Canary

The name engraved on Em’s tombstone was wrong. A lot about the situation was wrong - the empty pink casket, the framed photos of Em with curly blonde but naturally black hair falling down to her shoulders in waves - but it was the name that stuck with Adam.

Emily. It was such a short name, but he hated it. It clung to his tongue like molasses, leaving behind a bitter taste that might as well have been pure bleach. Every time he had to say it, he had to spit it or else it wouldn’t come in full. It was shortened to Em once and only once, because the glare he got from Em’s father was enough of a reminder to use the other name.

“Don’t be disrespectful at a funeral,” Adam’s grandfather had said, “bite your tongue, boy.”

“I’m not the one being disrespectful,” He wanted to spit, “and we all know it.”

He didn’t say that, of course. If he had, he was sure that Em’s father would’ve marched over to him and knocked a few of his teeth out. More than that, he was positive that no one in the funeral party would stop him. George Gallagher would wail on him until he was nothing but a bloody pulp on the ground, and then he’d leave Adam there for either the paramedics or the vultures to collect.

Gallagher was a big guy. He was only a few inches shorter than the fridge in Adam’s home, towering over most people with broad shoulders and a permanent scowl on his face. His black hair was neatly trimmed for the funeral, contrasting with the near translucent color of his skin and the pitch black of his suit. Em had joked before that, had her dad ever been in a dark room, you would’ve been able to see him just fine: he’d practically glow in the dark.

If Gallagher knew he was being stared at, he either didn’t show it or, quite possibly, he just didn’t care. His eyes were transfixed on the coffin as it was lowered in the ground. They didn’t leave the pink-stained wood until it was at the bottom of the six foot hole carved out for it and, even then, he stared for a few moments more.

“Come on, son.” An elderly man - Gallagher’s father, Patrick - took his hand. He was a shriveled up figure, a living skin-tag by Adam’s standards. His back was so hunched that his body nearly formed a perfect ‘C’, and some disease or other had made holding onto his cane with his left hand a full-body endeavor. Every part of the man was shaking, from his bald head to his bony fingers, all the way down to his legs.

Gallagher probably could’ve stood there for an eternity. When his gaze left the coffin, though, he simply pulled his hand away from his father, took a deep breath, and began the long trek back towards the green Jeep he’d driven to the lot. His father hobbled after him.

When Gallagher left, it was like a dam burst. People were leaving to go back to their cars in a hurry, as though the rain might come down even harder and drown them if they didn’t.

Adam stayed. The mud had swallowed the soles of his dress shoes and had begun to leak in through scuffed and scratched leather, and he knew that - if he tried to move - he’d have to put more effort into it than he cared for others to see.

His eyes were locked on the tombstone, on the name, on the pictures beside it that had been left behind. He was sure they’d be collected at some point. Someone was bound to eventually come back and get them, probably after consoling or chiding their children in the backseats of their car.

He could practically hear the shrill voice now. “Stay there,” She’d say, “while I go get the pictures. Mama will be right back. Mama will be right back.”

Part of him wanted to wait there just to glare daggers at whoever had to come back for the pictures. Em couldn’t judge them anymore, but he could. He could look them dead in the eyes when they got close, and he’d say nothing as they collected the frames and the stands. He’d simply watch them with his hands clenched into tight fists in the pockets of his hand-me-down suit, biting back the urge to slam a fist into someone’s jaw. It didn’t matter whose. It just had to be someone.

The mud made it easy to hear when someone was coming up on you. Adam had long since learned that it was nature’s way of giving the middle finger to sneaky people or animals; even a panther would have trouble ambushing something if it was stuck in the mud.

“Hey.”

Lord, he wanted to swing. He wanted to swing as fast as he could. He didn’t even need to see who it was. He knew who it was. There was only one person in Ridgewood with that calm of a voice.

“What’re you doin’ here, Sean?” Adam hissed. He didn’t look away from the tombstone, staring at it as though he was staring at death itself. It must’ve looked like he was in a staring contest with stone.

“Getting the pictures. Leah asked me to, since...” Sean replied, his voice trailing off. His tan frame inched into Adam’s field of vision. He wore a suit, too, but it looked far newer than Adam’s; it lacked the scratches, the mismatched shades of blue and dark black that had been sewn in to cover where time had taken segments of the suit away. His blond hair was slicked back, and the glasses that usually sat on the bridge of his nose were instead hanging out of the chest-pocket of his suit. There were traces of stubble on his chin, but only if Adam squinted.

Sean looked good. About as good as someone attending a funeral could look, anyhow.

Adam said nothing while Sean collected the photos. He was quick and quiet about it; the mud didn’t seem to bother him any. Maybe his parents had finally convinced him that he was so holy that the mud wouldn’t take him if he fell, and that let him walk through it with confidence. Adam wanted to test that theory. Wanted to prove it wrong.

