it's not atypical for places to be so spread apart in this Hellhole of a state. It's just up ahead on the left, so I take yet another drag from my smoke before rolling down the window long enough to discard the filter. Much like Tennessee, I don't really care if it's illegal here either. Not with the particular mood I'm in.

I pull into the lot at the church, choosing my parking spot. A few more Tums crush between my teeth while retrieving my wallet from the messenger bag. This may be the first time in a while that I've gone inside a place without it. But I don't quite feel like toting it around all damn day. I reach for my blazer and phone before recoiling out to the asphalt.

It's so hot out already that I can see the opaqueness of heat rising from the ground off in the distance. With it brings a twangy whistling sound flourishing around my mind, the likes of which resemble a duel in an old spaghetti western. On my few steps toward the double church doors, I straighten the lapels of my blazer. The fretting sensation in my stomach has reached peak anxiety.

Father Clarence meets me in the narthex where there's already a small wicker basket, filled to the brim with folded programs that Alex designed on his laptop Wednesday. I can feel Julian's presence. Unlike Saturday night when I thought I'd seen his ghost—or perhaps too snockered to know the difference—this feels way too realistic. I know I shouldn't be surprised since the husk of his soul's recent lifetime is barely thirteen yards away in the sanctuary.

Father Clarence waves me inside. "Grayson," he says with an outstretched hand. "Have you slept any better since we met?"

I shrug. "I suppose as much as can be expected."

"The flowers haven't arrived yet, but they're expected soon," he advises. "I don't suppose you're ready to go in there?"

"I guess as ready as I'll ever be," I reply under the veil of total uncertainty. "Would you mind if I went in alone?"

He shakes his head. "Not at all," he replies. "I'll be back at my desk if you need me before the service starts."

"K," I respond, waving nervously.

It takes me a few minutes to muster the bravery to walk my white gay ass through this second set of doors. I know what's waiting for me on the other side. I could chicken out and leave. Gather my belongings, then board the first plane to depart New Orleans the minute I get there. Or I can buck the fuck up and put on that coat of arms I wore any time Julian needed my protection. I'm certainly not going to cower with avoidance. But I also know that badass persona is way beyond reach. I clear my throat, trying to ignore the fear while straightening my shoulders. And my neck cracks as I twist it way past my shoulder.

The sanctuary is just bright enough. Sun peers through walls of stained glass all around as I follow a narrow path leading me straight to the altar. In the center is a rectangular casket crafted with cherrywood. My stomach aches with each step I take. The left lid is already propped open, but I don't see Julian's body inside until I ascend the platform. My spine jolts with goosebumps scattering down both arms. Despite my blazer serving as a jacket, a brief chill forays my upper body.

Inevitably, my sight sets on the body lying among satin lined cushions. His hands folded at his chest, but his eyes are shut this time. It doesn't matter though. A scintillating flash jolts my memory back to when I saw him collapsed on the bathroom floor—death stare and all. He seems to be at peace. Lord only knows the limits of his inner pain and anguish which led up to this.

My fingers trace the opening of his casket as I feel the weight of every emotion thirty-two goddamn years has brought, pouring from my eyelids. I reach down, caressing his cheek with the back of my hand. The temperature catches me off guard, my hand retreating instinctively. Another river of emotion ensconces both eyelids, hindering any ability to see clearly. No sooner do I attempt wiping away the sad from my eyes, when I hear footsteps climbing the steps behind me.

A young male voice announces their presence as I turn my head to see a person's figure standing beside me. I use the curl of my finger to wipe my eyes clear. He places an arrangement of white roses on the other closed lid. Meanwhile, another guy tows a standing wreath of roses and lilies combined. It finally registers in this moment, curdling my roiled blood into an absolute fucking frenzy.

"NOOO!" I shout, my arm involuntarily thrashing the roses over the side of the casket.

A look of disbelief washes the young, pitying boy's visage. He flinches, shoving his arms out in front of his chest as if I'm going to start swinging in a fit of fury.

I continue shouting. "IT'S ALL WRONG!" I exclaim, another salted river crashing through the barricades of my soul.

