A simple story II part 10
#10 of A simple story II
Nobody wants misfortune. Everyone did his best to avoid it. And because we think sometimes that the misfortune of some can become his, everybody does his best to not to cross the road to the unfortunate. Or at least, when we can't do otherwise, as in a corridor, strives to do not meet the gaze, look the other way and look back only when you think that the misfortune goes away with his victim.
If Francis had eyes in the back of the head, he would have seen the guards turn in his path, some shaking their heads with spite and compassion, others remain frozen, but unable to restrain their curiosity.
The boy thought of nothing of this. Francis was unable to think of anything whatsoever.
« Dad is dead. »
For him, it was still cold information. A page's footnote of a book which he wore only a relative attention. The echo of his steps on the ground of reinforced concrete gave him more to think only of the death of his father and the speed with which he was flanked by two police officers who brought him to the penitentiary centre to formally identify the victim.
In addition to the tiger and the bull, a few steps behind, Greg and his father completed the group. The sequence of events was blurred in the spirit of Francis. He didn't know if they were there when the one who told him being called James Stewart had told him about the murder of his father. Greg's arms were they those in which he was hiding ? Or maybe it was those of Ken, the walking mountain of muscles ? Walking in the hallway leading to the infirmary of the prison behind a distressed Deputy Director just as much by the death of an inmate that by the bureaucracy that it would cause, Francis kept seeing tangled different chronologies of his recent past. Whether one is true or not didn't matter for him. That prevented him from thinking about the only valid information of the moment.
« Dad is dead. »
A few yards behind the top four, Greg watched, curious, the ritual of the prison. Having never come in such an establishment, there only a passing acquaintance, especially made by movies and television series. He quickly understood the difference between reality and the studios, noting the enhanced security, more serious than expected, but also the state of disrepair of the elements of décor. The priority was security, not to the murals.
« Daddy... »
Mark, who walked beside him, leaned a bit.
« Yes ?
I wonder...
Yes ?
Why to come ? After all, it is not as if he was a guy picked up on the street, right ? They know who he is. »
Mark looked a short second the eyes of his son, rubbing his sore nose, wincing slightly as a result of the rapid pain induced by his new ring.
« Of course they know. But when faced with administrative procedures, cannot overcome most of the time. Even if this is obvious, bureaucracy must imposes its rhythm. It's sad, I know. But also...
But also ?
It is also important for the family. To facilitate his mourning and helping him get over his denial. »
Greg remained silent a moment, including the deep reason. Walking behind his friend, he saw only his back, but he didn't felt the pain.
« And... That is what will happen to him then ? I just think about it !
- It doesn't change anything. »
Greg looked at him, surprised, the policeman who had slowly slowed down its not to settle on that Greg and let him join him. Francis was now morally supported by Ken, who walked at his side, a fatherly's hand on his shoulder. Greg understood that Francis was fighting for not to break. Not now anyway. His attention went back to the police officer.
« How that ? »
James was careful to keep a low voice, out of respect for the pain of Francis.
« Francis is already under the tutelage of Mark. His father's death changes nothing, he will remain at home. »
Mark agreed with the words of the officer.
« You don't have to worry about it, you know. Our guardianship was supposed to end with the release of his father, or failing, in his majority. He'll stay, Greg, this isn't a concern. »
Greg released a sigh of relief.
« It's cool. It's bad enough what happens to him, he didn't need that and more... »
The group reformed, time for the Assistant Director to run his opening access card on the grid of reinforced steel which secured access to a corridor leading to the infirmary. In his blue suit night, the otter looked at the boy with a stuffy air.
« We are almost there. It is next door to the right. »
Valuable information indeed, the corridor being pierced with doors of uniform colors without distinctions. The designated door however wore a large red cross on a white background. The bureaucrat opened it, leaving the group go first.
Inside, Francis looked quickly around him. He was in a sort of square waiting room. Three doors lead to various parts. Basically, one could distinguish beds, busy or not. Facing of Francis, was a doctor.
