Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood (12 page)

Boone nodded. “And he’s not even a believer.”

“That doesn’t mean God can’t use him. He can use anyone he wants to.”

The visit to the funeral home was every bit the ordeal Boone had feared, though the owner seemed to do what he could to make it easier. They settled on a late Friday morning service at the church, and Boone chose a triple burial site at a nearby memorial garden—leaving space for himself. The man walked Boone through all the logistics and charges, then guided him through a room full of casket choices. Boone couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Given a few options, he shrugged and looked to Francisco, who said, “That looks fine,” and Boone immediately agreed.

Toughest was seeing the tiny caskets for babies. How was one supposed to select something like that? Boone began to pant, shook his head, and said, “I can’t do this. Pastor, just point to one and we’ll go with it.”

Sosa gestured toward a pure white box that was so small it made Boone hurt just to look at it. He nodded. “Let’s get out of here. If something has to be signed, just do it for me, okay?”

The pastor whispered to the funeral director, “You have the church’s guarantee. Just see to everything.”

Back in front of the apartment, Sosa told Boone when to meet with him Friday morning and what to tell the family about where to be. “I’ll handle the coordination with the Chicago PD. I’ve already heard from your mother.”

“No surprise. What did she want?”

“Just wanted to be sure you weren’t neglecting anything. I assured her we were working together. She was most interested to know who was singing.”

“I don’t even know that.”

“I assumed you wanted me to handle it. You gave me those two songs, and I’ve got the lyrics typeset so we can project them. But you know the college girl who worked with Nikki in the nursery?”

“Yeah, Cheryl something?”

“Schmidt. She’s a singer and said she’d be honored.”

“Perfect.”

“You’ll spend some time with your family now, won’t you?”

“She talk to you about that too?”

“Said you were being independent.”

Boone cocked his head. “That’s fair. Everybody else, my brothers and other relatives, are all just waiting to hear the date and time, and they’ll come in the night before.”

“That’s nice.”

“I hadn’t thought of it as nice. Nice would have been having them come for some happy occasion where Nikki and Josh could have been part of it. Now, every time I think of something I need to say or do, the first person I think to call is Nikki.”

“I’m sorry.”

Boone could see he was wearing on the pastor. He hadn’t meant to become so high maintenance. But he was through pretending, too.

“Try to let your family grieve too, Boone. As hard as it’s going to be, it’s important that they know you at least appreciate their coming, right?”

Boone nodded miserably. “But having to entertain them the night before, you know . . .”

“I don’t think anyone expects that. They’ll want to see you, sure. But they’ll understand that you’re in deep waters.”

Boone snorted. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“Would it bother you if I prayed for you right now?”

“Would it bother
you
if I said I’d rather you not?”

“No, I understand. I don’t need to pray in front of you. But I want you to know that I
will
pray for you. And I’ll leave you alone until Friday morning if that’s really what you want. You need me for anything, you know where I am.”

9

The Memorial

Until the day of the funeral, Boone made himself miserable, drinking himself to sleep every night, suffering hangovers every morning, and spending his days walking the streets or strolling the North Avenue Beach. He had never been much for idle time. He liked doing things, accomplishing something. All walking the beach accomplished was to bring back painful memories.

A year before, he and Nikki had brought one-year-old Josh to this very beach for the first time. Joshie had sat on a blanket, slathered in sunblock, reluctant to touch the sand. Nikki held handfuls of it in her palm and let it fall gently on his toes. He giggled and kicked, then brushed it off. Finally he reached for handfuls himself.

They walked him at the edge of the water, so cold he avoided the waves like bedtime. Boone now knew that when he could find it within himself to return to their home to mine for keepsakes, tops on his list would be a picture taken by a passerby of him with his hot wife and his fat-cheeked baby under a floppy hat. The question was when he would ever be able to again look at it and smile.

Boone didn’t know why he even carried his phone, which seemed to buzz constantly. His parents, his in-laws, and his brothers tried everything to reach him. Even Jack urged him to communicate something to them, anything. “Just tell
me
what to say, Boones. I mean, I understand, but when all I tell them is that I’ll pass along the message, you know what they’re thinking.”

“They’re thinking what I want them to think: that I don’t want to talk to them. I’ll see them at the funeral.”

The temperature pushed a hundred Thursday afternoon. Boone trudged the beach, carrying his shoes, and ducked under a concession stand overhang to get out of the sun. His phone emitted the unique chirp that told him he had a text message. It was from Francisco Sosa.

Praying 4 u, as many are. Celebrate the past rather than rue the present. Service will b about Nikki & Josh, not u. Str8 talk, I know.

Empathize with those who suffer w/u.

Singer Cheryl has a question, so take her call.

Boone spent much of the rest of the afternoon sitting and gazing at the water. He wondered how soon he could talk CPD into letting him back on the job. Maybe he was in no condition to be dealing with the public, but this alone time couldn’t be healthy either. How he’d love to be forced to solve problems, mediate disputes, interact with people who didn’t look upon him with pity.

Boone was walking back to his car when the call came from Cheryl Schmidt. “Hi, Mr. Drake,” she said. “First I just want to say how special Nikki and Josh were and how much I’ll miss them.”

“Thanks.” Boone could tell she had started to tear up, and he didn’t want that. “Thanks for doing this singing thing, Cheryl. What can I do for you?”

