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“This is a town full of weeds, Orel, don’t you ever forget that.” The thought rings in his head dully, drudged up by a stubborn dandelion, still somehow alive during the stirrings of winter, his cold clumsy feet nearly trampled. Although he couldn’t recall just who had spoken those words to him, his mother, his father? Couldn’t most anyone in this town say a gosh darned thing like that. H-e double hockey sticks, what a terrible thing, to not know which family member said it. Are the people closest to him just the town reflected at him? Though, to know the town is to know his parents, to know himself, to know god. He does not know where his numb stumblers take him, but his heart leads the way.
Unconsciously he walks down one of his most well trodden paths. The thought continues to echo through his head with each thump of a foot hitting the pavement. The wind tosses dead leaves in the air like a petulant child or like a cat tossing a dead rat playfully in the air. Neither his feet nor his mind registers where his body has taken him. It’s not until he’s kneeling that a shout brings him back. He immediately recognizes the voice as one Reverend Putty, but until Putty’s reproach he had not realized the squishy surface he had knelt upon was the back of the Reverends calf.
“Reverend Putty? Did you know my grandfather?” With a heavy yet weak sigh the reverend heaves himself up from nearly lying his stomach on the dirt below.
“Not as well as I should have or could have, and I was just warming up to him. He seemed a good man. Even though I did not have the chance to lead him in life, I wish I had the chance to lead him in death. It’s my duty as a preacher!” The Reverend greets him without looking up, refusing to break his locked empty stare on the headstone.
“He was a good man. That’s…exactly how I felt. I wish I had been awake…at least they said he passed swiftly and peacefully, but how do they know? Do you think it’s true?” The wind howls against the gravestones sharply.
“…I’m sure they probably have a way with all their fancy-shmancy holier-than-god new fangled tech out there…I don’t know, I’m probably not the one you should ask about it. I can only hope that his last moments weren’t nightmare inducing, the truth is that I don’t know Orel, I just don’t know.”
The Reverend holds his head while looking down, feeling so ashamed, like he should be ready with the answers when in truth he never had been. He doesn’t feel like enough of a good god fearing man to even look at the lost member of his congregation that stands before him. They both don’t speak for a long time, the dry rustling of fallen cemetery leaves being the only noise between them, speaking more poignantly in the moment than either of them could. A gloved hand invades the preacher's view of the grave stone and only then does Putty look up at Orel, a light sprinkle of snow dusting his head.
“It’s getting dark out, we should go in before it gets cold enough to get frostbite!” Orel says, offering a gloved hand, to those who knew him, really knew him would think that the cheer in his voice sounded false, but it’s just a different kind. Putty huffs a laugh, he can never be sure or not if Orel’s joking with him these days. As he learns more it’s harder to tell what he does or doesn’t already know. Putty takes Orels hand and heaves himself up, about to be concerned with the ease in which he had been pulled up, Orel had always been a strong kid, but man has he put on a growth spurt recently! It nearly scares the living daylights out of him to see an Orel Puppington nearly at his eye level!
Orel himself then brings himself to kneel, sending a quick prayer to his grandfather. While not ideal, it’s not like he hasn’t been coming to his grandfather’s final resting place nearly every day. He walks in front of the rev, leading the charge home. It creates little more space than there previously was before but it feels like Orel has turned the clock forward to Sunday and put a crowd of church goers between them, so he calls out just enough for Orel to hear at the nearby distance he’s at.
“You know who’d know more about this? Stephanie, have you talked to her about-?”
“Yeah,” Orel cuts in abruptly, speaking curtly, but still keeping a bright tone. “She’s been a great help.” Orel keeps walking, tempted to check behind himself every once in a while until he hears footsteps behind him, until their paths diverge and he couldn’t hear anything more. He hesitates in opening the door, mitten barely ghosting the knob, he stares ahead into the brass, thinking of Stephanie. The truth is that he had been too ashamed to face her. She understood just fine, having grieved a loved one of her own once upon a time ago, maybe that was the thing that scared him the most. He didn’t want another placating voice turning to him and offering him false condolences, not that she had ever done that… He’s just been over saturated with false concerns after the funeral.
He just wants to share in his experience with someone presently in the same boat. While a past guide who has been through the storm is a help having a crew mate sure would make it a less frightening voyage to brave. Just before he makes the decision to enter, the knob suddenly twists harshly under his grip, struggling away from him, only for him to come face to face with his father again for the first time in a long time. Despite living under the very same roof, much like the rest of the people who lived in that house, most were severely disconnected from each other. You could pretend you were the only one living there if only you honed your abilities to zone out everything around you. He and his father lock eyes before his father slams the door shut in his unresponsive face. He takes this as a sign to go and see Stephanie right away, but at this late hour he wouldn’t be able to catch her at her door. Doing a double take and turning back towards home having remembered the late hour he rounded the back of his house.
A stretch of looped curve leading him to the back of his house. He knocks on the window in a rhythmic pattern, a signal Shapy or Block would recognize, whoever’s closest at the time. Shapey climbs up his dresser and unlatches the window to allow Orel to crawl in. He has to remind himself that he still lives there at times, he hasn’t been thrown out, but everyone tries to avoid each other. He’s up and off before the sun rises. Stephanie’s shop won’t open up for another few hours but he’s struggled to sleep all night, anticipating his meeting. Stephanie walks to her store entrance in shock at seeing Orel.
“Hey, you sure do look eager today… I thought I had scared you off. It’s been awhile.
“Hey, Orel! How have you been, how are those piercings doing, you sure look eager today, I thought I had finally scared you off.
Her brow is drawn up in a mix of concern and a welcome surprise. Orel looks like a tense block the way he’s holding his shoulders like that. He can tell that she knows something’s off. She never speaks that quickly usually. Orel twists his small cross earring, one so subtle it makes him glad his father chooses not to wear his reading glasses most of the time. He takes a deep breath in, collecting himself.
“Stephanie, I need to speak with you. I haven’t been around as often because I’m grieving my grandfather, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate all the help you’ve given me, I just wish…”
“That you had someone grieving with you?”
“Yeah. My dad’s not an option and no one else really cares. My piercing is doing fine by the way.” Stephanie eyes dart around the shop, like she has a secret. She leans in theatrically and whispers.
“Well, I may know someone who’s going through something similar. The mail to Moralton from Next Town Over has come in for the month, and Christina has written to the both of us. If you help me out a bit here you should have enough money to get a bus ticket to see her.”
“Oh thank you, thank you Stephanie!” Orel spins and jumps up to hug Stephanie, nearly her height now.