Donkey just like him, the slender forms however, a clear brown body clad in a white coat bristling badges to access and falsely handwriting embroidered on the fabric.
« I am the doctor Vanessa Balwin. You have to be Francis Redhorn, right ? »
Francis nodded. The doctor had not specified "junior" as he was registered on his birth certificate. Francis realized that this was no longer necessary to differentiate him from his father. It remained in memory in a corner of his mind.
« Yes.
- I'm sorry for this tragic news. And also to what will follow. But we must ensure the identity of the victim and as a close relative, you're the only one who can do. »
Greg felt the incongruity of the thing, remembering his previous remark. But if this allowed Francis to get better in the end...
Francis did not answered. The doctor then paved the way, opening the door on the left. It led to a short corridor and to another door closed. The temperature was cooler than before. The Deputy Director held out an arm to block the passage to other non-official visitors.
« You can wait here, we'll be back in a moment. »
Greg tried to protest but refrained in. Mark took the opportunity to sit on a chair in a corner, rubbing his ear and nose.
« Does it hurt ?
A little, and you ?
A little too, but that's normal I think.
Yes. »
The conversations generally had the faculty to remove the worries, but this time, Francis problems were not likely to be erased as easily. Eyes alighted on the closed door, trying to imagine what Francis could see, say and do.
The door closed and notifying the end of the corridor, Francis turned his head, including that he was now alone for the moment. Despite the police bull and his colleague, doctor and Deputy Director, Francis felt alone.
His slow and cumbersome pace led to the last door, the doctor opened with one of her badges. The card made a thin and fast sound during his stint in the drive, which lit up green, and released the penna with a snap lock dry.
The new room was cold. Much colder than the previous ones. No windows allow daylight to penetrate. The concrete walls were painted with a grey metal tone which had to shine a bit there was years ago. But now it seemed as dull and gray as the natural concrete.
The wall on the left of the boy was covered with metal and lockers stainless doors. In front of him, an imposing form laid under a white sheet on the steel table. Police officers began on part and sides of the door, the Assistant Director followed Francis who watched, mesmerized, the body under the sheet. The doctor was across the table, facing him.
« How it happened ? »
The doctor and the bureaucrat stared, a little forbidden, by the legitimate question, but who always surprised when it was issued in a tone as cold and detached. Francis felt their embarrassment having to answer such a question.
« How it happened ? »
This time, Francis had shouted. He clenched his teeth, tears, short breath, spirit about to give up now.
The doctor understood perfectly the state of mind of the boy. He had the right to know after all. She gently lifted the sheet and freed the father of Francis's head, resting the sheet under the neck, taking care not to show the lethal injury.
« A fellow inmate killed him. Your father received two stab wounds. Or a craft blade actually. The first hit him in the left kidney and probably cut off the renal artery. He tried to disengage and fight. He faced but he received another blow which severed his aorta. There was nothing to do. »
While the doctor was doing her best to keep a warm tone able to consolidate Francis, the latter caressed the inert cheek of his father, leaving trainer his fingers on the cold skin, trying to remember the warmth he felt when he was doing the same thing as a kid. Francis was now unable to resist, and his cheeks were flooded with tears.
« Daaaaad... »
The Assistant looked at the police. Who proposed the head. The bureaucratic ceremonial was accomplished.
Sitting, Mark and Greg took up the head by seeing the door open again. Francis was in tears and threw himself into the arms of Greg who gladly welcomed the body warm and upset of his friend. Himself had needed affection and support massive there was little while ago, and Francis had been a great help at this time there. For Greg, it was normal for him to return the favor. The bull laid a hand on their shoulders, looking at them in turn.
« There are still papers to sign, things like that, I'll walk you, okay ? »
Francis raised his head a moment, again, showing the way, walking from Greg who supported him. Deputy Director waited that the boys were out of earshot to continue with Mark.
« It is a great misfortune that hit this boy...
