Epitaph

The moon was rising through the fading light and a bitter nip was now present in the air. All along the street families were turning lamps and televisions on, settling down for the night.

The exception was number 62, the Wallace's place. Their humble terraced home was becoming livelier with each passing minute. Every light in the house seemed to be on; and more cars pulled up outside every minute, dispensing solemn adult faces and well dressed children.

Inside, the two Wallace girls busied themselves; tea here, coffee there, colouring book for the kids. The faster they moved, the easier it seemed to hold back the tears.

No television was on, nor any radio or power shower. Talk filled the rooms. Black the colour of choice.

"Where's Mark?" auntie Sheila asked (she'd always been a nosey old biddy.)

Laura, one of the Wallace girls, seemed paralysed by the question.

"Oh, eh..he's...,"

Uncle Dave, seeing this, quickly swallowed his mini-eclair and licked his fingers as he said, "He's gone to the church Sheila, to arrange everything, you know."

Auntie Sheila, seemingly content with this answer, turned and pottered into the living room.

"Thanks," Laura said, giving a weak smile up to him. Uncle Dave just smiled back and pressed her shoulder.

In the living room, Rosey, the other, older Wallace girl was wedged in the middle of the couch. To the left she heard, "Ah yeah, yeah, and a great mother too, if only...," and on her right, "I always thought that about him, and even..."

Uncle Dave burst in clasping his hands together, Laura trudging behind.

"Well," he said aloud, "I'd say it's time to do the paperwork, wouldn't you guys?"

So, brothers, sisters, and daughters all sat around the mahogany coffee table, Uncle Dave at the centre with a single piece of white paper in hand. Loving memories at the tips of every finger and tongue in the circle.

***

Not two miles away, Mark, the only Wallace boy, sat on a low wall outside the funeral home; smoking a cigarette, enduring the cold, windy night. He felt many things: anger, denial, love, hatred, loneliness and shock, to name but a few. They were all trying to push through the door into his heart and mind at the same time, but they were getting stuck in the frame, leaving only numbness to flow around the young man's body.

As he stubbed yet another butt out on the pavement, Shane pulled up in his car. Shane was a good friend of many years, and how Mark would need him now. Shane worked two jobs to keep his young wife and kid alive. In the day, he worked at Green Fingers garden centre, and at night, in the local publishing house, getting the regional papers ready for the area.

Mark ran over and got inside. Shane said nothing, he just threw a couple of early editions on his lap.

WIFE KILLER
LOCAL BEAST
MADMAN

"Sorry mate," Shane said, sitting uncomfortably in his seat.

Mark wanted to be alone. Getting out of the car, he said thanks to Shane.

"I'll be over first thing," Shane said, as he rolled up the window and took off.

Mark stood for a moment, silently, as the sheets rustled in his hand. He went inside the funeral home.

The secretary smiled from behind a desk, and Mark tapped the counter with his knuckes as he went by into the room labelled: Wallace.

The carpet was blood-red and the walls beige. Scented candles wafted about the air, and warm lamps lit the room in an eye-pleasing fashion. Mark walked up to the coffin with spotlight shining down on it. His father lay inside, his collar and tie pulled up awkwardly to hide the bruising on the neck. He looked from head to chest to hands, hands that looked so innocent now, resting on his stomach, laced with royal blue rosary beads.

"Pick the epitaph of your choice," he said, as he stuffed the front pages down to the foot of the coffin, beside the corpse's feet.

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the room empty once again. He left the Funeral home completely, and began walking to his own home.

To be with his family, and to say goodbye to his mother.