Loose Ends

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The devastating tragedy hit Ivan like a high-speed locomotive. Upon receiving the news at the hospital from his brother, Ivan felt numb. It was too surreal to even process, and it didn’t seem possible. But later, seeing his father face-to-face, Ivan completely lost it.

Like a rag doll, his body went limp, and he collapsed into his dad’s arms, sobbing. Brandon couldn’t take it. He stepped out, but Ivan’s father held him tight, rocking back and forth until at last Ivan stopped trembling.

“We just had lunch together yesterday.” If only he could take back the words he’d spoken. He hated knowing that she died angry and disappointed with him. “And…and…we had an argument.”

“Hey.” His dad pulled back, cupping Ivan’s face with both hands. “Your mother loved you with all her heart, and she knew you loved her. Nothing you said could have changed that.”

“I wish I’d have called her last night before work. If only…”

They were at Brandon’s house, and when Ivan pulled away from his father, he turned to see who had entered behind them. It was Brandon, returning from outside, and his girlfriend Jessica was with him. She immediately embraced Ivan’s father, then turned to Ivan and hugged him as well.

Had the world suddenly stopped turning? That’s what it felt like to Ivan. Family members began showing up, phones were ringing, people were hugging and crying. But to Ivan it felt as if a nebulous haze surrounded him. The apocalypse had begun, and he couldn’t think of a single reason to go on. Nobody had any answers. How had such a horrible thing happened? How could his mother be gone? He’d just spoken to her the day before…mere hours before her death. And now…now she was no more.

Ivan’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—they all came. And every single one of them echoed the same sentiment. She was in a better place. She had gone to the arms of Jesus. The Lord had called her home, and He worked in mysterious ways. Blah, blah, f*****g blah. By midafternoon, racked with overwhelming sadness and inexplicable grief, Ivan’s sleep-deprived body collapsed onto the sofa where he dozed off, still sitting upright.

Vivid dreams of his mother swirled in his head, none of them making much sense. The gentle grasp of a hand on his shoulder and the soothing voice of his brother awakened him. Confused, he opened his eyes and looked around, then stared up into Brandon’s face. “The reverend is here,” he whispered.

“Oh my God, why’d you let me fall asleep?”

“You were only out about an hour, and you needed it.”

The painful knot in his chest returned, accompanied by a horrific hollowness unlike anything he’d ever felt. Was this what it was like to mourn? He’d never have suspected the pain would manifest in such a physical way. All of his insides ached. He couldn’t imagine consuming even a bite of food. Ever again. What was the point? Why did anything at all matter when people just died anyway?

He pushed himself up from the sofa and spun around to face Pastor Emory. Ivan had known the man most of his life, since Ivan started attending Sunday School as a preschooler. He’d always worn the same cologne, a cloying, Avon fragrance, probably sold in one of those decorative, collectible decanters. When Ivan was a child, it had reminded him of cookies, but later Ivan grew to associate it with hate.

He lost all respect for his pastor the day he delivered a fire and brimstone sermon, railing against the evils of homosexuality. The preacher had even found a translation of the New Testament somewhere that listed homosexuality as a sin so evil it warranted being cast into the Lake of Fire, the Second Death. Doctrines such as these had burdened and confused Ivan’s mother. It was because of these teachings she struggled with accepting Ivan for who he was. And as Ivan approached the pastor, a wave of nausea swept over him. He had to be cordial to the man for the sake of his father, and he knew his mother would have insisted he show respect, but he didn’t have to like it.

“Pastor Emory.” Ivan extended his hand, but the older man moved closer, immediately pulling Ivan into his embrace. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” What else was there to say? How did one respond to these expressions of condolence? Nothing came to mind that sounded sincere in Ivan’s head. He certainly wasn’t thankful that people were sorry, and why were they sorry in the first place? They had nothing to apologize for. Strange, our choice of words at such poignant times in our existence.

“But she is now in the hands of our loving Savior. Ivan, your mother is this day in Paradise.”

Oh Christ, must he quote from the Crucifixion story? These were the words Jesus spoke to the dying thief who hung on the cross alongside him. Did this so-called man of God truly believe his cliché expressions offered any comfort?

