The End and the Beginning
Hindsight, Chapter 2, Part 1.
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February 2024.
Will sat in the car in his best suit, staring at bricks weathered by a hundred winters. One of the older buildings in the village. A crack zigzagged its way across his field of vision.
Everything breaks eventually.
His phone chimed. The alarm. It was time to go in.
He stepped out into the snow. Dress shoes with not enough grip. He imagined himself sprawled out in the snow, seeing himself from above, a pool of red seeping like a halo around his head, his eyes glassy and already far, far away.
He didn’t fall.
The steps up were coated with something non-slip. The massive black panelled doors opened inward. He wiped his feet, and walked into the room. He followed a long, ornate carpet. It led to a wooden pedestal. He waved his phone near to the glass opening at the front of the pedestal. There was a chime. The pedestal and his phone shared the necessary information. He waited.
*
It’s raining.
Will dashes inside the nearest building, an art gallery. Juss is a step behind. A quaint old entrance, windows. An iron umbrella rack. Paintings over the walls. It’s a chance to dry off, to wait for the shower to pass. But they drift around the room, from painting to painting. He kneels in front of one. He’s taken in by the beauty of it. It looks like an Old World country estate, a lake, a bridge, a portico in the trees serving no purpose. The way the light is captured is just stunning.
There’s someone beside him, and he thinks it is Juss. As he looks up, she says something in musical tones that thrill and terrify him all at once.
“Uh, bonjour, hello,” he stammers.
“Ah, hello. It is very beautiful, is it not?”
He blushes. She is very beautiful. She is like an angel. A French Canadian angel. There are so many saints, why not angels too? Her eyes are a summer blue, and her hair is like sunlight. Her smile is like the breaking of dawn.
He looks down. The painting. She is talking about the painting.
“Yes,” he mumbles. “The light. The colours. It’s lovely.”
“You are visiting?”
“Yes—what a beautiful city!”
She seems shy to hear the praise.
Juss is behind him, and says, “The funiculaire is out of service though—I was looking forward to the ride.”
“This is a shame.”
“We love all the stone buildings, though. Don’t we, hon?”
Juss is staking her claim.
The angel of Quebec City turns her beatific countenance to Juss. If it is retail politeness, she is good at it. “So much history here. So much to love.”
No hint of irony, or resentment, or bitterness in her voice. Only love. Love for her city. Love for her home.
Juss loops her fingers into his hand and pulls gently. “Look at this one!”
She pulls him from painting to painting. There is a second room, as full of paintings as the first one. She sweeps him onward.
Juss glances around, and then hisses at him, “I leave you alone for one second!”
She reaches up and bites his lip.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about. I was just—”
“Oh I know that. Nothing but me, that is.”
She pulls him close, and they kiss, and kiss.
A nearby sound startles them out of it. The lady, the guardian of the art gallery, has seen them kissing and pretends not to have noticed.
She sees they have stopped and says, “Ah, honey moon, yes?”
Will blushes.
Juss giggles. “Something like that, yes.”
It’s true they are celebrating.
“We’re pregnant!”
*
The old man wore a black suit that matched his face mask, a white shirt that matched his latex gloves, and a grey tie that matched his hair. Will followed him through.
The room was brightly lit with soft light. There were candles.
A shiny black box sat on top of a stone counter, like a kitchen island.
There was a varnished wooden bench. Will didn’t sit.
A screen beside the coffin displayed countless small boxes, many of them showing one or more faces. The audience.
The old man began to speak.
*
Will drives the car into the garage, and comes into the kitchen. Juss is waiting for him.
“I missed you!” she says.
“I was only gone ten minutes!”
“So?”
It is the longest they have been apart in four years. Since Before.
And the furthest they have been apart.
“I’m back now,” he says, and they embrace like they will never again be separate beings.
After a while he says, “It was a non-event, really. A line of cars—well-spaced.”
“Distancing for cars?”
