Page 135 of Every Good Thing
I promised always and wrecked us the moment things got hard.
Mr. Wickers fiddles with his tie knot, taking it from straight to crooked. “She didn’t stay long, but handed over her cupcakes and invited me to the café. I’m always there, bright and early, she said. Come anytime. So, I did. I had a purpose again. She made me see that my worth wasn’t in a job. Or a paycheck. I’m worthy just being me.”
Lena’s words from comic-con whisper through my thoughts. “We don’t need you to be a cop or a hero or anything. You are enough. You are all we need.”
“I’ve treated her horribly,” I say, the words rising from some deep pit inside me. I don’t say things like this aloud. I don’t talk to people. But where has my silence gotten me?
“She’ll forgive you.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Let her decide.”
“She needs more than I can offer her. She needs me to be strong enough to be vulnerable. I’ve spent my adult life serving and protecting. I fear I won’t be able to do that for my own family.”
He nods, soaking up my words like a dry sponge. “Son, you do that just by showing up. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know that already.” His hand lands gently on my arm. “Don’t let go because you’re afraid to hold on.”
His words rattle around in my head like loose bolts. “It’s too late.”
“You’re here. She’s here. It’s never too late.”
He rises weakly and finds a better seat near the front.
When guests arrive, I do my duty, my guilt and shame gnawing at me relentlessly. Neighbors and friends greet me with smiles and kind words as if nothing’s happened, and I absorb their collective warmth like a campfire on a cold night.
A woman I don’t recognize rushes in wearing an elegant black dress and rain boots, which she quickly changes out of while leaning against the wall beside me. When she’s ready, I hand her a program.
“Can you point me toward the church’s pianist? Mrs. Moore called me last week to perform a special song for her funeral. I had no clue it’d happen so fast.” She scans the program. “Okay, I’m there, at least. I need to coordinate with whoever does the music.”
I direct her to the fellowship hall. She quickly weaves through the growing crowd and disappears.
Moments before the service begins, Lena texts. Can you hand off the programs to someone else and join us? I quickly obey, asking Jack Harvey to take over.
I find their small group in a nervous huddle in the fellowship hall while Reverend Jenkins watches in helpless resignation.
“I don’t want them here,” Dot says with irritation. Her eyes lock on me as I enter the room. “Are they here? Did you see them?”
“Your parents?” I ask, trying to catch up. A mental scan of guests in my head stops on strangers who most resemble Dot. “Yes.”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes dramatically.
“Would you like me to ask them to leave?”
The ladies turn to me, stunned, but I don’t see what’s surprising. Identify the problem. Solve the problem. Simple.
“Would you really do that?” Dot asks, almost dreamily.
“Yes.”
Lena smirks, knowing I mean it, and I feel superhuman.
“We generally don’t turn away mourners,” Reverend Jenkins says, looking worried. “View it as an opportunity for reconciliation.”
Dot scoffs again. “Forget it. Let them hover and judge. Let’s just get this over with.”
I turn to exit and find a solo seat in the crowded sanctuary, but Dot’s brash voice stops me with, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Ben, sit with us, with the family,” Lena explains.