I know. There are other problems to solve ?
Well, yes... A medical examiner will conduct an autopsy for the purposes of the investigation and then we will have to proceed to the burial. You know if the victim had enacted as desired ?
I have not the slightest idea. I'll ask Francis tonight. I'll already let him come to terms.
It's better, yes.
You know how this could happened ? »
The bureaucrat got a tired eye on Mark. Mark decided that it was a question often asked.
« Oddly enough, Yes. The murderer is already locked in his cell awaiting interrogation. I don't have to give you his name, you need to understand this.
Of course.
Settling of scores are common in such a place here. We have installed cameras to avoid escapes than to control the comings and goings, but best prisons still have their weaknesses, their blind spots, their dark corners. The best architect can't think of everything. »
Mark wore an ironic smile.
« Oh yes, reminds me of memories...»
Have you worked in a prison ?
Not really. I was one little bit of the other side of the fence. The wrong side. »
The assistant looked at Mark with a suspicious eye, which returned him a still more sardonic smile.
« I quickly learned my lesson, don't worry !
- It is always a good thing, Yes. »
Mark could detect in his interlocutor's voice a suspicion of questioning which vanishes quickly. The duo began running in the corridors, joining the entrance.
« It would be nice to know if the victim had wishes in any case.
- Need an answer quickly ? »
The Assistant Director thinks quickly.
« It's Saturday. The autopsy will take place definitely Monday. So by Wednesday the burial permit will be issued, unless a judge decides otherwise, but except particular difficulty, this will not be the case. So if on Wednesday we have no news, Mr. Redhorn will be put in the common grave of the prison. This is the procedure.
The common grave ?
Yes. That's what we do. Unless that you take in charge the burial. In this case, we will give you the body. »
Mark thinks quickly. The common grave. This was not unusual. It was the most economical way to dispose of a body for the State.
Mark had never seen Francis Senior. He had never spoken to him. He didn't knew what he looked like until he saw the photo on which he appeared with his wife and sister-in-law. All he knew is that he was an ordinary guy who had seen his life spin out of control the day or his wife was gone.
« So I have until Wednesday ?
Yes.
I think inform you Monday then.
I hope you will do the best for the boy. His father earned his sentence, not to die like this... »
Mark agreed completely. Francis Senior had caused the death of a young man, but he was also victim of his despair and his relations. He deserved prison. Not a premature death.
He put a firm and assured hand on the shoulder of the Assistant Director.
« For that, he can count on our family, don't worry. »
--
The night felt outside and a light and humid wind cooled the atmosphere. A trained nose could begin to distinguish the first fragrances of falling snow that would probably soon cover roads and the roofs of the city. It would only be a light layer, but quite symbolic of the late autumn coming.
Francis's attention was focused on something else entirely. Since he came back from the prison, he had had a picture in his head. The vision of a simple cardboard box in which the life of his father held.
Once the formal identification has been made, Francis had to sign, alone or in the company of Mark a bunch of documents against which the box had been given to him. Nothing distinguished this box from another, without logo or brand, size normal, with just a number inscribed on it. The number of incarceration of his father.
Francis was sitting on his bed, alone in his room. His common room with Greg in truth. A distracted hand felt the roughness of the packaging. He said nothing, but on the way home, Greg and Mark had understood his desire to stay alone. Entered his room, he had put the box on the bed, was sitting beside, and thus remained a long time. This is raising his head and seeing that the only light came from the public lighting that he decided to turn on the light, returning to his place.
The box was on his right. Francis remained silent. Unable to cry more as he did. His mind was inert, anesthetized.
He vaguely remembered having read something about the State of mind of the people who had to deal with their grief. He remembered some of the steps. Denial, anger, denial, acceptance. He felt that he forgot some. He was now caught in it and no reading had prepared him for this. No one could do it, not even Greg.
The mention of his name made him recover a little his mind. What he was doing ? It was a Saturday night. The traditional day of the parties, evenings, trips.
