Chapter Two

Angry Numbness

Lysandra sat in her truck outside the funeral home. The sign ‘Wilson, Shoemaker, and Wyndum’ seemed to mock her. She had been here other times in her life, burying cousins, aunts, uncles, many of the extended family on her mother’s side. Her father’s side never contacted them unless they wanted money.

She walked into the funeral home and saw a man in a suit waiting for her. She wanted to sneer. ‘Worse than car salesmen’ she remembered her father saying about the people of the funeral homes. And it was true, they made fortunes off people’s grief.

“Ms.…” He started.

“Doctor or Captain.”

“Captain Tiburtinus, I am Mr. Richard Rogers. Partner here at…”

She held up her hand. “Let me stop the sales pitch, Rogers. Show me what you got. Starting with vaults and coffins.”

“Right down to business then?” He seemed confused.

“Look Rogers, I am holding together by a thread.” She took a breath to calm her emotions, “so show me the vaults first.”

Rogers nodded. “Alright, Captain, right this way.” Suddenly he was off and going a million miles a minute trying to sell her a vault.

Lysandra was trying to keep up; she was a genius, but he was throwing so much at her she had to stop it. “SHUT UP!” She screamed.

Rogers stopped. “Ma’am?”

“It is Captain.” She spat. She took a breath and looked at the charts of the vaults. Her mom and dad once told her the most important thing was the vault. She knew when she told her parents her desires, if anything happened, she had been basing it on the fact she died in a war. And her parents had been basing theirs on if they died of old age. She had told them to do what they wanted with her body and where her will was, but she honestly didn’t care. Her mother did. She wanted them to have the full Catholic funeral. Her dad agreed, probably not to start an argument with her mother.

She took a deep breath; she saw the difference between the top of the line and the one down, warranty length. How would they ever actually know? But her father was a Marine. “Veteran top of the line vault, Marine Corps symbol, his name engraved. For my mother, the saints, top of the line vault, her name engraved.” She stated in a cold monotone voice. This was a different type of hell, and she couldn’t block this hell out of her mind while she lived it.

Rogers nodded. “Please follow me to the coffin room.”

Lysandra rolled her eyes; he was practically drooling at the commission he was going to get.

She tuned him out. Coffins she knew about steel was best. She wanted wood, but within just a bit of time it would crack. She looked at the steel coffins. She stopped in front of a black and gold coffin with The Last Supper depicted. She thought it ironic. Her father’s college was red and gold where hers had been black and gold, but his favorite painting, and hers, was The Last Supper. There was so much spoken in that painting. The acceptance of death, the comfort of those left behind, and the inevitable betrayal of one that had been given love, all in the name of greed.

Her father would like this one. She was sure of it. “This one for my father.” She didn’t even look at the price tag. But the way Rogers tried to hide his smile, it had to be expensive. She ignored him and continued down the row of steel coffins. “And the flag better be draped over it with respect.” She about sneered. She hated folded flags. She had folded and presented a few in her time. They represent so much pain and loss that it broke her icy heart.

She stopped in front of one of gold with black accents; it had upon it a depiction of the seven Archangels and the defeat of one of them. She stared at it; it showed Michael surrounded by the other five, as Michael took his sword and damned Lucifer to the center of hell with those that followed him to be the knights, princes of hell.

Lysandra always felt something was missing in the story. According to all she was taught, she was forgiven for the lives she had taken, the things she had done. Even if she regretted them, she would do them again to protect her family and nation. But Lucifer’s greatest sin was doing what he was created to do. Worship and love his father, his creator, above everything. The prefect Archangel of Worship. How could God forgive humanity but not his son?

She knew her mother would love this coffin. And it complemented her father’s. The colors flipped and the Son of Man and God versus the Archangels of the Lord. She nodded. “This one for my mother,” she stated.

She turned at the ‘yes, ma’am.’ “It is Captain.”