A beat of silence passed between them. Dark clouds up above threatened to tear themselves open and unleash another wave of rain down onto not only the grave lot, but the town as a whole.

“You wanna help with this?” Sean asked, nodding to the only frame and stand left up. He’d gathered two on his own. Adam cursed God for not giving Sean another set of arms, or for not telling Em’s family to only bring two pictures instead.

“Sure.” Adam made a point to make his enthusiasm about the idea painfully clear. Sean started walking while Adam moved over to the other stand and picture.

He plucked the framed portrait off of the stand, turning it to where he didn’t have to look at the wrong face staring back at him, then grabbed a hold of the stand. The thing was wedged deep into the mud. It took three pulls to get it out and, on the final pull, Adam nearly fell back onto his rear.

“You okay?” Sean called. He was already halfway to his car by then. Even with his left leg taking more effort to move than his right, the guy was still breezing through the mud. The limp wasn’t slowing him down at all.

“Yeah!” Adam called back. “Peachy!”

He wanted to stomp through the mud more than anything else, but forced himself not to do so. Walking in thick mud was one issue. Trying to get anywhere while stomping in it would be an entirely different problem. So he kept his steps as light as he could, hurrying to catch up to Sean. It wasn’t because he wanted to; rather, the sooner he handed the stupid picture and stand off to the guy, the sooner he could leave.

Sean opened the rear driver side door of his dark blue Buick, and began putting the stands and frames he carried down in first. He was careful about it, putting the stands down in the floorboards and the frames down flat on their faces in the seats. When they were situated, he stepped back and to the side to let Adam put his own stand and frame away.

“Sorry for your loss.” Sean said, breaking the uncomfortable silence between them.

My loss? Adam wanted to growl, Em was your friend too.

“Thanks.” He replied instead. “Right back at you.”

Sean said nothing. He opened the driver side door and slid in, but didn’t close it for a moment. Instead, he looked at Adam, and his brows furrowed.

“How long’re you going to be in town?” He asked.

Adam shrugged. “Long as I have to be.”

“Right.” Sean nodded, and shut the driver side door. He rolled down the window after a moment of fiddling with the radio to lower its volume, though Adam could still make out the faint sound of some country singer or other coming from the speakers.

“You know,” Sean began, “if you need anything while you’re in town-”

“I’m good.” Adam interrupted.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” Adam tugged at the collar of his suit. He almost spat, “Try not to get in another wreck” but thought better of it. “Drive safe.”

“Yeah.” Sean nodded, putting the Buick in drive. “You too. Stay safe, mate.”

Adam watched the Buick slowly crawl around the edges of the funeral lot. It was an old place with an older path through it; he swore that the cobblestone path had been put down for the first generation Fords instead of any modern cars. The path through the lot was one big circle with a handful of lines running through it, though Adam hadn’t seen anyone actually use those lines in years.

The lot had been designed, he’d heard, to be a peaceful place near nature. Rows of pines extended near the spine of the circle, leading farther and farther out into the endless Appalachia mountainside. There had been talks of cutting down some of the pines to make room for new graves, but those conversations never went anywhere. People didn’t die that often in Ridgewood and, even if they did, they wouldn’t need to cut down any trees to make way for new graves. Not unless the whole town decided to go belly-up. Then they might’ve had to cut down a tree or two - but that’d be it.

After a moment, the Buick pulled out from the lot, and onto the road beyond it. No sooner did it leave Adam’s vision than did thunder clap across the sky, the force of it shaking a few of the nearby trees.

A raindrop fell onto the right shoulder of his suit. Then another on his left, and another on the top of his head. The sky was starting to open up above him.

He started walking. The mud clung to the soles of his feet, but he was able to get to his car - the trusty Ford that his grandfather had driven years and years ago, with red paint that could’ve been blown off by the wind but clung to the frame with a vengeance - and slip in just before the real storm opened up above him.

Thunder clapped again. Adam’s vision flashed as lightning struck nearby, splitting some tree deep in the forest in two with a gut-wrenching cry.

His phone had been left in the passenger seat and, with rain falling against the windshield in sheets so thick that it made the outside world look kalaedescopic, Adam figured he had a moment or two to check it.

There were no new emails, which he supposed was a good thing. No new news articles being published on any sites, either. The only notification was a message that’d been received a handful of minutes ago.

FROM: ROSE

Let me know when the service is over. Got the guest room ready for you and making shrimp pasta for dinner. No rush. Love you.

Adam tipped his head back against the seat. He wanted to punch the steering wheel, but knew it wouldn’t be able to take the punishment. He thought about punching the windows, but he’d broken one before, and still had the scars on his knuckles to prove it. Eight years later, he still wasn’t ready to repeat that endeavor. He had to do something, though. His body ached. His heart ached.

None of this is fair, He thought, none of this is right, none of this is fair.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and let nature take the wheel. He heard himself scream, felt the truck shake as he thrashed with grief.

The thunder did nothing to drown it out.