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Healy never told March he was saving up to buy the rental. The plans he had to rebuild the old house kept falling through, but neither of them really cared because they loved the rental so much. Same builders, too. Looked almost the exact same. Whenever March asked about the $20,000 Healy had in a bank account, he always said it was a college fund for Holly.
Holly got a scholarship to go to a law school, so the now $50,000 collected dust.
March was diagnosed with lung cancer when he turned 47. He stopped smoking, but kept drinking. His liver caught up to him when he was 53. Healy was 68 and retired, Holly was 28, married, and thriving in prosecution.
Healy used the money in the rental fund for March’s funeral. What was left of it he used to buy the rental, and what was left of that he gave to Holly and her husband.
His life was quiet.
Families he knew came and went through the neighborhood.
Houses were remodeled, torn down, put back up, but Healy refused to sell the rental.
Healy’s house became a summer spot for all the kids because he was that nice old man with the pool and big backyard.
Every morning Healy’s routine was the same. Make bad coffee, sit on the porch swing to drink it, read, then indulge in some of his hobbies. That of which were more old lady than old man, but he was better friends with all the old women than the old men. Healy found that he could talk about March to the old women, who he’d previously been friends with.
When March was brought up to the circles of old men, he was often called a faggot. If only there was a reason why that term was brought up around him.
in his late 70’s Healy finally stopped dreaming about March. Not to say he didn’t want to, but he stopped dreaming about him in a dead wife montage way. His husband still graced his subconcious every once in a while.
Holly sat curled on the couch with her hand over her mouth. She was nervous, to say the least. The news was grainy on Healy’s old TV. He’d never replace an appliance if it wasn’t something he could fix or it wouldn’t work anymore.
“This is so suspenseful,” Holly’s husband commented. He stretched his arms over his head and laid them over the back of the couch.
The news feed was outside of a courthouse. Crowds and crowds of people had gathered behind barricades. Picket signs, flags, posters, everything one could imagine to support the legalization of gay marriage. Healy watched in silence. His glasses sat at the end of his nose, though they didn’t do much to help with seeing the TV.
A few minutes passed.
The screen changed.
A news reporter started a speech about how gay marriage had just been legalized by the United States Supreme Court. Holly squealed. Her husband didn’t have the same reaction, but he was probably just as excited.
There was only one image running through Healy’s mind.
If the times were on their side, he and March could’ve been standing in a courthouse together. Healy in his too-small suit and March in his stupid burgundy (purple) one. They could’ve gotten formally married, with the papers and everything.
“Mr. Healy?” Holly called, gently poking Healy’s shoulder.
Healy looked up from his hands and over to her.
“Dad would’ve been really happy that one of you lived to see this happen,” She said.
The three of them went out to the bowling place that evening. A pretty strange place to celebrate, they were told when asked about the occasion. The manager gave them a serious discount when they explained March and Healy’s situation.
They sat in the very same booth March, Holly, and Healy had the first time they made a business deal.
Healy spent his evening alone the exact way March would’ve wanted him to. A quick trip to the store to get flowers for March’s grave was the only change to the shower, pajamas, whiskey and a cigarette routine Healy had been trained into. Healy wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he did cry. The whiskey made his waterworks run faster than he would’ve liked them to.
When his eyes finally closed, he knew he would have a restful night after such a stressful day.
Healy was woken by the sound of a loud clang and a shriek from the kitchen. He got out of bed with a deep groan, then made his way out of the bedroom.
March was in the kitchen, already dressed for the day. A little strange for him to be up before 9:30.
How did he know it was 9:30?
Whatever, it didn’t matter that much.
“I’m okay, I just dropped the pan,” March announced to the house.
Healy pulled a hand up over his face to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. He had a wedding band on his finger. He was dreaming, of course he had one. He always had one in his dreams.
“Wow, look who decided to join the land of the living,” March greeted.
“Be careful with that,” Healy grumbled.
“I was trying to be,” March scoffed. He picked the pan up off the floor and leaned on the counter.
“Holly at school?” Healy asked, walking into the kitchen and wrapping his arms around March from behind.
“Insisted upon driving herself now that she officially has her license,” March answered. He turned his head and kissed Healy’s temple. “But now we only have your shitty old car to take to work.”
Healy’s brow furrowed. “My car is just fine.”
“It’s shitty and old, just like you,” March joked. He scooped the poorly made scrambled eggs onto two plates, then put the pan in the sink.
“I think I liked those two minutes where I hadn’t seen you yet today,” Healy murmured. He grabbed one of the plates and stepped toward the small dining table.
“I know you love me enough for that to be a lie,” March laughed. He followed Healy to the table and sat down beside him. There was a file on the table of their next job. Some teenager who felt like her dad was cheating on her mom, but her mom was too scared to hire them herself. So, she gave the money to her daughter to give to two middle-aged men.
Why did he know that too?
Healy took a bite of the eggs. Shockingly well made for March not being able to cook. “When do you want to leave, Holl?”
“Whenever you’re ready to, or before noon if we can,” March replied. “You’re slow at getting ready, but I have faith we can get out the door on time.”
“I’m slow at getting ready? You take 20 minutes just to decide on what shoes you want to wear,” Healy argued.
“Not all of my shoes match all of my suits!” March exclaimed, setting his fork down on the plate.
Healy missed the banter. If this wasn’t a dream, he would resign himself to a life like this for as long as he could have it.
Holland March
The best PI Los Angeles could’ve asked for.
November 12th, 1941 - October 28th, 1994
Jackson Healy
Beloved son, step-father, and husband.
April 7th, 1927 - June 26th, 2015