“Now we have services, rosaries, programs, name cards, memorial books, crosses…” Rogers started.

Lysandra looked at the items. She ignored the salesman, and it was overwhelming. “I will be back in,” she stated and ran out the door into the bushes where she threw up. She stayed bent at the waist. She had micro moments of denial, and it seemed that she was going to skip bargaining, and go straight to anger.

She was angry at the drunk driver; she was angry at God; she was angry at her mother… She screamed then. She let out a large scream. How dare her dad leave her? He was the only one she could honestly talk to and not be afraid what she laid on him was too much for him to bear.

She dry heaved again as the hate rolled in her stomach. Lysandra stood there bent at the waist, her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths as the anger finally gave its way back to numbness. She didn’t know if this was normal. When she folded flags for those lost, when she presented them to widows, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, widowers, she felt cold. When she almost died, she felt cold. When she lost men, lost friends, lost fellow soldiers, she felt cold. Always cold. Never numb. And now all she feels is numb with bouts of intense emotions, mostly anger. She stood and took another breath. Straightening her shirt, she walked back into the funeral home to get everything finished.

She went right back to where she was, ignoring the looks of the funeral home people. She stared at the signing books; she didn’t know which to get, how many to get. She saw ones with the American Flag. ‘Heroes live, heroes die, but they shall always be immortal in the minds, hearts, and souls of the ones that see them as heroes, the ones whose lives they touch, instead of just human. Always remember the real-life superheroes, for they expect nothing for their sacrifices.’

She wasn’t sure she was a hero, though many called her that, but she knew her father was one. “This one times three,” she stated.

She continued to move through the displays and writing the obituaries, she couldn’t crumble, not now, but she wanted to fall to the ground and scream but right now she felt a desire to cut herself just to see if she could feel anything, much like she did after she came back from her first tour. While she sat and wrote out the obituary, she wasn’t just cold, she was numb, numb from everything. It seemed like this wasn’t real, a nightmare she would wake up from.

“Captain?” The secretary, do they even still call them that, called out to her, trying to get her attention.

“Sorry,” she turned towards her again. “My parents were married in 1993.”

“Do you have a picture you want to use?”

“We are doing two separate obituaries, we are using my dad’s Marine Corps picture for his,” she handed her a copy to scan. “And for my mother, the picture from the last time she was interviewed for Wine and Chocolate Magazine,” she handed the photo over.

“Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want a joint obituary?”

“My parents didn’t want that,” she hissed. “Look, my parents may have been pillars of the community, but I am the one they fucking talked to about their wishes. So, when I make a fucking choice, don’t question me!” It seemed like she was going to have to deal with anger as well as the numbness until everything caught up with her.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Lysandra picked out the bible verse, and the card sets for the memorial cards, which would have the bible verse. She looked down at the bible verse she picked. John 5:24-29 King James Version. Lysandra wasn’t sure if she could ever believe the words, not with what she had done in this life. She was sure that her everlasting life would be eternal torment if Hell existed.

She moved back away from the desk and looked at the rosaries and crosses. She needed to pick them. She didn’t want to, but she had to. She could practically feel her mother’s scorn.

She saw simple silver ones, she chuckled, silver crosses, ironic when Christ was betrayed and put to death with a kiss and all for thirty pieces of silver. She played with the silver cross at her neck, a gift from her father when she was deployed the first time, carved into it was the signals for the archangels Gabriel and Michael, for strength, protection, and to remember to not cross the line from justice into vengeance. She shook her head from the memories.

“Captain, did you find one you like?” Rogers was staring at her back.

“Silver,” she pointed to the two simple, yet beautifully detailed crosses. “Those one moment and I will have the rosaries picked out.”

Rogers nodded and noted the product numbers and then kept silent. This was a big paycheck for him. Lysandra would have left if this wasn’t her parents’ choice of funeral homes.

