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Other People’s Problems

Michelle Stumph

    “I’m sorry for your loss,” she joked. Stephanie Collins, a coworker, wrapped her arms around me in the busy grocery lot, making light of Josh Hall’s firing. He was our workplace bully, a full-fledged, bratty, adult-child. The Sunday after-church crowd bustled.
    “Thank you,” I said. Warmth and peace filled me. Her gaze teetered between me and the ground, yet with unsettling eyes.
    “What’s wrong,” I asked.
    She looked at me again. “John and Rita Tyler? Weren’t they...”
    Weren’t? Were they part of something horrific, injured, dead? Nothing in recent memory.
    “They were found —” She looked away. “— dead in their home.”
    The chilly air evaporated into frozen surrealism and I choked on the lack of oxygen. I couldn’t form a single thought. I tried to question her but all that came out was, “Whuh?”
    “You didn’t know. Yesterday morning, it was on the news.”
    I examined her face for any clues, a joke, a mistake she might’ve been making. She looked at me and hugged me again. I closed my eyes so tight I thought I might’ve injured my face, but then pressed harder. No tears.
    “Thank you.” I glared at the ground. I tried to envision scenarios: murder, torture, kidnapping. No emotions. All I could think to say was, “I should get going. I need to make the arrangements.”

    “Double homicide,” the news read. Who did it, and why? Or could this be a grim practical joke, karma messing with me for ending those toxic relationships? My hand ached from? pounding the table.
    I dialed their county’s non-emergency police department and was connected to a detective who immediately apologized for my loss.
    “What happened,” I asked.
    “It was a murder-suicide.”
    “What?” Then why did the news report “double homicide?”
    “Mr. Tyler shot his wife before turning the gun on himself.”
    Is this another mind game? How many people must they involve in seeking attention?
    “Hello,” he said.
    “I’m here. Are you sure that’s what happened?”
    “Would you like to view the note he left?”
    “Yes.” A police officer wouldn’t go to such great lengths for a façade.
    “See the clerk at the front. Bring a picture id. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

    “Sarah Tyler,” the clerk hollered before I took three steps inside the police station, and slid a piece of college-ruled paper through a slot in the glass barrier. “Detective Troupe is out on duty but asked me to give you this.” The paltry building consisted of the two of us and a radio blaring loud enough for a small party.
    I unfolded the note. My heart ignited, racing, as I saw my father’s handwriting: “My apologies to my family and friends. My wife cheated and we must face judgement. Sincerely, John Tyler.”
    “Are you okay,” the clerk asked, finessing her voice to a more efficacious tone.
    I tried to speak but nothing came out, so I nodded up and down and fastened my gaze to the note. Is this a joke? Is everyone in on it? Cheated? My overly-considerate-of-others mother? My father, now he only cares about himself. He could’ve cheated. Was this projection?
    “If you like, there’s a water fountain by the ladies’ restroom.” She pointed down the unlit hallway. I thanked her and walked back to my car.
    My apologies? That’s the first time that man has apologized for anything. Nothing is ever his fault. The dishwasher broke several dishes. Not only was it not his fault, it was my fault for not being there to load it myself. Hell, he didn’t even apologize to my mother for scarring her nose when he “jokingly” yanked it too hard and it bled. No, he laughed instead. He never apologized.
    I took a deep breath, started my car, and looked directly at the road in front of me. The last time my parents tried to reconcile with me, my mother said she missed me and my father called me obscenities for estranging myself from them. How could he portray the perfect family with me gone? The street’s towering greenery merged arc-like over me, stealing my focus. Soon enough, I was home.
    The next morning, I steeled my emotions, preparing for the onslaught of communications with the church, the funeral home, and the job. I sat at my corner table, pen, and calendar in front. The wall and I stared blankly at each other. The sooner the arrangements are made, the sooner I would move forward. If this is a game though, and I take bereavement leave for fake deaths, I could lose my job. I stayed frozen for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, probably ten minutes later, I made the first call. Apparently my aunt had done so an hour prior. My boss remained. Stephanie could say something anyway so I pressed through.