“Exactly. There’s a tent, keeps you out of the snow. The doctor comes, his tablet talks to the phone, and he does his thing. Easy.”
“And what did he say?”
Will looks blankly. “About the sample? He took the little box of shit, and said the results will come back in a few days.”
“And why was it so urgent?”
“Apparently I should have had the screening done in 2020. They had a backlog.”
“For almost four years?”
“Are you surprised?” The four years in question hold plenty of excuses, and plenty of extenuating circumstances.
She shrugs.
Two days later, the results come back negative. He has nothing to worry about.
The same day, they get the call from Tracing. There’s an outbreak at the clinic.
The whole village goes into lockdown. But it is already too late.
*
The grey man was staring at him.
“Mr. Bardington? It’s time for you to say a few words?”
Will thought about that.
Words.
What to say?
What word would make any difference to anything?
The grey man shifted his weight slightly from foot to foot.
“I don’t have any words.”
The grey man frowned. “Not even for the congregation?”
Will glanced at the screen. Friends. Family. People from the past, all.
*
Will slams the front door behind him, and stomps down the driveway to his parked car. It’s on the street, in front of the house. They were here early, got a good spot before the spaces on the street filled up.
That fucking asshole!
He sits in the driver seat, and slams the door behind him.
The words bounce around in his head. Round and round. A merry-go-round. A loop that won’t stop repeating.
He’s ready to explode. He’s ready to cry. He’s not felt so betrayed since—since—since his sister pulled that stunt eight years ago.
The things he’s done for the whole fucking lot of them. How much he’s loved them and supported them. Out of nowhere! It makes no sense. And he’s supposed to just sit and take it? Not part of the family?
Fuck the lot of them. He is done.
He hears the front door. Juss clacks down the concrete path. Gets in. Slams the door.
They sit there. In the dark. In the silence. Neither of them speak for whole minutes which seem to stretch into entire ages.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It is necessary to say it. He wishes he hadn’t said one or two things that he has just said. He wishes he hadn’t opened his big fat mouth and made it worse. He is sorry about those things.
“What the hell was all that about?”
“I couldn’t take it any more. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made it worse.”
“No,” she says. “That’s not what I meant. You’re the only one who knows what we’ve really been through. They can’t see it. Or don’t want to. You’re carrying so much. And you are the only one who is there for me, with me, without any hesitation, and you always have been. I mean, what have they been smoking? I mean, what planet are they living on? I mean, what the fuck is wrong with those assholes?”
He is shocked—she is so rarely like this.
She’s not finished. “Who does he think he is? What does he even know about family?” She turns to look at him, shuffling in the seat so she doesn’t crane her neck. “Will, you are my family. You know what they can do? They can go fuck themselves.”
He blinks, his eyes wide and wild. “I don’t believe it.”
“Neither can I. Where does he come up with this shit?”
“No,” Will says, meekly. “I meant your potty mouth.”
“He crossed the line! He messed with the wrong dame!”
“There you go again.” Will smirks.
She just laughs, and the laughter turns to tears, and the sadness turns to anger, and love.
“I’m never leaving you, Will. Not ever. Certainly not for them. I know what love is. I know what family is. And they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
*
They grey man spoke words of comfort to the virtual congregation. They were all meaningless. Juss didn’t believe in any of that. A waste of breath.
The end part of it was a prayer.
The words were a jumble. They floated on the edge of his mind. They didn’t sink in. They had no weight. They had no import. They had a gossamer impact, and then flew away, forgotten.
*
Billy and his friends sit at the back of the auditorium, so Dr. Furness can’t see them passing lewd notes back and forth. Billy leans on his hand, bored, frustrated, lost. And slightly hung over.
She steps into view, nervous, self-conscious, hugging her books to her chest like a shield.
He stares. She looks up, looking for a place to sit, judging each place by the people sitting nearby. She meets his gaze.
