Jackie's Redemption, a contemporary romance.
Jackie stood between her mother and her brother, Sam. Tears swam in both of their eyes. Her mother’s fell intermittently throughout the long sermon. Sam’s did not. His clenched jaw and stiff posture spoke of his staunchly held control. He, no doubt, heard the words of their late father running through his head, just as Jackie did now at the sight of her brother’s unshed tears. |
Men don’t cry. You had best learn that now, boy. Stop being such a sissy before I put one of your sister’s dresses on you.
The day the words were uttered would be forever etched in Jackie’s brain. It was the last day of school her senior year. She and Sam climbed down off of the bus that afternoon, to find Hobo, the puppy their father had brought home a week before in one of his guilt filled phases, lying dead in the road. Sam took it the hardest, crying next to the shallow grave they’d dug for Hobo for the remainder of the evening. Yet, here he stood at his father’s grave and not a tear did he let fall.
The preacher droned on and on about heaven, sin and redemption. Sweat trickled down Jackie’s spine and into her panties. And Jackie prayed, prayed not for her late father’s soul, but for the end to this day.
She stared down at the closed casket.
“Not enough left of him to make presentable for a viewing,” her mother repeated the funeral director’s words, when Jackie asked the day before. “The car caught fire after the crash,” her mother added. Not that Jackie cared to see her father, especially dead. Viewing dead bodies at funerals, she always thought to be morbid. But, she really did not care to see his body. She chalked it up to morbid curiosity, the reason she asked about the closed casket, or lack of something better to say in an awkward moment. She never knew what to say in uncomfortable situations, something she attributed to her father’s influence.
Jackie glanced around the small group. Her mother’s best friend, Wendy Carmichael, stood on her mother’s other side, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her friend’s arm. Old Mrs. Watson from down the street was there, leaning heavily on her cane. The preacher was, of course, still praying in vain for Steven Lee Stringer’s soul, at the head of the casket. And there was one other. A man stood back from the group. Despite the dark, cloudy sky, he wore, what must have been nearly impossible to see through, black sunglasses. It struck her as odd. His clothing, a little rich for this town, stood out as well. He appeared to be looking down at the casket, his head bent. He lifted it, nodded in her direction and turned and walked away until his lanky frame disappeared over the rise.
********
“Samson,” she called, sliding a bit as she made her way down the steep hillside towards the creek. She reached out and grabbed one sapling after another as she made her descent.
He sat on the bank, shoes off, his ‘good’ pants soaked to the knees, picking leeches from between his toes.
“Mamma’s going to kill you when she sees your muddy, wet pants, Sam.” He didn’t look up from his task.
She dropped down next to him with little thought to her dress that would surely be just as muddy when she stood again. She leaned forward to see his eyes, half hidden behind the long locks of hair he refused to cut for the funeral. Tears glittered in their angry depths.
“Why did he have to die…now?” His trembling hands paused above his bare feet.
Her breath caught in her throat. Was Samson really mourning the loss of their father? But then, maybe things had changed in the last three years, as hard as that would be to believe. How could she possibly have any idea? She seldom talked to Sam these days. Her mother called every weekend, but always made everything sound wonderful, as if Jackie were an outsider now and not privy to what really went on inside the Stringer house.
She struggled for a moment, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry, Samson.”
His dark eyes met hers. He snorted. “I am too. I was almost big enough. Another year or two and I would have been able to take him on. Mamma wouldn’t have had to step between us when he came home drunk, looking for a fight.”
Again guilt ate at her insides, biting into her empty stomach. She had escaped, but not taken her little brother with her all those years ago. She’d left him behind to face the chaos alone each time their father decided to make an appearance at home. But, what could she have done? At barely eighteen and nothing to live on but the minimum wage pay from her part time job while in college, she went to bed in the dorm, many a night, hungry. How could she have taken care of Samson as well? Even now, she struggled with rent, student loans and necessities on her meager pay.
“I’m sorry, Samson, that you had to face him alone after I left. At least, when I was here, we had each other.”
The hard lines of his much too young face relaxed a bit. “We still do, Jacs.”
Tears then blurred her vision. She wrapped her arm around his narrow shoulders. “It is over, now.” She fought to control her wavering voice. She hated to cry. Crying showed weakness. She hated weakness in herself and hated even more for others to see it. But then, this was Samson. They’d cried together many times. “He will torment you no more.”