Memento Rosaries, how the funeral homes made money off the Catholics. She shook her head, being numb to the way of the world worked right now, because if she wasn’t numb, she would have exploded. Death was a moneymaker. While some family’s world had stopped, these monsters were trying to make as much as possible off the family. She had to focus.

Dad was going to be buried with her confirmation rosary. It was gold and green and had Mary holding baby Jesus in the center; the crucifix was so detailed it seemed almost real. There was gold detailing on the green beveled beads, a gift from her parents when she did what they wanted and officially joined the Catholic Church. Mother would be buried with the one she prayed with every night. Mother had gotten it for her confirmation, many years ago. It was a baby blue, aquamarine, gems set in a gold setting. It seemed picking an expensive over the top rosary was a tradition. Lander had gotten a custom-made rosary with blood stones in a silver setting. Funny what the mind thinks of at the strangest of times, such as her thoughts as she stood there looking at rosaries that the ‘friends’ and family will take with them.

Lysandra sighed, “these general blue ones for the general public, these step-up crystal ones for the ‘family’ and the onyx and silver rosaries for my siblings and me. Engrave their initials on the back of all of them,” she stated and walked away.

The cemetery manager was in the main sitting room. She sighed, and this was so much thrown at a person all at once. She walked right past him and went to her truck; under the seat was the emergency pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out and lit it. A bad habit, yes, but one that she picked up in the Army, and she had like one a month. She closed her eyes. She had to get this anger under control, even if it was better than the numbness that seeped into her very soul.

Lysandra stood by the truck and smoked the death stick. She snorted going into the Army, during war time, any type of vice was better than going crazy. Sex, smoking, drinking, hell even working out was easier than talking out any ‘feelings’ that she could have flowing through her. God, had their parents conditioned them for the military. It was no wonder they all had fights in their relationships but kept with them because that was their mother approved relationships. Maybe she just needed to have sex to make this numbness go away. Brian would not be here until the funeral. They had an open-ish relationship. Perhaps she would go to the bar tonight and find a one-night stand. She dropped the cigarette and rubbed it out with her boot. She still had things to do before she could go to the bar, and find someone to help her feel, even it was just for an orgasm.

The cemetery manager stood and took her hand, “Ms…”

“Captain,” Lysandra cut him off.

“Captain, I am Sam Baker.”

“Veteran section,” Lysandra couldn’t deal with the small talk.

“Here are the sections we have open,” he laid out a map of the cemetery.

Lysandra looked at it and the world blurred for a moment; she closed her eyes and took a breath. She opened her eyes and looked at the sections clear-out by the fence line, there were whole sections empty. Bench, monuments, graves, she nodded. “I want all these sections. I want the monument guy here an hour ago. In the center will be my parents with the primary monument with our last name. Then smaller stones for my father and my mother.”

The cemetery guy tried not to light up in his greed, “I will be right back!”

If her mother wanted to be seen, even in death she would be seen. It seemed the anger was mostly focused on her mother. She frowned, her father had been driving, but most of the blame was on her mother, all the little things suddenly larger now that she had left them. There was anger at her father, but it wasn’t as intense. It had to been twenty minutes, but it seemed like no time at all when Baker came back with another person, snapping Lysandra out of her thoughts.

“Captain, I am Donna Malcom, I am with Malcom Memorials.”

Lysandra looked at her. She could see the dollar signs in the woman’s eyes, “let’s get this over with. I want a bench that takes up six plots in the center, here,” Lysandra pointed at the map. “The back of the bench shall stand four feet and go clear across, depicting The Last Supper, on the seat it will have our Last name. On the back of it will list all our names with room to add names as we marry and have children. The material will be pure, and I mean pure, white granite. I do not care about the cost. The lettering will be done in black. The headstones for my parents’ graves in the center in front of the memorial shall be black, pure black, granite with white lettering. My father’s military bronze will be mounted to the back of his stone. On my father’s stone it will have his full name ‘Nero Basil Tiburtinus, August 3rd, 1970 – May 2nd, 2019, US Marine Corps, Beloved Husband and Father. A cross will be in the center of the dates. This will be engraved on his bronze as well. My mother’s shall read ‘Tia Celena Tiburinus ǹee Anagnos, November 19th, 1971- May 2nd 2019. Beloved Wife and Mother.’ Cross in the center of the dates, above my father’s name the Marine Corps Symbol, above my mother’s, joined rings with the ribbon stating Married January, 7th, 1993.” Lysandra stopped, she looked at them as they finished writing, “got it?”