His heart pounds. His jaw droops. The whole universe is her eyes, looking up at him. He forgets everything else. He forgets the world. He forgets the auditorium, Dr. Furness, his friends. Until Ron pokes him in the ribs, making him squeal.
He blushes, hard. The girl has looked away, is sitting, already, down near the front.
“Mr. Bardington, is there a problem?” Dr. Furness bellows.
All eyes turn up to him. Almost all eyes. The girl doesn’t turn back.
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Hmmm.”
The class begins. He supposes it begins. He stares at the girl. He can’t help it. He wants nothing more than to go sit with her, to be with her, to find a way to impress her, so she will look at him for one more moment.
Ron and Jefferson snicker to themselves.
Ron passes Billy a note.
Billy reads it. Scrunches it. Stuffs it in his pocket. “Quit it, you guys,” he whispers.
Old Furness glances up to the back, but doesn’t get derailed from his flow. Whatever it is.
Billy sits up straighter, and after an eternity, Furness is wrapping things up.
Billy stuffs his things into his backpack, and almost before Furness has finished speaking, Billy is bounding down the stairs to the front. The girl slips out, and losing sight of her grips him with panic. What if she is an illusion, a dream, and he can never find her again?
But she is there, out in the hallway. He stumbles to a stop, and she turns around, sees him.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Would, uh, would you like to grab a coffee? Uh, with me?”
The girl smiles. “Real smooth.”
“That’s me.”
She chuckles, but then looks behind him. He looks too, and grimaces. His friends have caught up to him.
Jefferson says, “Hey Billy, who’s your friend?”
Billy blushes. He doesn’t know her name. Ignoring his friends, and his flushed face, he pushes on. “Uh, will you?”
She takes a breath to speak, thinks better of it, and then changes her mind again. “I’d been going to say, ‘Why would I go anywhere with a complete stranger’, but—”
“I’m—” he begins to say.
“William Bardington. Yeah. I managed to figure that out.”
He shudders. “Only my mother calls me that.”
“I’m not calling you Billy.”
“Okay.”
Ron and Jefferson hoot in the background.
Billy won’t take his eyes off the girl, in case she vanishes into a puff of smoke at his lack of dedication.
“You know what? I will go for a coffee with you, Will.”
“Okay. Now?”
“I have a class. This afternoon? Two? Moe’s?”
“Okay.”
She smiles, and nods once, and turns away.
“Wait!” Will calls out after her. “I don’t know your name!”
She turns around. “Juss.”
“Juss? You mean, like Justine?”
“Don’t make me call you William. It’s Juss. Just Juss.”
“Juss. Okay.”
She nods and walks away.
Ron and Jefferson are on him in an instant.
Ron punches him in the shoulder.
Jefferson puts an arm around his neck.
“WILL he get laid tonight?” asks Ron.
“WILL he get laid tomorrow night?” asks Jefferson.
“WILL he ever get laid?” asks Ron.
“WILL—”
“Will you guys shut up?” Will says.
“Hey, you ruined my line!” complains Jefferson.
Will knows. His life has changed. It will never be the same again. He will never be the same again.
*
The grey man was speaking again.
Bill saw the screen was dark. The stream had ended. The funeral was over. Kind of.
“Thank you, Mr. Bardington. If you please?” The grey man indicated the exit.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
There was nothing else to do but wait. The transaction had been completed the moment his phone had made the pedestal chime. He walked the long carpet. Two cleaners trundled into motion before he was even out the door. One roared like a hair dryer, processing the air to sanitize it from his aerosols. The other moved to the carpet, to give it a deep, disinfectant clean. He hadn’t touched a single thing.
He got back in the car and waited. He knew it would be a while. But he had nowhere to go, and nothing to do. So he waited.
On the edge of his awareness, he noted the movement as the next mourner left their vehicle, and went in.
Eventually, he received the notification. He put the car into drive.
The gravediggers had finished the burial, and released the coordinates to his phone.
Thanks for reading!
Continue reading with the next part on Sunday!
Go back to the CONTENTS Page.