Francis could hear Mark and Greg's steps down the stairs. None had the heart to rejoice. The television was still off, modern sign of respect of the bereaved. They were to discuss, prepare to eat.
Francis felt now hunger to remember to its memory. Despite the sadness and mourning, the body continued to claim its ration of survival. Francis did not feel the urge to eat. His stomach would wait well the next day.
Turning his head, the boy saw his hand, still on his father's life. The box was heavy, sign it was full. The cardboard was a standard size. A man's life can be summed up in this ?
Curiosity led him to finally act. Francis put the cardboard in the middle of the bed, near on it, cross-legged, lifting the cover gently.
A strong musty smell filled his nostrils. Poorly ventilated shed and sweat mixture dry. Francis though quickly this sweat was his father's.
On top, a transparent plastic pouch tore him an embarrassed smile. A white undie inside. Probably the one worn the day of his incarceration. Francis knew that the prisoners were not allowed to have personal effects outside of a list short and precise. But he did not knew that this included underwears.
Given its size, Francis could have put them too. He looked at the cover, refrained from open it and laid it on the bed, still unaware of what it would do with it eventually.
Then there a plaid shirt. White with thin red lines. Folded the right way but dirty. Francis recognized it. His father wore it the night of the restaurant or it him had expressed his intention to leave Colorado. To start a new life.
Especially to escape the police, in fact...
Francis bit his lower lip to not cry. He wanted to keep a good memory of his father despite what he had done. He did not approve. But his unjust death bought him back a little in his eyes. After all, he had never made his grievance to be homosexual when Greg's father, finally, his sire, had closed his door.
Francis looked for a moment the ancient sauce task that no laundry had been able to get back from his father's stomach. He rubbed his finger the tuft of son left by the button missing, then he put the shirt above the packed slip.
Followed pants, gray jeans, with a few patches of oil on the bottom. This also, impossible to clean fully. But they remained discreet and it wasn't an evening outfit. His father had no belt despite his overweight. Evidence that he had been able to find a perfect pants size. The garment fell on the shirt faster still before being joined by his shoes, worn red sneakers.
Francis then took a black leather portfolio. Real leather. Francis opened it and withdrew the license of his father, who was smiling stupidly at the camera. The face seemed warm and alive, with his eyes half-closed because of the flash probably. A tear running down his cheek, Francis kissed the piece of plastic before putting it down on the pile.
A few cards and coupons. A dozen of dollars in bills, some coins. Francis left all loose on the pile.
In the box, it was only a brown paper envelope. It was closed by the wire twisted in a wax seal. Waving, Francis could hear the sound of the metal inside. The wire not resisted his hand which tore the closure before pouring the content between his legs.
For once, Francis looked truly the life and death of his father rest between his legs on the blanket.
Short of breath, throat knotted, Francis grabbed the ring of his father. Despite the departure of his mother... His wife...
Francis once again bit his lower lip. Even if she was not his real mother, she had played the role until her departure. She deserved a little bit this title after all.
Even so after the departure of his mother, Francis Senior had continued to wear his wedding ring. Even after he knew that the formalities of the divorce had been settled. It was a proof of love to which his father did not give up.
The alliance in the palm of his hand, Francis played with the set of keys of the house which was no longer his. This interest quickly, grabbing the chain of silver which remained the last evidence of the existence of his father. Francis looked at a silver links. They were in excellent condition. It was a gem of a low price, but his father always took great care, having been given to him by his own father. The name "Francis" was engraved in italics.
Francis smiles, sincere way. Who now wore a curb chain ? It seemed so old-fashioned.
At the same time, he saw more connected watch and bracelets. Rites changed over time, that's all, but the need to mark oneself to identify one way or another remained. Francis had barely had time to note the rings that pierced the septum of Greg and Mark, but it was the same identification ritual and personalization.
Francis rose. He handed his father's belongings in the card in bulk and closed as best as he could before setting it down on a chair in a corner of the room before to leave the room. He went down the stairs, which seemed to surprise Mark and Greg, who were sitting to eat.
