Some of the eighth-grade cheerleaders wore their uniforms.
Brad Fulman thought it an odd choice, but shook it off, scanning the room for Jennifer.
Every kid in town seemed to be there.
He recognized some kids’ faces but knew almost no names. There was Declan, and he only knew his name because he remembered it from his Banner’s grocery nametag.
He scanned again for BJ.
BJ had to be here somewhere.
Then he saw Jennifer. Brad had expected her to be in black. She was in a cheery red summer dress.
Her kid is dead, Brad, she can do whatever she wants.
A woman hugged Jennifer and walked away.
The slide show of Karina’s short life played on monitors in either corner of the room.
Brad strode up to Jennifer, confident he could say just the right, soothing, comforting parent to parent thing.
Jennifer accepted his hug.
“You provided her with everything a child could wish for, Jen. Ultimately, their friends and social environment have more influence. I’m so sorry.”
Jennifer nodded, more numb and rote than agreeing.
“I’m sure,” Brad continued, “that Bradley Junior is here somewhere to express his condolences.”
Jennifer laughed, almost swallowing a tiny remnant of butterscotch candy down the wrong pipe. She swallowed saliva twice to clear it and shook her head.
“No, he’s not, Brad. BJ won’t be here. None of them will.”
Brad Fulman had stood in front of boardrooms full of investors, power elite, oil sheiks. He was the most prepared man in the room. He was not accustomed to being confused.
“None of whom?” Brad asked quietly.
Jennifer smiled, sadly, though Brad had expected even more grief.
“The Whiskey Kids. None of the Whiskey Kids would be seen at a Pill Princess’s funeral.”
“Excuse me?” Brad said, more confused. He wondered if the stress of her daughter’s death had caused Jennifer some sort of cognitive malfunction.
Jennifer took Brad’s hand. They had dated in high school, with the kind of ugly breakup that caused malicious graffiti in bathrooms. Their kids were older now than they had been then.
“Don’t act like you don’t know, Brad. It’s ok…I guess. BJ is a Whiskey Kid. They hated Karina and her friends. They’re headed for trouble too, Brad, but…”
“You’re telling me my son is in a gang?”
“They’re not a gang, Brad, they’re a bunch of boys and Hallie Alston who get drunk in the field behind Sleschman BMW. They think they’re better than the Pill Princesses. You know that. You have to know that.”
“BJ is part of this…crew?”
Jennifer started to tremble.
“Pretending you don’t know is insulting to me Bradley. Really, truly insulting.”
Jennifer turned and reached for a tissue, not turning back to Brad.
Her daughter was fifteen feet behind her in an open casket.
Brad Fulman began to look around for his son, who wasn’t there, and wasn’t going to be.
***
Memories? Impressions? I promise I will lighten it up soon. Sorta promise. No pinkie swear.
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
I was left wanting more and I appreciated how much of Brad you could shatter in so few words.
This is very raw. I like that you can get a feel for the kind of town the characters live in and lives they have just by the way their children act. God, just… ouch. Great work.