    Wednesday afternoon and evening, the viewings were held at Claybourne’s Funeral Home, two miles from my apartment. I stood outside the gathering room, by the restrooms. My emotions or heart rate or something was triggering my nerves. Stephanie appeared out of nowhere. “What is Josh doing here,” she asked.
    Josh, the office bully, was officially “let go” (read: fired) for redundancy, but the talk around the office indicated his unrestrained arrogance was to blame. He fired a guy after taking credit for that guy’s work. He lied about everything, including seemingly irrelevant things. He continued to accuse David of deleting parts of a document IT proved David hadn’t touched. He also had an office mistress, Vicky, though he was married with three young children. He was absurd, obnoxious, and he terrorized us all.
    “Josh,” Stephanie pointed.
    “I don’t know but he hasn’t come near me yet.” I accidentally snorted. She laughed, sparking a round of guffaws.
    “I’m surprised he’s even here. Did he know your parents?”
    “No, I don’t think so.” I couldn’t imagine. I avoided him because I wasn’t sure. “He must need a job,” I said. We erupted into a second round of laughter. This time a tear emerged.
    “Tragedies bring out the best in people. Maybe he’s trying to make amends,” she said, sucking in big gulps of air.
    We walked inside the room. There were freshly-cut bouquets sent by family and friends circling the glassy-wooden caskets. Family snapshots set up on top. Make-shift chair arrangements followed. Guests conversed in cliques. I went for the bouquets’ cards. Who else could be in on this? And what is Josh Hall really doing here?
    “Our condolences,” “My deepest sympathy,” and “Prayers for the family” were the messages. Nothing from Josh. Nothing unusual or cryptic either. If this is a game, they’ve played it well.
    From snooping the messages, I tried to go unnoticed blending into the closest group of people. No strange stares, but the conversation was unbearable. They were discussing my parents’ seemingly content marriage. Did any of them even know my parents? Surface appearances shrouded in deceit. Dinner popped into my mind: meat, pasta, alcohol? When could I leave to get some food?
    I edged closer to the door, slowly backing away from the talkers. Janet Lee, my second cousin tapped my shoulder. “How are you holding up,” she asked. I’d seen her two other times in my life, and briefly at those.
    “I’m fine,” I said, turning from the group to her. What does she know about my parents? She wasn’t around when we were younger. “When was the last time you saw them,” I asked.
    “My mother talked to them last week. They were fine. You just, I don’t know—”
    “How did the police find out?”
    She stared blankly at me.
    “I’ll be right back,” I said, motioning towards the bathroom.
    No feet under the stalls, the room was empty. I checked my face. The lighting was impeccable against my flaws. I puffed my hair and applied several strokes of lip balm. Lips chap easily when I’m stressed. “You’re doing what any normal person would do in these circumstances,” I told myself. “You’re the normal one, not those people.”
    I opened the door slowly, scouting the area. Janet Lee had moved to another conversation in the main room. I was alone. I snuck out the doors and to my car, and then realized I hadn’t said “goodbye” to Stephanie, or anyone else. I would claim an excuse later. I had to go.
    Whether this is a game or not, they’ve gone too far. Warm tears trickled down my face, one after another, until I drowned in sorrow. I could barely see the road. I passed my exit.
    Flashbacks of my childhood appeared. I scored high on a school test. My mother snuck a bag of candy to me. We were not to tell my father. Not because I couldn’t have candy but because his absurd jealousy would confuse me. My mother existed to serve him and nothing, nor anyone, else.
    I pulled onto the road’s shoulder, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. I wondered if God were watching. I felt so alone sitting by myself in the dark, viewing myself in the small car mirror. Why do people who come from seemingly content and wealthy backgrounds talk of atheism while lesser-fortunate people pray to a higher power? It seems backwards. My stockpile of napkins was gone, balled up and strewn throughout the passenger’s side. Another car passed and I merged back into the lane.
    When I walked into the apartment complex, another tenant stood in the mail corridor. Bang! She slammed her mail slot shut. It reminded me of my father, the anger, the forcefulness. I hated it. She looked at me. I looked away and continued to my apartment, and into bed without food or alcohol.
    Thursday morning, a bright sunray woke my outstretched arm. The apartment building was eerily quiet. It was after 9:00 a.m. so the neighbors must have gone to work. I made myself breakfast and tried to find something to do. No television, nothing, held my interest.
    I went for a drive through my childhood neighborhood. The homes were newer versions of the old ones I knew, some repainted, others expanded somehow. My elementary school had bright red doors now and what looked to be a garden beside the parking lot.
    My father used to drive me to school each day, grumpily. I’d guess from the color of his shirt what kind of day we’d have. Black meant sad, red decent, blue, oh blue. On those days, he was insuppressibly full of himself and intolerant of me. I tried to hide the blues in the hamper so his days would change. That never worked.
    In school I treated others the same way he treated me. I laughed at their foibles and calamities, and lied about anything just to watch them suffer through the aftermath. I had cut off my own feelings so I wouldn’t have to process my pain, so I had no way of connecting empathically to anyone. Mix that with the potent jealousy of not having what they had – the real feelings, real lives, and you’ve got a childhood lost in perpetual misery.
    My mother’s voice, illuminating my head, called me home. “It’s getting dark,” it said. For a moment I imagined she was inside making dinner. I drove past. The front yard’s grass had been trampled on and a shred of yellow and black police tape swayed across a bush. A silent tear slipped away.
    Continuing down the road, my mind skipped from daydream to daydream with no catch. Childhood acquaintances to road construction to lies and back to childhood acquaintances, it didn’t rest. After the gas tank emptied, I escaped home for the rest of the day.

