Richard’s Burial
Chapter 09 - Richard’s Burial
Richard Langford was buried three months late.
By then, the lilies from the funeral had long since browned. The church whispers had become headlines. Judge Crane’s name had been removed from the courthouse wall. Larkhaven had been placed under state control. Elaine Mercer was in a real medical facility, where doctors used her name and asked permission before touching her.
Catherine attended the burial because she needed an ending with dirt in it.
Diane came because Elaine asked to see the coffin go down.
Margaret came because guilt, like grief, sometimes requires physical places.
Mr. Bennett stood at the back, thinner and older than he had been at the funeral. He had given statements to investigators, turned over files, and voluntarily suspended his own practice pending review. Catherine respected that more than she wanted to.
There were only five people at the grave.
No choir.
No public condolences.
No polished speeches about Richard’s kindness.
The minister said a prayer carefully drained of certainty.
Catherine listened and felt almost nothing.
That frightened her until Diane spoke quietly beside her.
“Do you miss him?”
Catherine looked at the coffin.
“Yes.”
Diane nodded. “Me too.”
It was an ugly truth.
Also a human one.
Richard had lied. Used them. Hidden behind both women. Left them to clean the mess after he died. But he had also made soup when Catherine had pneumonia, called Diane every night when she traveled, remembered songs, touched foreheads, fixed lamps, sent flowers, and knew exactly how to be tender when tenderness cost him nothing.
If he had been only evil, grief would have been easier.
Catherine said, “I don’t forgive him.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t want to hate him forever.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Diane said.
Catherine almost laughed.
Margaret placed one white flower on the coffin and whispered, “Thomas deserved better.”
Catherine surprised herself by answering.
“So did we.”
Elaine, in her wheelchair, looked at the coffin with unfocused eyes.
“Richard knew the door,” she said.
Diane knelt beside her. “What door, Mom?”
“The door out. He kept drawing it. But he never opened it.”
Catherine closed her eyes.
That was Richard.
Mapmaker of exits he was too afraid to use.
When the first dirt hit the coffin, Catherine did not feel peace.
Peace was too clean a word.
She felt accuracy.
Richard was dead.
The damage was not.
The work remained.
As they left the cemetery, Diane stopped by the gate.
“My mother wants Mercer House back.”
Catherine nodded. “She should have it.”
“She wants to turn part of it into a legal shelter for women fighting guardianship fraud.”
Catherine looked at her. “That was fast.”
Diane’s mouth softened.
“She said if a house was used as bait, it should learn to shelter.”
For the first time all day, Catherine smiled.
“Elaine is wise.”
“She is angry,” Diane said. “Wisdom may be what angry women become when they finally get enough rest.”
Catherine looked down at her bare left hand.
“What do we do with the rings?”
Diane removed a small envelope from her purse.
Inside were both gold bands, released from evidence after photographs and measurements.
“Not wedding rings anymore,” Diane said.
“No.”
“Not relics of him.”
“No.”
Catherine touched the envelope.
“Then we melt them.”
Diane looked at her. “Into what?”
Catherine thought of courthouse drawers, locked rooms, storage closets, and women waiting behind doors men claimed were for their own protection.
“Keys,” she said.
Diane smiled slowly.
“Good.”
May you like
Behind them, Richard’s grave settled into the earth.
Ahead of them, for the first time, the lie had become raw material.