“We got it, Captain,” Malcom stated. “We will have it ready to go in the ground in eight weeks.”

“Four weeks.”

Malcom swallowed, “minimum length with getting the materials is six weeks.”

Lysandra raised an eyebrow.

Malcom looked at the dollar amount, “we can do five weeks.”

Lysandra thought for a moment, served them right to worry, “that is fine. I expect them to be ready to install in five weeks, Friday June seventh, and they better be perfect.”

“Of course, Captain,”

Lysandra wanted to roll her eyes, people were insane, they swallowed their pride in the name of greed. “What is the cost” She pulled out her credit card. “Fuck it, just charge it.” She could more than afford to charge it and then pay it off after the life insurance paid out.

Rogers took the very shiny black credit card and went to the office to run the card with Malcom and Baker. She knew the receipts would show the costs. They stayed in the office for a bit running the card.

Rogers came back with the receipts for her to sign, “please sign here, here, and here.”

Lysandra took her card and receipts. Death had become as much of a capitalist market as anything else in America. She snorted, taxes and death, that is the only two things guaranteed in life. Lysandra always had added pain to that list. Pain, taxes, and death, with flitting moments of happiness that made life work living. “Here,” she stated. “Anything else?”

Rogers nodded, “coffee, food? When do you want visitations? There wasn’t damage to the faces, open casket? What do you want them dressed in?”

“I have the outfits in the truck,” she expected that and picked them out before her run, her siblings last night said she could handle it, they couldn’t and she wasn’t going to force them.

“Good, you can take a moment and gather them, and then we will talk visitation, church, and pall beers. Father Dean Singer will be here in a few moments,” Rogers told her.

Lysandra nodded and bee-lined out the door to her truck. She leaned against the door, placing her head against the window. The warmth of the sun-beaten window allowed the pain in her head to temporarily disappear. She opened the door and after a moment found the bottle of pills, she kept there for her migraines; she popped the lid and took three. She ignored the label saying two in twenty-four hours, and she knew she would take more in just a few hours to stay ahead of her migraine. She got the bags out of the backseat, closing her eyes for a moment against the images of her parents in their funeral clothes.

She had picked her mother’s favorite sapphire blue, Sunday best, dress with her matching heels, as for jewelry she was just going to have her wedding band. For her father she chose the light purple bluish shirt her mother adored him in with black pants, his black cowboy boots, and the black tie he always wore. He would just have his wedding band as well.

She swallowed the vile in her throat and took the bags in with her to finish up with the priest. She was sure it was only because of who her family was that all were meeting her at the funeral home instead of all of them having her go to them. Money talked everywhere in the world, and to everybody, even the people of God.

Lysandra walked back into see Father Singer. He was an older man; he had married her parents, baptized each one of them, oversaw all the First Reconciliations, First Communions, and Confirmations. She tried to smile, but she couldn’t, after all she never held back and this man knew all her sins.

Father Singer came and took her hands, “it is okay to hurt child. It is okay to be angry.”

Lysandra signed, Father Singer could always read her. After her first tour, he called her out on her doubts and spoke with her. “How can you read me so well?”

Father Singer chuckled, “dear, I have known you since before you were born,” he patted her hands. “I know your secrets because I know you dear. It is fine to be angry, just don’t let your anger bleed into a want for vengeance.”