His gaze shifted past her. “Only in my head now, Jacs.” He sighed. “Only in my head.”
Her heart broke. A little piece of it shattered, again.
The day the words were uttered would be forever etched in Jackie’s brain. It was the last day of school her senior year. She and Sam climbed down off of the bus that afternoon, to find Hobo, the puppy their father had brought home a week before in one of his guilt filled phases, lying dead in the road. Sam took it the hardest, crying next to the shallow grave they’d dug for Hobo for the remainder of the evening. Yet, here he stood at his father’s grave and not a tear did he let fall.
The preacher droned on and on about heaven, sin and redemption. Sweat trickled down Jackie’s spine and into her panties. And Jackie prayed, prayed not for her late father’s soul, but for the end to this day.
She stared down at the closed casket.
“Not enough left of him to make presentable for a viewing,” her mother repeated the funeral director’s words, when Jackie asked the day before. “The car caught fire after the crash,” her mother added. Not that Jackie cared to see her father, especially dead. Viewing dead bodies at funerals, she always thought to be morbid. But, she really did not care to see his body. She chalked it up to morbid curiosity, the reason she asked about the closed casket, or lack of something better to say in an awkward moment. She never knew what to say in uncomfortable situations, something she attributed to her father’s influence.
Jackie glanced around the small group. Her mother’s best friend, Wendy Carmichael, stood on her mother’s other side, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her friend’s arm. Old Mrs. Watson from down the street was there, leaning heavily on her cane. The preacher was, of course, still praying in vain for Steven Lee Stringer’s soul, at the head of the casket. And there was one other. A man stood back from the group. Despite the dark, cloudy sky, he wore, what must have been nearly impossible to see through, black sunglasses. It struck her as odd. His clothing, a little rich for this town, stood out as well. He appeared to be looking down at the casket, his head bent. He lifted it, nodded in her direction and turned and walked away until his lanky frame disappeared over the rise.
********
“Samson,” she called, sliding a bit as she made her way down the steep hillside towards the creek. She reached out and grabbed one sapling after another as she made her descent.
He sat on the bank, shoes off, his ‘good’ pants soaked to the knees, picking leeches from between his toes.
“Mamma’s going to kill you when she sees your muddy, wet pants, Sam.” He didn’t look up from his task.
She dropped down next to him with little thought to her dress that would surely be just as muddy when she stood again. She leaned forward to see his eyes, half hidden behind the long locks of hair he refused to cut for the funeral. Tears glittered in their angry depths.
“Why did he have to die…now?” His trembling hands paused above his bare feet.
Her breath caught in her throat. Was Samson really mourning the loss of their father? But then, maybe things had changed in the last three years, as hard as that would be to believe. How could she possibly have any idea? She seldom talked to Sam these days. Her mother called every weekend, but always made everything sound wonderful, as if Jackie were an outsider now and not privy to what really went on inside the Stringer house.
She struggled for a moment, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry, Samson.”
His dark eyes met hers. He snorted. “I am too. I was almost big enough. Another year or two and I would have been able to take him on. Mamma wouldn’t have had to step between us when he came home drunk, looking for a fight.”
Again guilt ate at her insides, biting into her empty stomach. She had escaped, but not taken her little brother with her all those years ago. She’d left him behind to face the chaos alone each time their father decided to make an appearance at home. But, what could she have done? At barely eighteen and nothing to live on but the minimum wage pay from her part time job while in college, she went to bed in the dorm, many a night, hungry. How could she have taken care of Samson as well? Even now, she struggled with rent, student loans and necessities on her meager pay.
“I’m sorry, Samson, that you had to face him alone after I left. At least, when I was here, we had each other.”
The hard lines of his much too young face relaxed a bit. “We still do, Jacs.”
Tears then blurred her vision. She wrapped her arm around his narrow shoulders. “It is over, now.” She fought to control her wavering voice. She hated to cry. Crying showed weakness. She hated weakness in herself and hated even more for others to see it. But then, this was Samson. They’d cried together many times. “He will torment you no more.”
His gaze shifted past her. “Only in my head now, Jacs.” He sighed. “Only in my head.”
Her heart broke. A little piece of it shattered, again.
*******
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