Ivan stepped back, shocked by his own cynicism. It wasn’t like him to feel such anger and bitterness. Yet in the moment, fury roiled within him. He wanted to ask the pastor why. He wanted to demand an explanation of God. How could he have allowed such a horrendous thing to happen? And he wanted to reach out and smack the man for spouting platitudes and meaningless, trite sayings at a time like this, a time of horrific sadness.

Instead, Ivan smiled and nodded. “Yes, she had tremendous faith.”

“I understand there is so much to process right now, and you all must allow yourselves time to mourn.” The reverend looked into the face of Ivan’s father, then back to Ivan and Brandon. “But sometime within the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours, we need to discuss the memorial.”

“Can we come to the church tomorrow morning?” Ivan’s father bore a stern, sober expression.

“Of course, or I can come here. Whatever you prefer.”

“I have to meet with the funeral director in the morning around nine. We will come to the church afterward.”

“If possible, bring any photos you’d like us to use. Or if you have a special poem or song, anything you want included in the service.”

How could they be thinking of these things so soon? Ivan wrapped his arms around his abdomen. “If you’ll excuse me.” He turned and headed down the hall to the bathroom. He was going to be sick.

Once inside, he slammed the door and slid to his knees in front of the toilet. Doubling over, he lowered his head and wretched. It had been hours since he’d eaten, but his abdominal muscles convulsed, forcing acrid bile from his gut into his throat. He heaved into the toilet, no more than a couple tablespoons of putrid liquid. Then the dry heaves commenced. Over and over, he gagged, but he had nothing left within him to expel. Weak and exhausted, he slumped over, curling onto the floor in a fetal position.

“Ivan, are you all right?” Brandon stood on the other side of the door, trying vainly to gain entry. Ivan was blocking the door. “Please let me in, man.”

Ivan’s cheeks were now streaked with tears. Had he been crying from grief, or were his eyes merely watering from the violent spasms his body had just experienced? It didn’t matter. It all hurt the same. The hollowness within him expanded, consuming him, and a fierce onslaught of emotion swept over him. He couldn’t have stopped himself from sobbing even if he’d tried. The deafening cry that erupted from his vocal chords was primal and shrill. His soul had been rendered, and this was its shriek of protest.

Pulling his knees toward his chest, his legs moved away from the door just enough for Brandon to push it open. Forcing his way in, he slid onto his knees beside his baby brother, pulling Ivan into his protective embrace. “It’s okay.” Brandon’s voice broke with emotion. “It’s okay, man. Let it out. Let it out.” He rocked his brother in his arms, and Ivan clung to him, pressing his face against Brandon’s chest. He had to feel his warmth, hear his heartbeat. He had to gain assurance that his brother was still with him. Still alive.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tucker had sacrificed his three days of custody to Janelle that week. They’d agreed it would be in Jaydin’s best interest to have a full week of recovery with his mother. Tucker would make up the time soon, after his son was feeling better, and would take him an entire week. Jaydin’s first night home from the hospital, Tucker slept over, using Janelle’s sofa as a bed.

“Did you find anything out about the fire?” They’d just tucked Jaydin in for the night, and he was sleeping peacefully. Janelle handed her ex-husband a beer across the bar that separated the kitchen and dining room area.

“Thanks.” He took a swig and leaned against the wall behind him. “I visited the crime site today. There’s not much left, the house a total loss. It’s going to be difficult, if not impossible, to get much physical evidence.”

“How do you know it wasn’t an accidental fire?” She stepped around the bar and headed toward the archway leading into the living room. Tucker followed her.

“Oh, the fire department is able to tell almost immediately if a fire has been set. Not to mention, the victim was likely already dead when the fire started. She’d been shot.”

Janelle stopped in her tracks and turned around. “No s**t?” She retrieved her cigarette pack from its hiding place.

“I hope you’re not gonna start smoking again.”

She flashed him a dirty look and placed a hand on her hip. “Our son has asthma. Of course, I’m not going to start again.”

He stared at the Newports in her hand.