“Saint Gabriel has my back, Father.” Literally, she had his signal tattooed on her back, she had a few tattoos much to her mother’s dismay, but because of what they were she tolerated them.

Father Singer smiled, “you always did like that particular Archangel, going as far as choosing the name as your confirmation name, no matter if the name is traditionally male.”

“I know my faults, Father.”

“That you do, child. Now, if you could only see your strengths.”

She didn’t want to have this conversation again today. So she changed the subject. “First reading, I want John 14:1-3. Gospel reading, I want John 1:1-18. Second reading, I want John 3: 16-21.”

“You and your father always had a soft spot for the Gospel of John, excellent choices.”

Lysandra did not comment, she knew the bible front to back and the book she connected to the most was John. “Responsorial Psalm, I want Psalm 23.”

Father Singer wished she hadn’t shut down, but he knew why she had, “good choices.”

“Songs: Here I Am Lord. Eucharist: I Am the Bread of Life. Be Not Afraid. On Eagle’s Wings. End with Amazing Grace.”

Father Singer patted her hand, “that is all I need dear, did you want to speak after the gospel?”

“Yes.”

Father Singer nodded. The one thing Tia would have expected was for her daughter to make a speech. However, in the back of his mind he wondered about the backlash of the secrets that would come out soon. As he knew Lysandra would find them hidden away in whatever hole Tia had hidden them in. “Of course, I anticipate that eulogy. Did you still want me to do one?”

“Of course,” Lysandra stated like it was a crazy question.

Father Singer kissed her head again, “I shall see you at the visitation Monday.”

“Of course, Father,” Once he was gone the vultures descended once more.

“Captain?” Rogers and the others wanted her attention.

“The Rosary Society will bring food, you’ll provide water, coffee, teas, and sodas. Wake will be Monday, four to seven in the afternoon, with the rosary starting exactly at seven that evening. Visitation at the Church, nine to ten in the morning. Mass will start at ten sharp on Tuesday. Burial at the Cemetery after the service, afterwards people will go to AMVETS for the meal.” The local AMVETS and The Rosary Society were her next stops.

“Of course, Captain. Again, we are sorry for your loss. Pallbearers?”

Lysandra paused, “I will take care of it.”

“Limo service?”

“Yes,” it was expected.

“We will contact the police department for the escort. Did you need me to contact AMVETS for your father’s salute?”

“No. I will take care of it,” Lysandra stated in a no-nonsense tone. Landar stated he didn’t want presented the flag. She had to figure out if Leo, Lucius, or Lucian did, LaVania said she wanted nothing to do with it, that she wouldn’t be able to contain her emotions. It seemed that LaVania and Lander thought that through when it hadn’t crossed her mind. Even if she had presented flags before, she never thought she would have to make this choice.

“That is all we need, Captain. Are there any other questions?”

Lysandra shook her head, “no, thank you.”

“We will see you Monday at three then again we grieve with you and your family. Your parents were pillars of the community.

Lysandra swallowed the knot in her throat, “thank you.” She shook his hand and bolted out the door and into her truck.

She sat in the truck and took deep breaths. There was nothing in her stomach to throw up, but vile sat in the back of her throat. The numbness was resilient; no matter what she did, once the numbness spread, nothing could break it. Not even the bouts of anger that came as they saw fit, anger and numbness, which is all she felt as she sat in her truck after leaving the funeral home. God forgive her, but at that moment, she hated her parents.

It took her almost a half an hour to be steady enough to drive. She wanted to get everything done as quickly as possible. She sat at the light, left, would take her to the church and the Rosary Society; the right would take her to AMVETs. She rather get the Rosary Society out of the way. She hated those busybodies, but they were her mother’s social group. So she took that left turn.

“Oh dear, we were just heartbroken when we heard!” the voice of Mrs. Jillian Moore was like nails on a chalkboard and Lysandra loathed the woman. Lysandra called her Mrs. Bitchface Lush, in her own mind. “I activated the calling tree right away!” Bitchface continued on and on.

