I’m looking down at a complete stranger’s tombstone.
Unsure who or what this man was, what concerns me at the moment is his name – Henry T. Stone, the exact handle my old man went by during his ill-fated existence.
The years in which they lived are very different but seeing as the Henry T. Stone that conceived and then raised me has no marked grave to speak of, this is a close enough facsimile for me to express a ubiquitous, unspoken goodbye.
The entrance at the art gallery is crowded and I can’t tell where the line starts or ends so I just start shoving people aside. More than one person calls me a prick but I don’t care and now I’m paying my admission and asking what floor Regina Stone’s paintings are on. The woman who’s giving me my change doesn’t seem to know so I just start wandering around once I’m inside.
I find a computerized directory and type in the words ‘stone’ and ‘regina’ and after a minute the screen reads ‘Hall 3-B’ so I make my way up a winding staircase.
Regina Stone’s only piece of work on display is an abstract oil painting that looks like it was created by a toddler and I don’t really feel anything but confusion when I look at it. I try and remember what my mother looked like but the face I envision is featureless, an opaque canvas. All I can think about is her shooting up and then screaming at me for hours while Dad was at the factory.
My stomach churns. I leave the gallery.
Betty hasn’t returned any of my messages so I decide to visit her at the restaurant.
Our eyes meet as soon as I walk through the door. “What the hell are you doing here?” She looks mad. Real mad.
I tell her my plan and that I wanted to see her one last time to say goodbye. She storms out through the back door. I pause for a moment then follow her outside.
Betty’s crouching down against the side of a brick building. She looks uncomfortable. An unlit cigarette dangles from her mouth as she stares blankly at the ground.
I approach her slowly and she looks up at me with her sullen, hazel eyes.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she laments.
“I wanted to see you before I leave.”
“So now you’ve seen me.”
“Okay then” I start to leave and Betty tells me to stop.
I turn back to face her and wait for her to say something else for what feels like forever.
She finally blurts out something about the money she owes me but it’s barely audible, her words consumed by ravenous sorrow.
I tell her not to worry about it and make my way back through the restaurant and onto the barren city street. Each step I take is somehow lighter than the last.
About the author:
It all fits together. You explain just enough to hint at the past and hint at the future. The future should be better than the past.