My arms flail up towards the vaulted ceiling as if I'm cursing the heavens. "HE FUCKING HATED ROSES!"

"It's okay, man," he professes. "Honestly—let me call my boss and we'll figure something out—okay?"

No sooner does he stop pleading for mercy when I turn my head back around to spot Miles and Alex down at the door. They hurry down the aisle in this direction. The boy descends the steps only moments before Miles leaps up to the platform. He places his arms around my shoulders, much like a hug. I shove him away, pressing my palms into my face. I continue sobbing, only stopping to sniffle every couple of seconds. I raise my wrist to wipe away the tears when I feel an instant shift in my mood.

"Why'd he have to do this?" I question, staring directly into Miles' soul. "He's lying there in tranquility and I'm over here losing my shit because they got the flowers all wrong," I add, crying into my palms once more.

"If only I'd have paid closer attention—" I proclaim but pause to take in a deep breath. "I would've stopped him—I would've been there—I would've just fuckin' been there—I wanna know why he did it," I continue my tirade, storming away from Miles and Alex. "It's not fair—it's not supposed to be like this."

Miles comes forward with a cautiously extended arm, spontaneously auditioning to be re-cast as Owen Grady. "Gray, buddy," he begins in a hushed tone. "It's gonna be okay."

"IT'S NOT OKAYYYYY," I screech. "IT'S NEVER GONNA BE OKAY EVER AGAIN, MILES!!" I add, sidestepping him. My hands return to both sides of my head. "WE COULD'VE HAD MORE TIME!!"

Another mournful emotion assaults the apertures of my spirit once again as I approach the casket. "No—no—no," I continue moaning, behind the veil of anger. "I need more time," I add, my voice cracking by this point.

"I've absolutely failed as a husband," I wail. "I need more tiiiimmmeeeee."

I hover Julian's body, glowering down at him through foggy eyes. My head rests inside the crook of my left arm, meanwhile salted streams rain down on the fabric of his cobalt blue suit. What emotional stability I'd found a mere three days ago seems to have vanished altogether. My woeful stance, thrown over Julian's hollow shell, persists for several minutes. All the while wondering for how much longer my life will feel this empty. With another shift in my mood, I suddenly find myself growing entirely jealous of him. I don't have anything left to live for. I should be in a goddamn wooden box next to him.

O ne hour and four cigarettes later, everyone else begins arriving. I don't know ninety percent of the people who've walked through the doors. Amelia invited the congregation to attend in support of Sophia and Julio. I see her walking down the aisle with Sophia's arm hooked inside hers. Julian's mom may require help keeping her gait, but she's doing impressively for her age and circumstances.

A man in a wheelchair resembling the one I saw in that picture at Julian's house, is being pushed by a young woman. I gather it's Julio and someone from the physical rehab facility. His faculties seem in check, since nothing but a frown adorns his sullied mien. When I take another glance at Sophia, she smiles right along with the pep in her step. Evidently the reality hadn't stuck in her disease ravaged brain. It crushes my spirits to imagine what it must be like for her not realizing she's attending her own son's funeral service.

I approach Amelia, pointing her to the front pew right next to Jake and Ma. There's enough room on the end for Julio's wheelchair and his caretaker to take a seat. My hand reaches out to help Sophia find a comfortable position next to Jake. She smiles up towards my dismal sights, pointing at my gold tie.

Her eyes grow with admiration. "You sure are handsome today dear," she offers.

"Thanks," I reply, primping my right lapel under the guise she might remember who I am.

"Happy Easter, Charlie," she responds innocuously.

Maybe not! At this point, I'm sure my mug appears awkwardly contorted. She thinks this is an Easter service. I don't have the mental fortitude to even attempt correcting her. Much less go through the torment of seeing her react to the news, as if it would be the first time that she'd be hearing it. Another tear falls from the cusp of my right eye as I take my place next to Ma. Father Clarence approaches the lectern from around the altar. The microphone picks up the gurgles of him clearing his throat, resounding throughout the whole sanctuary. He begins reciting the opening prayer with everyone's head bowed, save for poor Sophia.

