Zeke Morrison scooped up a handful of dirt in his fist. He stood over the yawning grave that moments before had received the earthly remains of Stanley Marcus Addison. Opening his hand, Zeke slowly released the soil, watching the earth scatter over the gleaming surface of the mahogany coffin below.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Zeke hated funerals. He would far rather have looked down the barrel of a gun than into the grief-stricken eyes of Addison’s widow. She stood opposite him, on the other side of the grave, a delicate woman, too young to be in black, clutching the hands of her two small sons, one snuffling against his mother’s sleeve.
Zeke experienced a tightness in his throat and cursed his own folly in coming. He could have made some excuse. He had even avoided his own mother’s burial, although his conscience had never given him a moment’s ease since for that bit of cowardice. He had vowed never to make that mistake again.
So this morning he had endured the church service, the minister’s endless eulogy, every word of it deserved by Addison, every word a sharp reminder to Zeke of the kind of man who had been lost. He reflected bitterly that the world would have beenbetter off if that headstone had marked a reprobate like himself instead of the idealist young politician.
As he stepped back from the grave, Zeke felt shamed by his relief that the funeral was almost over. He watched as Rory tossed in a handful of earth. Zeke hadn’t asked her to accompany him, but he was glad she had, drawing comfort from looking into her face, those impish eyes for once sweetly solemn, her mouth tremulous with grief for a man she’d never even met.
Zeke was not as pleased by the sight of Bill Duffy. This was one place the press didn’t belong, the reporter’s flaming red hair somehow an affront to these somber proceedings. Yet Zeke was forced to admit that Duffy conducted himself with decorum, his derby held respectfully in his gloved hands, no sign of the ever-present notebook and pencil.
He edged close enough to Zeke and Rory to murmur, “Damned fine service even if it was a bit long”
“I doubt that matters much to Stanley Addison,” Zeke snapped.
“Funerals are not for the dead, only the living,” Rory said. “Just a way of saying good-bye.”
As far as Zeke was concerned, there would have been only one fitting way to bid Addison’s memory farewell, and that was to have the man responsible beneath his fists. But that satisfaction had been denied him, his only consolation now to picture Charles Decker roasting in hell, his skinny buttocks seared by the hottest flames.
Zeke fidgeted, trying to quell such thoughts. They didn’t seem quite fitting standing in the shadow of a church. The funeral might be nearly over, but the worst part was yet to come, the moment to step up and mutter some final consoling words to the bereaved family. Zeke never could think of anything appropriate to say.
When Rory walked up to Mrs. Addison, Zeke hung back. He couldn’t hear all of what she said, something about Addison resting with the angels. Of course, Rory would believe in angels, the conviction in her voice bringing a sad smile to the lips of the widow.
Zeke wasn’t sure what he believed in. He only knew that such remarks had never afforded him much comfort. Maybe it was fine and dandy to think of the deceased stringing harps by the peace of the pearly gates, but that sure didn’t help those left behind, trying to mend the hole torn in their lives.
He tensed as he realized Rory had stepped back. His turn was next. Clearing his throat, he managed to mumble gruffly, “Very sorry.” Which he was, but that didn’t bring Addison back. Rather awkwardly, he offered the widow his hand, which she took, her fingers not much larger than a child’s.
Zeke had never really taken much notice of Clara Addison, a gentle shadow in her husband’s wake. Now he felt appalled by what a wisp of a thing she was, too frail to be left to the task of raising two boys alone.
“If there is anything you ever need—” he began, then broke off, embarrassed. “Though I am sure Addison’s trust fund left you well provided for.”
“Oh, Mr. Morrison.” She pressed his hand, and Zeke had difficulty meeting those brimming blue eyes. “My Stanley had many fine qualities, but being practical, planning for the future, wasn’t one of them. I know that trust fund was set up by you two days ago.”
Zeke felt his face wash dull red. “Well, yes, but it was money that Addison had invested with me to?—”
She gently shook her head. “It was very generous of you, Mr. Morrison. But I fear I cannot accept such a gift.”
Generous? Why didn’t she jab a red hot stake through his heart and be done with it. His own conscience was certainly doing so at this moment.
“It’s not a gift, madam,” he said. “I owe your family that much. I feel a certain amount of responsibility for your husband’s death. He didn’t understand the risks that he was taking, but I did. I should have never helped him with his campaign and then maybe he would still be alive.”
But Clara Addison would have none of that either. “With or without your backing, Stanley would have pursued his reforms. It was what he believed in as much as any soldier who dies for his country on the battlefield. Surely you can understand that.”
Zeke didn’t. He had always thought men were marks who died fighting for any cause other than their own. Addison’s widow was just as starry-eyed as he had been. All the same, Zeke made one more effort to reason with her about the money.
“You should take it,” he urged. “If not for yourself, then for your boys. It’s no more than I would have spent on your husband’s campaign for mayor.”
She cast a wistful glance toward her two children, who had wandered off and gathered up a handful of dandelions to bring back to their father’s grave. Her lip quivered. “For their sakes, then, thank you. But I can only accept a portion of the sum you proposed. The rest I would still like you to put into Addison’s campaign.”
Zeke regarded her with a tinge of impatience. Didn’t she understand that there could no longer be any campaign? One couldn’t elect a dead man as the mayor.
“With your husband gone, I am afraid—” he began.
“Someone else will step forward to take his place. There are other good men who resent corruption as much as he did, who feel there is no reason people should be starving, living in tumbledown tenements, not in a city as bountiful as New York.”She unnerved Zeke by staring directly into his eyes. “Yourself, perhaps?”
“Me?” Zeke blurted out. “I’m no crusader, madam. I’m only the one who signs his name to the checks.”