Lysandra nodded, “I just came to verify you will handle the food after the funeral and the wake.”

“Of course, dear. Will you be serving any of your parents’ wines?” The greed in the woman’s eyes made Lysandra sick to her stomach.

“We shall see,” Lysandra knew she wouldn’t serve this woman a left-over grape from the foot stomped wine grapes. “I have to check the wills first. It it was an expensive and extensive collection, and they may have donated it.”

“Of course! The wake is Monday, correct?”

“Yes, four to seven, with the Rosary at seven.”

“We will have food ready for the wake and after the burial, I am assuming instead of the church you will be honoring your father and doing it at AMVETs?”

“That is correct.”

“This must be so hard for you, dear, but don’t worry we are here to help!”

Lysandra nodded, she had to get out of here. “Well, I must be off, lots to do, AMVETs, flowers, and such.”

“Of course! Do think about those wines!”

Lysandra shuddered as she ran out of the church and promptly threw up again by the edge of her truck. Her parents were dead and they could only think about wine. She got into the trunk and took off as if the demons of hell were on her heels. After all, they may very well be, as she thought of some of those women. She got to the AMVETs in record time, ripping right into a spot.

She opened the truck and jumped out to hear someone yell, “Holy Hell Hounds, Girly!”

She turned to find Montgomery Symon, “Monty.”

“Now girly, what caused you to rip in here like the hounds of hell were on your tail and this is the only church around?”

Lysandra snorted out a laugh. Always leave it to Monty to get a laugh. She had known Monty since she was a child and even in grief he could say something to get her to laugh. “Now Monty, you know this may as well be the church for all of us on the wrong side of Heaven and the righteous side of hell.” Not a lie. Every Saturday night into Sunday morning almost every member could be found at the AMVETs playing cards, pool, and darts, telling war stories and drinking. “Three words, The Rosary Society,” she answered his question.

Monty snorted, “still not sure how Moore married that she devil, pretty sure she is an Alpha Bitch of the Hell Hounds. The sex couldn’t have been that good.”

“I was always guessing she drugged him and got him to Vegas.”

Monty laughed, “maybe. Tuesday afternoon?” He knew she would want to get that part over with as soon as possible.

“Yeah, they will bring food.”

“And after they leave, I will bring out the good stuff!”

“Moose piss and cheap whiskey?”

Monty nodded as he laughed, “hey if you are going to develop a taste for beer and liquor might as well make it the cheap shit!”

Lysandra laughed, “thinking my siblings missed that advice.”

“You and your daddy sure didn’t.”

“When I hit legal drinking age, I had been in the Army for three years’ active duty. The front lines and their support were lucky to get the cheap shit into them, let alone anything decent.”

Monty nodded, he knew how that went. “Still have that still?”

Lysandra laughed, “I gave it to the sergeant when I left, he can keep it running for the men, seemed right since I inherited it.”

“Good girl, I got ya down, just make a donation.”

“Here, old man,” Lysandra handed him a check, “Put it to finish that memorial ya want.”

“Ah girly, you were always a good one,” he pocketed the ten thousand dollar check.

“Nah, just intent on staying on that righteous side of hell.”

“Nah, the devil don’t want ya girlie, you would take the throne from him.”

“Be the woman the devil says shit about when their feet hit the floor,” Lysandra laughed.

“Now get home with ya, this is only the start of your most recent hell, but maybe girly you can make it out of this one before the devil knows you are there again.”

“Thanks Monty! See ya Monday!”

“Ya know it girlie,” he waved her away, back to the truck.

Lysandra waved as she pulled out. She sat at the stop sign for a moment as she lit her cigarette. She hated the vice, but she thought they could forgive her for it during this time. She headed home. There was a bottle of tequila and a bar stool with her name on it.