    Friday morning felt like most mornings except I wasn’t rushing to work; my parents were being laid to rest. The alarm buzzed. I got ready, stuffed a bunch of tissue in my jacket’s pocket, and paced to my car.
    I focused on each task, such as opening the car door, turning the key, parking, and being seated at the front of Trinity Church of Christ. From across the aisle, Janet Lee nodded at me. Attendees sat, scattered throughout the pews, all dressed in black. The sun barely peeked through the stained-glass windows. The pastor blurred passages. A cry or two erupted. Afterwards, my throat glands swelled. I tried to stand calmly, grasping my seat’s backboard, and follow others outside.
    My parents’ neighbor shoulder-tapped me and reminisced about a time when my mother made her a quilt. “She was such a dear,” she said. Sadness impaled my face and I couldn’t open my mouth. I tried to smile but my throat locked. A tear formed. She took my hand in hers and said, “I’m so sorry,” then turned and left before I could respond. I swallowed hard and kept moving.
    “My condolences,” a deep, yet quiet, voice from behind me said. It was Josh, and Stephanie followed him.
    “How do you know her parents,” Stephanie asked him.
    “I still talk to Mike,” he said, referring to a coworker.
    “But why are you here,” she asked. He scratched his forehead and turned to me. I sniffed hard, trying to suck back all emotions.
    “Your family was so good, decent,” he said.
    My family? My family wasn’t good or decent. We didn’t even speak. How did he know my family? Anxious adrenaline started pulsating through me. Did I seem so well put together I exuded “good” or “decent” upbringing? “Is that why you were so jealous,” I blurted. I wasn’t sure whether to feel emboldened or mortified, but I was empowered. Stephanie let out a quick squeal. Whatever he thought of my family, I surely wasn’t going to disclose any underlying problems to him.
    His eyes widened and his mouth opened but nothing came out. Stephanie squinted inquisitively at him. Josh stuttered before saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss,” and disappearing hastily.
    Stephanie grinned pompously, but I regretted it as soon as he left. He was probably trying to make amends, and I wasn’t ready. All that emotional buildup, dealing with his bullying behavior, and my father’s bullying behavior, made me retaliate. It took the rest of the walk to my car with Stephanie to calm that rush.
    The hearse, grim in despair, pulled onto the street. Police cars ushered it by as we filed in line behind it. Kind of ironic how we’re burying them together after they, or he, so viciously tore them away. We arrived at the burial site a mere fourteen minutes later. Janet Lee wedged her car six inches behind mine. Stuck and claustrophobic, I took a deep breath, turned off the engine, and walked toward the plots. This is it – the final goodbye.
    I directed my eyes to the caskets, stood up straight, unfolded my arms, and tried to keep my facial expression straight. Others gathered around the gravesite. Once the eulogy began, my nose clogged and I gapped my lips for air. I didn’t hear much after that.
    When it ended, I rushed to my car. Others were slower, forcing smiles before looking away. I pulled out my cellphone and pretended to check messages.
    Clank! Stephanie knocked on the passenger’s door. “Italian,” she said through the window.
    I didn’t want to eat but I wasn’t ready to go home either. “Okay,” I said. As the cars dissipated, I followed her to a new restaurant a few miles away where we sat all afternoon, confabulating on Josh, Vicky, the firing, and the new, lighter, work atmosphere.
    “It’s as if a window was opened and the sun is shining through,” she said. She was right. The moment he left the building, serenity and a renewed sense of purpose filled the atmosphere.
    “Vicky seems happier,” I said. “Remember how she nearly cracked a smile at our last meeting?”
    She chuckled. “Yeah, she didn’t smile that much around Josh.”
    The conversation was a nice end to a vexing week. I could have stayed all afternoon, but our waitress and busboy weren’t hiding their glares any longer.
    “Thanks for helping me through this time,” I said.
    “Of course. If there’s anything else you need –” She hugged me goodbye.
    I walked to my car realizing I would be completely alone that evening, hidden in my glum apartment. My entire body sunk, my brain awash in instant depression. I kept the pasted smile, and waved as she drove away. There were no more games, no hidden agendas, no excuses to reunite my parents with me. I dialed their phone. Voicemail. I made it home, and at some point lied down, and closed my eyes.

    Monday morning greeted me with two tall stacks of files and an overflowing inbox. Before my purse hit the desk though, Vanessa trailing behind me, asked, “Did you hear Josh’s wife left him?” Then added, “Mike helped him move back with his mother,” while laughing contagiously. “Oh, I’m sorry for your, um, family thing,” she said, momentarily turning serious.
    “Thanks. What happened? Vicky or the firing,” I asked.
    “Mike thinks it’s Vicky. His wife was yelling, ‘get out of here, you cheat’.”
    “Does Vicky know?”
    “Vicky doesn’t want anything to do with him, now that he’s fired,” she roared.
    “Where’s his replacement,” I asked.
    “Oh, let me introduce you. She’s really nice, nothing like him,” she reassured me. She walked me to Josh’s ex-desk where a young female, professionally-dressed, sat.
    “I’m Daley. I’m from Sidney Creek. We moved here with my mother.” The new girl said, standing promptly and holding out her hand.
    “I’m Sarah. I sit over there,” I said, pointing to my volcanically-overflowing desk.
    “My mother’s a big collector of porcelain dolls and there’s this shop in town –” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “She moved here for her doll collection.”
    “You should see my mother’s quilt collection,” I said, trying to keep up.
    “Yeah? I’m pretty sure my mom loves those dolls more than her kids,” she sighed. I feigned a smile.

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