My uncle murdered my father and married his widow.
How do I know this?
My father returned from the dead to inform me and to encourage me to requite his death by making my uncle pay for his sins.
So, here I was in a tux at the wedding celebration struggling to subdue my rage while watching my uncle smile and be a villain.
Mother was at her flirtatious best—wearing a dress far too short, with plunging décolletage making her look a cheap tart. Leah, for her part, looked stunning in a modest green sequinned gown that complimented her lovely red hair.
“Dance with her, Mel, before the other young men occupy her time. I can see they’re just eating her up with their eyes.”
“Can you see that, Mother? How observant of you.”
“Please, son—be happy for me tonight. I can't linger in the shadows of mourning. Life must go on, you know—your father would have wanted that.”
“How can you be so certain of that, Mother? Did you ever really know what Father wanted?”
She actually flinched at my remark and for a moment I thought she might have misgivings, but just then Uncle Clyburn winked at her from across the room and she giggled like a schoolgirl.
My stomach turned and I felt bile rise in my throat.
“Go be with Leah," Mother urged. "Dance and be happy. What else is there?”
She looked at me with haunted eyes.
And with those parting words, she was gone—fled to be with my Uncle and Leah’s parents—laughing gaily at trifles, sipping at cocktails and doing whatever other trivial things amuse the wealthy.
Leah caught my eye and beckoned to me.
I swallowed my Cabernet and approached.
“Why are you so distant tonight, Mel—or for the past month, for that matter?”
“Being in a psych ward limits your options.”
“Don’t be bitter with me—I’m mourning your father too. He was a good man, Mel.”
“How sententious of you—a good man, you say? Good, like Uncle Clyburn there?”
I pointed to my Uncle with his hand straying to my mother’s derriere.
Leah pretended not to notice.
“Oh, he’s a very good man," I added bitterly, "his talents yet to be recognized—but, there will be a reckoning, I assure you.”
“Please, Mel—dance with me and forget your sorrow.”
“Forget?—such a convenient word—as in my mother forgot my father, once he was conveniently out of sight.”
The horrified look on Leah's face surprised me.
“What are you saying?” she whimpered.
“Why anything but the truth. You couldn’t bear it. You have to be like Mother. You have a vice.”
“What vice are you accusing me of?”
“Why you gamble.”
“You’re not making sense, Mel. I never frequent casinos.”
“Ah, then you gambol—excuse my French—you do love to French, don’t you?”
She slapped me hard across the mouth, her cheeks a vivid red.
"How dare you! Do you think I’m some tart you’ve just met—some slut you can insult?”
“But you do gambol—you dance, you flirt—you coo like a bird. Look at Mother—like you, she makes eyes at men from across a room. She commits adultery with her looks.”
I grabbed her hand as she went to strike me again.
“Here now, Mel—we’ll have none of that.” Uncle Clyburn intervened and looked at me darkly.
“You’re right, Uncle. I’ve openly sinned and for that I’m heartily sorry.”
“Well, that’s a better speech—and I hope your heart is in it.”
“Oh, it is, Uncle—as much as your heart, when you killed Father and married Mother.”
There was a pause—a silence in heaven and on earth.
I’ve often noted that silence when a profound truth was spoken—it’s an unmistakable admission that an accusation has merit .
My uncle shook—with what, I’m not sure—tremors of rage or fear. I couldn’t be certain, but he staggered and grasped at his chest and collided with three or four chairs before plummeting through a table of glasses and lying stock-still on the floor.
I heard my mother scream. It sounded like a distant shriek.
I was staring into Leah’s eyes—seeing horror—then shock. And then, she fainted—dead away on the floor at my feet.
I stepped over her and walked past the frozen guests—out the door and to this day, I suppose I’m still wandering.
I’ve never gone back.
Sometimes I sit and watch the Moon and wait patiently for the sound of footsteps, but they never come, and I never really think they will.
What’s done is done and can’t be undone.
The rest is silence.
