Page 77 of The Dearly Departed

My eyes squeezed shut tightly, and my fist clenched against the armrest of the high-backed dining room chair—the same one Leonard had sat in just days before—as I listened to Gerald recall the night, fourteen years ago, when he'd paid me a visit at the funeral home.

I had demanded that he leave, and he reluctantly listened. He headed down the hallway toward the main entrance of the funeral home, when I heard a door close, and I thought he’d left. But as I returned to my work, Leonard went after him, and the two men talked on the porch, unbeknownst to me or my brothers.

They introduced themselves to each other—two very different men from very opposite sides of the tracks. They agreed to meet up, and that was exactly what they did only days later. After a few drinks and a couple of burgers, they found that, though unlikely, they actually got along.

They'd become friends. Buddies with one important common interest—us.

My brother and me.

"Lenny told me to stay away," Gerald said, his hand around a bottle of Bud. "Said that, if you boys had reason to keep me at a distance, then he trusted you. But that didn't stop us from being pals."

"Bullshit," I murmured because I wanted it to be. “There’s absolutely no fucking way—"

"I understand why you're upset," he replied. "It's like, uh … realizing your old man was a loser after you thought he was fuckin' Superman."

"You know, you could've picked an analogy I might be able to relate to," I said, unamused.

He tipped his head, studying me for a beat of my heart before he lifted the beer bottle to his lips and said, "And what makes you think I was talkin’ about me?"

He diverted his eyes as he drank, and I realized something with startling clarity.

"You envied him," I stated, knowing it was true.

With a swallow, he pursed his lips and sucked at his fake white teeth. "He … had something I wanted, yes."

"So, you, what? Faked a friendship with him to—"

He snorted bitterly. "Kiddo, you are giving me way too much credit if you think I've been over here, playin' a long game or some shit to earn your trust. No, believe it or not, Lenny and I were friends. I liked him, and he liked me. It's as simple as that, despite how far-fetched you seem to think that is."

Through the lenses of the mask, I watched my father. Studied his mannerisms. Stared at him as he nursed his beer and scratched an itch on his hairy, round potbelly. He was unfazed, completely unrattled by my scrutiny, and I found that infuriating. Because the more I glared at him, the more insistent the little voice in my head was, convincing me that the bastard was telling the truth. But I’d known him for a long, long time, and what I knew most about Gerald Crowley was that he was incapable of being honest.

"Friends," I muttered with a sneer, finally settling on something from his wild statement. "Sorry. Having a difficult time picturing that one."

"Dean," Gerald said, standing from the table to cross the room, "didn't you say you brought an apple pie from home?"

"I did, sir," Dean replied from the dining room doorway, forever keeping watch. "It's on the counter."

"Excellent."

Gerald slid a pair of pocket doors open to reveal a large, modern kitchen. He turned to walk backward, pointing a finger in my direction as he asked, "Care for a slice?"

"No," I answered, my tone flat.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Dean over here, his wife makes a killer apple pie. I remember when I first met her"—he opened a drawer and pulled out a cake knife—"and I thought, Well, isn't she a beautiful little thing? I could see the physical appeal. I mean, great tits on that girl. Pretty face. Dumb as a fuckin' doorknob though, that one. Can't hold a conversation to save her life. But, damn, she's nice to look at."

My eyes volleyed toward Dean. What man appreciated another man—his boss, no less—talking about his wife in that way? But the guy stared ahead with a blank expression on his face, his lips a loose line, his jaw relaxed. The guy looked downright bored, a contradiction from how he'd been with Analise—affectionate, caring, and warm.

What the hell is that about?

"And, man, what an apple pie it is," Gerald went on, cutting himself a slice and dropping it onto a plate.

He licked his fingers as he grabbed a fork and carried his dessert back to the table, taking up residence once again in his seat beside me.

"You never got married," he commented, glancing at me with curiosity as he shoveled a heaping forkful of pie into his mouth.

I gave my head a subtle shake.

Gerald nodded and, with his mouth full, said, "Marriage is … well, it has its benefits." He chuckled and waved his fork around, as if gesturing toward the whole room. "And, of course, there's the pussy whenever I want it. That's nice. Not that I had a problem in that department before, but, you know, don't have to hunt for it now. It's there when I wanna take it."