« You... Are you hungry ? »
Francis shook his head.
« Not really, no. Mark, can I ask you something ? »
Mark stood up, wiping his mouth.
« Of course. »
Francis went up a little. Greg, who was across the table, struggled to hear the claim that Francis made in the hollow of the ear of Mark, who thought for a moment.
« I believe that I have it, yes. One moment, I'll get it. »
Greg looked at and Mark climb the stairs, and Francis who, despite his first denial, took a ball of bread to bite into it.
« Feel better ?
- I do not know. I just have enough to sit still. I need to act, to decide. I didn't want to stay to cry for hours, that's all. »
Greg included the state of mind of his friend. He looked out a short silver chain from his pocket, set on a plate.
« What is it ?
It was his. He had received as a gift from his parents before they die in a road accident. This is a curb.
A curb ? »
Greg knew what was a curb. What surprised him, it was to see that the father of his friend had one. He was even more surprised to see Francis to close it on his right wrist, playing to move its articulation to watch from all possible angles.
« It is the right size ! »
Mark, who was returning from his room, hand closed in on a small object, the question arose.
« What is the right size ? »
Francis said nothing, merely to show the mesh silver guardian, who looked at the male jewel with a curious eye.
« You had one then ? »
Mark got back his attention to Francis.
« Yes. A friend gave it to me for my five years of marriage, but it was too small for my neck, and anyway, it was a model that did not suit me. »
Mark opened his hand and dropped a string of silver in the palm of Francis, who played with the fine mesh. He looked at the end the jewel and studded leather collar that adorned on Mark's neck now.
« Yes, it's more in your style, I think. »
Mark smiled. Everyone was in agreement. Even Ed had found time to respond to the photo sent a few hours earlier, approving strongly.
Francis put the thin man's necklace on the table and made it go to the ring of his father before closing the chain around his neck, making sure that the ring hangs well centrally on his chest. The boy turned his head and looked for a reflective surface. He found it on the front of the large fridge. The brushed metal was a poor mirror but it was enough for Francis to get an idea.
Mark and Greg watched him do. And a mutual look, approved the choice of Francis, who showed a sincere smile.
« My father was an ass. But he was a good guy. He was not perfect, far from it. But he always taught me to behave and cope with my responsibilities. What he also did when he had to do. I will never approve what he did. Nobody can. But he has not rejected me when I told him what I was. He took the time to tell me that this was not important to him. That the only thing that mattered, it was for me to be happy and not to hurt others as he did. He deserved prison. Not to end up like this. »
Francis's fingers touching the alliance with enough force to clear unless the donkey realized, nor of his voice which was beginning to fill with emotion.
« I... No one deserves to end like this. No one. Not my father, and still less the poor guy that he caused the loss. »
Francis carried the alliance under his eyes, smiling somewhat despite his mourning finally began in his eyes and in the eyes of his friends.
« He has always loved me, always respected. Even if I understood him less in recent years. He always tried to act in the best interests and mine also. He has made mistakes, but I know that I'll do also then I forgive them his. I want to remember nevertheless as a man who tried to do well and who's just lost. This... He was my father and I will never have shame to tell or show ! Never ! »
Greg looked, moved and understanding, the tears running down the cheeks of his friend in abundance. He approached and embraced him tenderly, nose against his cheek. Francis finally emptied his sorrow, his rage, his anger. His father's life was over and Francis' began truly.
A sad and softened look focused on the couple, Mark turned and grabbed his car keys hanging on the wall, starting to put on his shoes and a thick leather jacket. There was still one thing to do despite the relatively late hour, also wanting to leave this moment of tenderness and emotion shared by his boys. He could not prevent this thought to come to his mind when opening the door, looking up, looking at the wet sky from the outside, or a hazy moon was trying to break through the clouds.
« You at least managed to make your son a man. I hope that this will brought you to your credit. »