Burn (Pure #3)(10)

They shake Partridge’s hand with both of theirs—smothering it. They slap his shoulders, hug him so close he can smell their powders and colognes. They cry and pull tissues from their pockets and purses, and blow their noses.

Some others bring their children, as this is as close as they might ever get to the new leader. The heir. “Shake his hand,” they tell their kids. “Go on.”

“We’re so sorry.”

“It’s such a loss.”

“You’re holding up so well. He’d be proud of you.”

He wants to tell them they’re right; his father would be proud of him. When a murderer is killed by his own son—the one he always pegged as weak and worthless—isn’t there a glimmer of pride, just before death?

Partridge still hates his father. Can you hate someone for forcing you to kill him? Forced. That’s how it felt. It doesn’t seem right and yet it’s why he hates his father most right now.

Partridge watches a young mother, holding a toddler, steady herself by putting one hand on the glass enclosure surrounding his father’s urn. Her thin ribs contract under her black dress as she sobs. One of the cameramen in the crew gets a close-up of her tear-streaked face and her child, who seems to know that this is a somber occasion.

His father doesn’t deserve this outpouring.

I killed him, Partridge wants to say. I killed him, and you should thank me for it.

Then, when he least expects it, there stands Arvin Weed.

Partridge grabs Weed’s hand and pulls him into a hug. “I want you to do a favor for me,” he whispers. “Those people suspended on ice. You know about them?” That’s all he can get out before the hug is over.

Weed nods. “Yes.”

Partridge looks at the line of mourners, the guards—and, not too far off, Foresteed’s talking to Purdy. How can he get his point across with all these people around? “I miss the academy,” he says. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Hollenback?” Mr. Hollenback taught science. Mrs. Hollenback taught domestic arts at the girls’ academy. “And their kids?”

Weed nods, like he understands that the suspended people and the Hollenbacks are linked. “Fine, I think.”

“Check on them for me. Especially little Jarv. I miss him.” He remembers finding Jarv in the row of glass-enclosed egg-shaped beds that held children with tubes in their mouths and ice crystallized on their skin.

Weed says, “I’m sorry for your loss. I imagine it’s almost impossible to get over something like this.” Does he mean the death of his father or the fact that Partridge killed him?

“It’s good to see you, Arvin,” and then, as if overcome with emotion, he grabs Weed again and hugs him. “Belze,” he whispers. “He’s an old man. Get him out of suspension too.” And then he lets him go.

Weed nods and starts to leave, but Partridge says, “Wait. Have you heard anything from our old teachers at the academy?”

“What?”

“You know—our teachers. Do you keep up with any of them?” He wants Arvin to bring up Glassings.

Arvin shakes his head. “Like I have time for that,” he says. “I know you won’t find them here.” He’s right. The professors at the academy aren’t elite enough for this invite-only crowd. Arvin walks away. Partridge wishes they’d had more time, more privacy.

A ten-year-old is next in line. He’s wearing a navy blue suit and a striped tie. He doesn’t say a word. He simply salutes Partridge.

“Take it easy,” Partridge says. “At ease.” The boy is frozen like that. Where are his parents? “You can stop,” Partridge says.

One of the cameramen senses the moment and edges in for a close-up of the kid.

Now Partridge has to stand there and accept the salute. But it’s clear the kid is waiting for a salute in return. Partridge won’t do it. He doesn’t want to be seen as a military leader. He doesn’t want to align himself with world war and annihilation. He reaches out and ruffles the kid’s hair. “Go on now,” he says gently. “It’s almost time for the service, okay?”

The kid raises his hand and touches his head where Partridge touched it as if awed by the personal contact.

The cameraman zooms in on Partridge. He stares straight ahead, refusing to look directly into the camera. The truth, he thinks to himself. It’s time for the truth.

Finally, the line dwindles, and Partridge is escorted to the front row of the hall.

There is Iralene, the shock of her: her upright posture, creamy skin against her black funeral dress (she seems to have an unlimited supply of them), and her perfect features lilting in the soft sadness of her expression. He specifically asked that she not be here, and yet there she is. Iralene was raised to be the perfect wife, one who does as she’s told. She’s been groomed for her role so thoroughly that she seems always prepared, but that facade clouds her motives. Partridge rarely knows what she really wants. Did they ask her to leave and did she politely refuse? This is absolutely possible. Iralene can talk people into or out of nearly anything with such stealth that they walk away thinking that they’d just convinced her of something and not the other way around.

Her mother sits to her left—Mimi looks barely stitched together. Her eyes, round with fear, dart around the room as if she’s lost. The seat to Iralene’s right is empty, reserved for Partridge, of course.