Twenty Years Later(56)
The parking lot was full, so Walt turned onto the side street that flanked the funeral home. He eased his car to the curb and pulled himself from the driver’s seat. It took longer than he wanted to wrestle on his suit coat, his left arm was not yet following the commands from his brain, and he was happy to be without an audience. When he pulled past the funeral home he had seen a slew of colleagues out front. He didn’t need the razzing he would have taken had they seen him struggling with his coat. And if his fellow agents had managed to avoid the friendly jeering, the other reaction would have been worse—pity. This was better, alone on a side street as he fought with his suit coat. He finally righted himself with a deep breath that brought a stabbing pain to his chest—a symptom Dr. Marshfield warned would take weeks of pulmonary therapy to resolve.
Once he had himself settled, he looked at the funeral home and considered his options. He could walk around to the front of the building and into the den of his fellow agents, where he was sure to spend too much time saying hello and accepting their wishes for a speedy recovery. Or, he could skate through the side door and sneak into the procession line, keep his eyes down and avoid anyone he knew until he reached Jason’s family. There, he’d offer his condolences to Jason’s father and tell the man what a stellar partner his son had been for the last three years. Hug Jason’s mother and introduce himself to Jason’s wife, telling them both how sorry he was for their loss. All the time he’d fight off his survivor’s guilt, hope he didn’t sweat through his suit coat, and make a stealth exit before the bandage on his neck grew red from the seeping wound it covered.
The choice was simple. He crossed the street, pulled open the side door, and entered a quiet hallway. Soft conversations echoed through the walkway as he slowly made his way forward. When he reached the end of the dark hallway, he found himself on the side of the welcoming atrium. The familiar faces of his fellow agents were to his left, surrounding the front doors. A quick scan into the room to his right revealed no one he recognized—only Jason’s family and a line of mourners waiting to offer their thoughts before kneeling in front of the coffin. Walt slipped through the atrium and into the room. He saw large bouquets of flowers surrounding the casket. The receiving line was against the far wall and he took a spot at the end, slowly shuffling his way to the front of the room. Walt kept his eyes down. His left arm was draped across his chest and supporting his right elbow, his palm over his cheek and mouth. If any of his friends recognized him, no one said a word. He crept along for ten minutes as he slowly edged closer to the casket.
“You made it,” came a voice from behind him.
Walt turned to see that Jim Oliver had taken a place in line behind him.
“Yeah,” was all Walt said.
“The guys outside said they were waiting to see you.”
Walt nodded. “I made a stealth approach through the side door. I don’t want to take any of the attention away from Jason’s family.”
“Understood. But maybe say hi on your way out? It would be good for the crew to see that you’re back on your feet.”
“Will do, boss.”
Together they made their way to the front of the room. Walt swallowed hard as he came closer to the casket, seeing his partner’s face in profile. He’d always hated the waxy appearance of dead people in caskets. His childhood, it seemed, was riddled with moments of kneeling in front of sturdy, mahogany caskets that held elderly relatives. He was supposed to say a prayer as he knelt in front of the caskets, his parents had told him, but all Walt had ever been able to do was stare in confusion at the thick makeup smeared across the dead person’s face. This childhood quirk had carried into his adult life, and as Walt approached Jason’s family he wondered if they were pleased with the way he looked, lying stiff and unmoving in the casket, or if he was as unrecognizable to them as he was to Walt.
“You know Jason’s family?” Jim asked.
Walt shook his head. “No,” he said just as the couple in front of him finished talking and moved on to the casket.
An older couple were the first family members in the receiving line. Walt reached out his hand and offered his best smile.
“Walt Jenkins.”
“Hi, Walt,” the man said, taking his hand in a warm embrace. “How did you know Jason?”
Walt swallowed hard, the tape on his neck stretching against the strain. “I was his partner.”
“Oh,” said the woman. “We’re Jason’s parents.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Walt said. “Jason talked about you all the time, sir. About your time in the Bureau. He spoke about both of you. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Jason’s father said. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, sir.” Walt released the man’s hand. “This is Jim Oliver. Jim heads up the field office here in New York.”
“Your son was a great agent and a good friend to us all,” Jim said.
“Thank you.” Jason’s father smiled. “Have you met our daughter-in-law?” he asked Walt.
“No, sir,” Walt said.
“She had to use the restroom,” Jason’s mother said. “She’ll be right back. I’m sure she’d want to say hi.”
Walt smiled and gave a quick nod, beginning a thirty-second span of painful small talk that felt like it lasted an hour. All Walt wanted to do was take a quick knee in front of the casket, pretend to pray, and then get the hell out of there.