“Just cut me some slack. One cigarette every day or two is my only vice.”

“You know that nurse who was with Jay Jay till he went in for surgery? Ivan, I think. It was his mother who died in that fire.”

“Oh my God.” Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “So yesterday when he was with us, prepping Jay for surgery, his mom was already dead and he didn’t even know it?”

Tucker nodded. “And he’s gay, ya know.”

Her expression morphed to one of puzzlement. “And what’s that have to do with anything?”

Tucker shrugged. “Just sayin.”

She walked across the living room to the sliding glass door and slid it open, then stepped onto the patio. “You think he’s cute, don’t you?”

He moved closer to her, crossing the threshold onto the cement patio. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. He’s a suspect.”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “And maybe a cute suspect at that.”

Tucker tried to appear incredulous, but he felt a tad annoyed she’d so easily seen through him. Of course, he’d noticed how attractive Ivan was. Jesus Christ, the guy was like s*x on legs. He’d have had to be blind not to notice someone like that.

“And how can he even be a suspect?” She took a drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly. “You already know he was working all night.”

“The entire immediate family are all suspects until eliminated. He just happens to be a suspect with a pretty solid alibi. Doesn’t mean anything, though. You don’t have to be present at the time a crime is committed to be responsible for it.”

“You’re not fooling me, Tuck.” She laughed, waving one hand dismissively. “You know that nurse didn’t kill anyone. And you might as well admit he’s a hottie. I saw the way you were checking him out.”

He took another swig of beer. “Even if there was no conflict of interest, he’s not my type.”

“He is totally your type. Tuck, Ivan is the epitome of your type.”

Tucker nearly guffawed. “Whatever.”

“He’s smart, sexy, has a great job, and he loves children. What more is there?”

“Why’re you giving me advice anyway? You should be focused on finding a man of your own.

“I already have a little man. His name’s Jay Jay.”

“Yeah, me too.” Tucker walked to edge of the patio and stared out at the cloudless sky. The stars were out and seemed to shine brighter than normal. “At a time like this, I doubt that nurse is going to be interested in any man. He just lost his mother.”

“Well, maybe this is the perfect time to forge a new friendship.”

“Like I said, there’s a conflict of interest.” He turned to look at her. “I can’t be a friend to anyone in that family right now. I have a job to do.”

She slid into one of the patio chairs, crossing her legs at the knee. “When you go in for a beer, be a dear and grab my wine glass. I left it on the counter.” He tilted back his head as he raised the beer bottle to his lips and drained it.

“All right. I do think you’re right about one thing, though. I don’t think Ivan Ramsey is a murderer.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

For the next week, Ivan functioned on auto-pilot. There was so much to do, so many things Ivan’s father needed help navigating. Although his parents had already made final arrangements, they still had to plan the funeral. Ivan had to pull himself together and be strong for his dad’s sake. He’d had his moment, his complete breakdown. His mother, of all people, would want him to remain stoic going forward. She’d expect him to face tragedy with a degree of dignity. She’d always concerned herself with appearances, and the last thing she’d want would be for her son to lose it in public.

He allowed himself to go numb and suppress his intense emotions. It was the only strategy that allowed him to greet and thank so many people who’d reached out to the family with expressions of condolence.

With his parents being so active in the church, the entire congregation seemed to be involved in the memorial. For the most part, the church ladies were very sweet, and they all had very kind words for Ivan and his family. They also had no concept of moderation, at least when it came to food. They not only prepared massive quantities of casseroles, sandwiches, salads, and desserts for the memorial, but they delivered equally as much food to Brandon’s house.

And after the closed-casket service and the interment, Ivan’s father faced a mountain of paperwork. They had death certificates to obtain, creditors to contact, insurance companies to notify. The home owner’s insurance was the worst. His father had lost everything, and they had to try to compile an inventory and determine replacement costs on every item. That process would have been painful enough in and of itself, but the death of his mother made it all the worse. Every detail—every physical item lost—was tied to a memory.

