The Night Singers Read Free

is shifting, uncomfortable in the heat. Patrick waits expectantly. But I cannot lie. What is to be honoured about my father can only be honoured by truth.
    â€œHe had a tough life,” I say, instructing the strange priest, reminding Patrick and myself. “His father died when he was fifteen and his mother was in and out of mental institutions. He never made much money, never seemed to get what he wanted, needed.”
    Patrick and the priest are leaning forward, straining to hear.
    Suddenly I add, “I always admired his irascibility.” My voice gains volume. “Maybe I inherited some of it. I mean I’m a crank. I mean I’m grateful for that.”
    Truth. This is enough. Traffic noise from the highway roars in to fill the spaces between us.
    Patrick avoids my eyes.
    Father Jameson is clearing his throat. “Before we close, is there anything else?”
    Before we close, what is he talking about? We just got here. Is this all there is after a whole life? This tiny slab obscured by overeager grass, an eerily cheerful priest and two drooping members of a family. Dad was right about not wanting a funeral. We shouldn’t have come.
    â€œI guess so,” Patrick answers. “Unless you wanted to say something else, Meg.”
    â€œYes, I’d like to say the ‘Our Father.’”
    Patrick tries to conceal his surprise. The priest bows his head. Together we recite our childhood prayer.
    The three of us are walking to the parking lot. “Give yourselves time to grieve,” Father Jameson is saying. “Feelings will come up. Let yourselves experience them.”
    We are both silent, embarrassed by the usefulness of his self-help rhetoric, sad the memorial is over.
    He tries again. “You live in Idaho?”
    â€œYes,” Patrick says. “In the mountains.”
    â€œGreat skiing,” Father Jameson proclaims. “I used to ski in the late seventies, when I was in college.”
    I notice for the first time that the priest is younger than Patrick and I. By maybe ten years. I want to know his given name. I want to call him “George” or “Charlie” instead of “Father.”
    â€œDownhill or cross-country?” Patrick, who was never a skier, asks courteously.
    â€œBoth. More downhill. I love the exhilaration of the slopes. On July days like this, I dream of being in Chile or New Zealand, where it’s cold and snowy now.”
    We have arrived at the Ford Falcon. Father Jameson owns the silver Honda hatchback three cars away.
    We stand awkwardly, silently. Patrick pulls a bent white envelope from his pocket. “Thank you, Father.”
    â€œTake care.” Once again he is an ageless cleric. “God bless you. Be kind to yourselves.”
    â€œHappy skiing,” Patrick smiles.
    The traffic is heavier now. Patrick strains to follow the local automotive choreography. I think about the fact that neither of us has remembered to bring flowers. That we haven’t talked about the way Dad died, alone in the hospital, refusing to let any of us know he was sick. We are an accidental family, each of us surviving the accident with different scars. My eyes fill and, fearful of this grief, I grow angry. How foolish to wait all these years for people to come home. I am lucky Patrick and I are still talking, still fond of each other even if we don’t know religious affiliations and clothing preferences.
    There is something between us. A kind of grace.
    â€œSo what time is your flight?”
    We are almost at the motel. I compose my voice. “Eight a.m. There was nothing before tomorrow.”
    â€œWish we could have dinner.” Patrick pulls over to the curb. “But I told Cynthia I’d be back tonight. I’ll just about make it, leaving now.” He regards the traffic dubiously.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I say. “I’ve got a lot of reading to do. I guess I didn’t tell you I’m taking a