Page 71 - WTP Vol. VIII #4

Malden, a superb lacrosse player, had gravitated into the group. For some reason, maybe it was his stri- dent politics, his brusqueness, the fact that he was
a finance major―whatever it was―rubbed Judd the wrong way and the more the rest accepted him, the more Judd seemed to fade into the background. But with Malden it had been an infatuation only and he was soon shunned as a kind of Philistine. Judd felt certain Kent would eventually end up like that when Monica would catapult him back into the ranks of failed gigolos.
Finally, Kent relented, citing the abandonment of his friends. He made a fist with one of his hands and jabbed Judd lightly in the ribs. “Well, on with the show,” he called out as he sped toward his table, and Judd steered Elise out into the street.
~
The last time Judd saw the anarchists was about a year later at the wake of Marcy’s husband Curt, whom he had only met briefly at a game eons before. His passing was apparently not unexpected, as the diagnosis had been known a long time. The funeral parlor was generically solemn, windowless, with morose drapes and bland paintings, faux antique tables and a lush gray carpet that seemed to suck all sound from the air. Every object was infused with the drabness of mourning, as if any hint of color or gaiety would represent a sacrilege.
Several of the broader Fenrow Hall contingent lived in other cities but the whole local chapter was there scattered among the immediate family, nodding
and speaking in hushed tones. Elise again refused
to come—she said she couldn’t bear the thought of grieving for someone she had never met. The conver- sations were always shifting but Roger and Carmen and Monica seemed to have known the deceased fairly well and shared endearing stories about him. Kent was nowhere in sight and this was a relief considering that the situation was tense and strange even without him. Judd expressed his condolences
to Marcy but he made a point to be brief as the line wound all the way to the reception area and no doubt, most of the bereaved had a stronger connec- tion to the man.
Out of the corner of his eye, Judd noticed an attrac- tive woman in a somber ensemble, whose vaguely fa- miliar features shifted through a half dozen versions before they coalesced into the one that was unmis- takably Sonia’s. He instinctively tried to dodge her, obscuring himself behind a pillar and the jumbled
scrums of mourners stretching away from the casket. She was, of course, not as dazzling as she once was, but whatever had captivated him then, that elusive quality of softness, the gentle cascade of her cheek and neck, the prominent lashes and small shoulders remained.
The shame of his mistake, so long suppressed, again rose and hit him with the force of a bludgeon. In a certain light, one could laugh it off as the folly of youth but there was a whiff of betrayal too—of the unwritten code of camaraderie. Judd still couldn’t be- lieve he had done such a foolish thing with a woman he hardly knew, no matter the force of his ardor.
The packed room made it difficult to maneuver, to join up with Pete or Roger and otherwise attempt to blend in. Sonia’s entourage was drawn by the cross- currents of the crowd and while Judd was distracted by an elderly aunt, he somehow lost track of her. When he sought her figure amid the bunches of suits, as he fumbled through a dozen abysmal options about what he might say if he were compelled to, Kent materialized like a phantom, insistently tapping him on the elbow.
“The circumstances are unfortunate but we meet again,” he said, in his sly way. For once, he was dressed conservatively; only his maroon tie arranged with a pattern of musical instruments struck a taste- less note.
“Yes, it’s too bad. I confess I only met him once but I feel terrible for Marcy.” Judd noticed that Monica was hugging her and sobbing at the end of a row of chairs set up as a pew.
“He only came out once in a while,” Kent said without hint of remorse. “God, don’t you hate funerals? I’ve told Monica I’m not having one. It’s even in the will. I’m thinking I might just have everyone go to Arling- ton. You know, get a block of tickets. They can spread my ashes on the home stretch.”
As usual, Judd felt trapped with him, the way he hov- ered, using his height as a means of captivity. There was something feral about the way he tried to draw you into some tawdry intrigue.
“Sonia is here. Did you see her?” Kent said with a unusual earnestness.
“No, I’d scarcely recognize her and she wouldn’t know me from Adam.” Judd could feel a film of sweat cling-
(continued on next page)
64