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Her only thought is to kiss her son’s forehead one last time, but even under a sheet, she can tell Jeff’s wrists are crossed over his chest, and they can’t stay like that. She pushes the sheet back, tugging on the knot at his wrists until his shoulders fall, like he only just now realized how tired he was.
Maryann straightens his arms, palms soothing his wounds. With the sheet bunched at his waist, it feels like she’s tucking her boy back into bed.
She pulls the sheet up again only as far as his neck, whispering, “Good night, baby.”
Vinny and his father are black holes passing against the church walls. Blending into the wood of the vacant pews, stark against the unadorned pall draped over the coffin, the light from the candles becoming a corona when they march by.
Even the jewel-tones of the stained glass—the vibrant panels of figures reaching to Heaven, receiving coal on their lips, being turned away with a fiery sword—it all bends towards the men as they approach the priest.
Their hands are full with gifts Evan never much cared for, these offerings for the altar, this flesh and this blood.
There’s no need to plunge into the woods, desperate to martyr himself for her. How senseless of him to sit here lamenting that.
The inn patrons are fairly tolerant of his continued presence, and he wonders if it will last as a stranger asks, “Who’s missing? Your daughter?” and James answers, “She used to be.”
The stranger’s face flickers through confusion and pity before settling on something like sympathy. “Estranged, then?”
He sits, uninvited. “You want to talk about her?” Saying nothing else until James gives in, sharing stories of his girl who he’ll never actually see become a woman.