As horrific as the process was, Ivan felt a twisted sense of appreciation for all the busy work. It allowed him to remain focused upon his mom. The obvious challenges they faced during their time of transition at the very least gave Ivan pause, allowed him to think about how complex life was and how many people were touched by the life of one individual. Had she simply been buried and forgotten, had life just gone on as normal, Ivan wasn’t sure he’d have been able to cope. He welcomed the turmoil and chaos and viewed them as proof that his mother’s life had mattered.

But when a police detective showed up, and a member of the media cornered Ivan, Brandon, and their father one morning at a restaurant, asking questions about how Mrs. Ramsey had died, Ivan became concerned. And annoyed.

“What was she talking about?” Ivan sat across from his father at the local diner. Ivan turned to his brother. “That reporter, what did she mean? It was a fire. An accident.”

“Apparently, they’re not sure it was an accident.” Brandon took a sip of his water.

“Of course it was an accident.” Ivan stared directly at his father. “And why’d that detective contact me? He wants me to meet him for an interview.”

David Ramsey leaned back, straightening his posture in the chair as he scrubbed a hand across his face. “I didn’t want to tell you everything yet… I mean, until I knew for sure. But there was an autopsy conducted. Routine, really. And the fire was determined not to be the cause of death.”

“What?” Ivan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What the hell, Dad? What are you saying?”

His father looked at him sternly, perhaps in response to Ivan’s language. He took a deep breath. “Sorry, I didn’t tell you because…It was just too much to deal with.”

“Dad, how did she die then?” Brandon’s tone was more measured.

“Apparently she was shot.”

“Shot!” Ivan and Brandon spoke in unison.

“The police think someone killed your mother and then set the fire to try covering it up.”

“No!” Ivan shook his head. “This is crazy. Why? Why would someone do that?”

“That’s why they want to talk to all of us,” Brandon surmised. “They want to find out which one of us had a motive to kill our own mother.”

David raised one hand. “Now just a minute. Hold on, and quit…” He took a deep breath. “Try not to get emotional about this. The police are just doing their job. They know someone killed your mother, and they have to question everyone. Of course, they’re going to start with us first. Once we are eliminated as suspects—“

“Suspects?” Ivan nearly shouted. “Why would someone kill my mother? And why on earth would they ever suspect Brandon or me…or you.” He stared at his father.

“Well, of course we didn’t kill your mother. It had to have been a burglary or something. Someone broke into the house. Lord knows why. We have no idea what, if anything, they took. It’s not like we can take an inventory at this point. But whoever did it probably killed your mom to keep her from identifying them.”

“And to get away,” Brandon added.

“Right.” David looked into Ivan’s eyes as he reached across the table and placed one hand on his son’s wrist. “The police are just doing their job. Just cooperate with them, because we want more than anyone for this monster to be caught. The sooner they clear our family, the sooner they can find the killer.”

Ivan again felt as if he’d been body-slammed. The news was unfathomable. It sounded like an episode of Forensic Files or NCIS. This s**t didn’t happen in real life. Not to him and his family.

After lunch, Ivan excused himself, saying he needed to head back to his apartment. When he got to his car he retrieved a business card from his pocket that Detective Viviano had left him. “This is my partner’s card. He’s leading the investigation. Detective Brown.” Ivan stared at the card, trying to recall why the name sounded so familiar. He dialed the number.

“Detective Brown.”

“Hello, this is Ivan Ramsey. Your partner left me your card and said I needed to contact you.”

“Oh yes. Hello, Ivan. Thanks for returning my call. I just need to talk to you about—“

“About who killed my mother.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Look, I don’t appreciate your insinuations. I know you think someone in our family did it, but that’s utter bullshit.”

“No, I don’t assume anything like that.”

“And don’t you think my father has enough to deal with at a time like this? Shouldn’t you be out looking for the murderer instead of harassing us? We’re the victims here.”

“I want to catch the murderer more than anything, but in order to do that, I need your cooperation. Like I said, I’m sorry. I wish there was some other way.”

“I’ll come in right now for your interview.”

“That would be wonderful. Or I could meet you somewhere.”

“I’ll come to the police station. I’ll answer your questions, but then I want this to be over with. I want you to catch my mother’s killer and quit wasting time.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good!” Ivan ended the call.