“I’m just wondering if I can change all the
thee
s and
thou
s in the second song to modern words. It sounds really archaic-like with the original lyrics.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Oh, and another thing. I don’t, like, perform, you know?”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t gesture or stroll around. I just try to let the words communicate. Is that all right with you? Because I wouldn’t be offended if you wanted someone else.”

Boone hardly knew what to say. He couldn’t have cared less, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “You’ll do fine.”

His car was so hot from sitting in the sun that he started it and cranked up the air, then closed it and stood outside in the shade waiting for it to cool. Boone used the time to text his family on both sides.

Understand I just can’t talk right now. Bear with me & see you tomorrow. Thx.

All that served was to make his phone go crazy on the way back to Keller’s apartment. It chirped and chirped and chirped. He dropped into an easy chair, waiting for Jack to get home from work, and peeked at all the messages. They all had the same theme: just-let-us-help-you-love-you-stand-by-you-we’re-here-for-you.

I know. I know. I know.

The downside of Boone’s nightly sleeping aid, of course, was the daily hangover. He agonized for hours, even after he ate. Friday was, if anything, worse. He had so dreaded this day that, even besotted, Boone had tossed and turned all night. It seemed that more than a half-dozen times he had dreamed of the funeral. In one dream he was late. In another he was the only one there. The worst had him sitting in the front row next to Nikki and holding Josh. He had awakened sobbing.

As dawn finally announced itself through the window and Jack poked his head in to be sure he was up, Boone knew he was no longer dreaming. He sat there with his heart racing, nauseated, shaking, and squinting against the sun. His mouth was dry and his head pounded.

“You look awful, Boones. You need help gettin’ ready?”

He shook his head.

“I got coffee on, and you should get some aspirin in ya. You know alcohol and caffeine are diuretics, so I’ll put out some juice and water too.”

“Ugh.”

“Just let me be the doctor this morning, hear? The pastor and the funeral guy called and wanted to set up a pickup time, but I told ’em you were ridin’ with me. That still the plan?”

Boone nodded.

“Listen, if you’re feeling really bad, believe it or not a light workout will help. It won’t feel like it at first, but trust me—”

“Not a chance. I’ll suffer through. And I don’t feel like eating either.”

“You got to. Toast and bananas. Force yourself, or you’ll regret it. Today’s gonna be hard enough, don’t you think?”

Boone couldn’t argue with that.

By midmorning he had eaten, hydrated, medicated, showered, and dressed in his only suit. When he emerged from the guest room, he found Jack dressed in his formal blue uniform, his checkered cap on the kitchen table next to his white gloves.

Boone’s headache had dulled, but he could tell it was going to be with him all day. He plopped into the comfy chair before the dark TV and said, “I know this is your spot, Jack. Sorry.”

Keller pulled out a kitchen chair and sat next to him. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, what’s mine is yours.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. But I’m not going to overstay my welcome.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m already worried about it. What’s the old adage? Fish and houseguests start to smell after a while?”

Jack chuckled. “I’m no wordsmith, but I gotta think it’s something more eloquent than that.”

“Give me another week or so and I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll get the legal stuff out of the way—the insurance and the house and all—and then find a place.”

“Not on my account.”

“C’mon, I can’t be good for your social life.”

“Ah, that’s mostly legend, know what I mean? Anyway, I can always go to their places.”

Boone sighed. “I need to be by myself, anyway. Nothing personal. I just prefer it.”

“It’s your call, Boones. Hey, do we need anything? It’s been so long since I been to church that I don’t even remember. You need a Bible? You know I put Nikki’s in the cupboard. Having that with you would be a nice touch.”

“Don’t need anything. They project verses on a screen. But you know what? Yeah, let me have that.”

As soon as Boone had it in his hands, memories flooded him. It
would
be nice to have something of Nikki’s with him. And it was a beautiful Bible with a supple leather binding bearing her maiden name. He had no idea how long she’d had it, but it had verses underlined and margin notes on almost every page.

Was he being disingenuous, even phony, to think he should carry it? It would thrill his in-laws and his parents, especially his mother, but that wasn’t the point. It was certainly not for show. It was for him.

He’d already promised Francisco Sosa that he would thank people for coming. Boone knew they would tell him how sorry they were, how they would be praying for him, how wonderful Nikki was, how sweet Josh was. And they would mean it; he knew they would.

But Boone would not be able to bring himself to converse about those things. He planned to respond to every comment the same way: “Thanks for coming.” He would wear his wraparound shades to hide his eyes, not so much because they were bloodshot from drink or because it might be obvious he had been crying—who could blame him?—but because he wanted to give the impression he was looking people in the eye. And he would not be.

Boone knew and appreciated that regardless of his grief and rage, whoever showed up would have put themselves out on his behalf. People might get tired of his thanking them for coming, but that was all he was prepared to say.

“Tell me what you need from me,” Jack said. “I can make myself scarce. I can hang close. Your call.”

“Oh, they’ve got this all-involved seating chart, so I’ll be down front and surrounded by both sides of the family. But if you’re willing, I’m going to tell them I want you right behind me. If I so much as look in your direction, rescue me from whoever has me buttonholed. Can you do that?”

“You got it. And we’d better get going.”

Jack pulled away from the curb with plenty of time to get to the church in advance of Boone’s preliminary meeting with the pastor, the funeral director, and the family. The traffic was typically congested, but hardly anything the two cops didn’t anticipate at that time of the morning.