Fiction by Foster Trecost
The handwriting was so overly scrolled, some letters looked like caricatures. I never knew funerals could be by invitation, but there’d been a death and someone wanted me at the service. I returned the card to its casing and placed a call, asked the answerer if he’d received an invite. Continuing his role, he said he had, then we swapped roles and he asked if I was going. I unsheathed the invitation, read it again, and said, “I’m not entirely sure what I’ve been asked to attend, but I’ll be first in line to find out.”
The parlor filled with seasoned socialites alongside newly assigned A-Lister’s. I claimed neither title, but a shared curiosity landed us in the same place. That, and the open bar. Occasional guests deserved closer scrutiny, but only because they had yet to master the rules of invisibility, a skill that would allow attendance at such events to be recorded only in the register. Music oozed from hidden speakers, but I only noticed when it stopped. The lights dimmed to a point just past dusk and everyone stared at the stage, empty except for two podiums. And our hosts appeared, Justin and Claire, neither deceased.
Claire thanked us for coming, then said, “You’re expecting a funeral and that’s what you’ll get. But this one’s different. Nobody died.”
Relief. Confusion. And yes, disappointment. Just a bit, but some.
“I’m here to pay final respects, not to Justin, but to the relationship I had with him.” She looked to her right.
True to his cue, Justin: “I’m here for the same reasons. Claire, the woman I hoped she’d be, but never became.”
“He was a good man.”
“She had a heart of gold.”
And that wrapped up the niceties. The volley of insults that ensued played out like a tennis match. Before long I could see Claire’s bottom lip began to quiver. Justin’s voice cracked like an adolescent. And I started piecing together what this was all about.
“He was condescending, he needed to feel smarter than everyone.”
“She didn’t like to read but wanted everyone to think she liked to read.”
And with this she left her post and crossed the stage. I imagine the acoustics made the slap sound worse than it was, but she struck him and I’m unsure who was more surprised, us or him. “I like to read,” she said. He raised a hand to cheek like he was checking for blood. Then she surprised us again by kissing him.
“But I’ve got more,” said Justin.
“So do I,” said Claire. She pointed to the rear of the room, to the bar in waiting. “The funeral is on hold, but drinks are on the house.”
A cluster of confused faces made their way to the bar. Everyone seemed to have a theory: public therapy, performance art, a happening. I had my own take. We saw two people who so desperately sought closure, they staged a funeral for their relationship, but they weren’t ready to bury it, not just yet. And we watched them begin again.
A man standing nearby asked my opinions on the proceedings, but he wouldn’t get them. Never respond to questions, a time-tested tenet of invisibility. I turned my back to him, faced the bar, and ordered an Old Fashioned.
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Harpy Hybrid Review, Right Hand Pointing, and BigCityLit. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.