My hazy mind misses most of Father Clarence's speech. Not as if I'm purposely ignoring him. It's difficult to focus with so many strangers in the room. I'm about to give my speech and it's taking every morsel I have inside me to remain strong. Miles and Alex bargained with him, coming to the agreement that this would be a less traditional Catholic funeral than he's used to. With some persuading, he agreed to respect our wishes. But with so many people whom I've never met, I almost wished I didn't have to stand and speak at all.

The sanctuary goes radio silent a few minutes later. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can hear the crickets chirping from down the vestibule. When I scan my surroundings, everyone is staring directly at me. Ma nudges my arm.

"Sweetheart, it's your turn," she whispers.

Here goes nothing. I begrudgingly rise to my feet, approaching the microphone, fully cognizant that this is not at all like my public proposal in front of a dozen New Yorkers. My hand reaches inside the inner pocket of my blazer to retrieve my speech I've prepared ahead of time. Meanwhile, the other covers a dry cough. Yet again regretting all the damn cigarettes and Tums causing me to be parched. I lower my head to focus on the words I've written. I begin my speech much like a story, starting with part of that monologue of thoughts from the day Julian received his diagnosis.

"When entering a relationship, nobody prepares you for all the bad you will face," I start. "Nobody's there with a hot cup of tea and a list of signs or things to look out for, and you're not given a handbook on how to deal with the roadblocks and detours life throws your way—" I add, scowling in Ma's direction.

She nods as if I'm doing okay thus far, so I continue. "—Which can test the very limits of the bond with your new partner," I cough again. "All you're equipped with are the primal instincts given to you when you're born, and it's your responsibility to know how best to cultivate them the best way you know how."

I swipe away the few tears welling at my lids before persisting. "Julian was diagnosed with early-onset Familial Alzheimer's Disease just over a year ago," I say, nervously tapping my fingers against the lectern. "Even then, I found no comfort in the shelf full of books on a subject written specifically for the loved ones this nasty disease affects," I sniffle. "So even in the throes of this major roadblock in our relationship, I was given a guide on how to navigate caring for a spouse with Alzheimer's," I add, taking in another shallow breath.

"And yet I defaulted to my instincts to help me grasp hold of the reality we were facing," I shake my head doubtfully. "If someone were to have told me thirty-two years ago that this would happen, I'm not sure I would've chosen to tread this path," I admit dejectedly. "Would you—knowingly put yourself through the nightmares that you've confronted in your own life?" I ask, genuinely expecting to see at least a few heads nod in agreement.

"Twenty-seven years ago, Julian and I were expecting a set of twins," I admit, this fact stinging from the furrows of my soul. I sniffle while holding back the river. "But that winter we were forced to accept the fact that they'd miscarried, and it ate at our very existence," I add, fully cognizant that the goddamn waterworks are coming anyway.

"After we found a way to heal from that grief, we found the deeper parts of ourselves and channeled an even greater love for one another," I affirm. "Way more than we'd already fostered," I profess behind my cracking voice. "It made our bond stronger than we'd ever thought possible," I pause for another breath. "We weren't given a damn thing to help guide us around that roadblock, no."

With another pause for breath, my proclamation continues. Meanwhile, random coughs can be heard from all around the church pews.

"We trusted our instincts and they enhanced our relationship in the process," I say, dabbing my eyes with a sleeve. "And even though life threw this Alzheimer's diagnosis my way, I found a way to cope in the best ways that I knew how—and it made me learn to develop more patience—more than I already had," I admit, pointing at Julian's casket behind me. "My instincts made me a stronger man and made me learn to accept the things I can't change," I profess. "Losing a spouse is a lot worse than any diagnosis he could've ever been given, and I'm probably not gonna live another day as happy as I was with this man in my world," I pause again to clear my craggy throat.

"But handbook or no handbook, I'd go through it all again just so I could experience a second lifetime with Julian Tomás Torres and find the joy in moving through another life with those primal instincts leading the way," my voice faltering by this point. "Alzheimer's or not, he made me wanna be a better person every single day," I conclude, an ocean of sorrow crashing against the shoreline of my soul.

I twist my head around towards Julian's body at total peace. "Tibi gratias ago, meus amor, et tantum desidero," which translates to, "Thank you, my love, I miss you so much."