Mourning Glory -e

by Bliss Addison

After being stabbed and left for dead by his wife, Jack O'Brien struggles to accept the reality of his life and to come to terms with the guilt of his mother's death. At the urging of his friend Detective Eugene Jeffries, Jack reads his mother's journal and learns the depth of his wife's depravity and the trials his mother had faced as a wife, daughter-in-law and mother-in-law.

978-1-59431-795-8

Also available in HTML and RTF formats

Chapter 1

Jack O'Brien took this time of day--after he tucked in Henry for the night--to reflect on the past, the present and to give thanks for life, the gift bestowed on him that afternoon nine months ago. Life was something he'd always taken for granted. Not anymore, not since he lay on his kitchen floor, his blood flowing from the knife wound in his chest. It took the near-death experience for him to realize that life was not meant to be endured but enjoyed. He did that now, and cherished every minute.

He looked around his home office, first at the antique desk then at the scuffed hardwood floor. The old oak chair that had belonged to his father Dan squeaked when he shifted his weight, the sound bringing back memories of his childhood. Jack remembered the number of times he'd crawled onto his father's lap for Dan to rock him. Jack shared the same priceless moments with his son.

He shook himself free of the past to focus on the present and the decision he would soon need to make. His wife Sonja, no longer considered a risk to public safety, would be released soon from Mahogany Manor, the rehabilitation center where she underwent treatment for psychosocial behavior.

The question rolled around in his head whether he should let Sonja back in his life.

Why would he want anything to do with the woman who tried to kill him?

His best friend Jeffries said Jack should have his own head examined if he considered that question. Jeffries was adamant in his opinion of Sonja--a zebra never lost its stripes.

Her doctor said Sonja was making wonderful progress and based on that advice, Jack had argued that she would be a different person now and know the wrong of her negative and vindictive ways. "You don't know that for sure," Jeffries said. "Sonja may be performing for the doctors. I don't have to tell you how clever and devious she is. I can't understand why you would intentionally place yourself in a situation with a potential for harm. Think about Henry." Jack did. In fact, Henry was all he thought about these days as the time neared her release. To reassure him, Jack often told him that Mommy didn't mean to hurt Daddy, that she was sick and after the doctors nursed her back to health she'd return home. Now, because Jack hadn't wanted Henry to think that his mother was a psychopathic killer, he expected they would be a family again when Sonja came back to Bison.

Would Henry be happier with his mother back in his life? He adjusted well to her absence. Jack knew there had been times when Sonja had frightened Henry. Maybe he was better off without her. Maybe they both were.

He fingered his mother's diary sitting on the desk. Slated for the trash in his family's former home next door, Ivy had read the diary and believed Jack should too. Jeffries agreed with Ivy, though he relied on her opinion to make that recommendation.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe knowing his mother's thoughts might bring him closure and help him decide what he should do about Sonja.

Truthfully, Jack was afraid that once he knew the truth, knew what Sonja had done to Isabella, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

It was Isabella's hand that held his that day he lay dying, her words that gave him the strength to hold on until help arrived. He never told anyone that his dead mother had appeared at his side. He probably never would.

Isabella often said God didn't give more than we could handle.

Pots clanged and dishes rattled in the kitchen, startling him until he remembered Rosetta mentioning rearranging the cabinets. He thanked God for her, too. Jeffries had heard about her from his mother. Rosetta's husband Alfred had been one of many whose job at Bison Pulp and Paper had been eradicated. Apparently, he hadn't taken the news well. He came home, went down to the basement and shot himself. Jack agreed with Rosetta when she surmised that on the drive home Alfred had reflected on his life and realized he had little to show for forty years of employment. The mill offered no pension to its workers or severance packages on dismissal. At sixty-one, he found himself without health insurance, jobless and without prospects. His only real asset was their two-story house with drafty windows and weather-beaten siding. His bank account held a few thousand dollars, his carport sheltering a ten-year-old car. Obviously, Alfred couldn't face the future, yet he expected his wife to brave life without him, a fact she often lamented. Rosetta was too angry to mourn Alfred. Maybe rightly so.

There were no two ways about what Alfred did. It was a selfish act, pure and simple.

Rosetta was never in a hurry to go home. Nothing awaited her there, she said, but empty rooms, echoes of the past and silence. Their arrangement worked out well for them both. He paid her generously and for that she looked after his house, baked, cooked and cleaned. She had also become a surrogate grandmother to Henry, seeing that both of his grandmothers were gone--one in Heaven, the other behind bars, which proved quite a story for Henry at show and tell. His mother in a mental health facility was another.

Maybe Jack should read Isabella's journal. He looked at the leather-bound book.

Maybe he should. Jack heard someone walking on the verandah and turned to look out the window. The footsteps belonged to a woman who was now taking a seat on a wicker chair.

Under the overhead light, she looked more uncomfortable than dangerous, like she didn't want to be there. He estimated her age around mid-thirty, clean but poorly dressed. The plastic garbage bag that she held firmly in her lap--if he were to guess--held her treasured possessions. She looked nice, dimpled chin, and hands good enough to model. Her short dark hair swept upward in the current tousled look. Her top lip all but swallowed her bottom one. She didn't look like a psychopath. But what did he know? He was married to one for thirteen years and didn't realize differently until the day she stabbed him. He couldn't rely on his judgment of character.

Why was she sitting on his verandah?

She jumped when he opened the door, the look on her face suggesting surprise as well as worry. She stood, hugging the plastic bag against her body. "Jack O'Brien?" she asked.

He expected a quivering voice, teary-eyes and hesitance. What he heard was strength and confidence, a woman in control, not a woman in need.

"Yes." He waited for her to explain. She didn't. "This is the point where you apologize for appearing on my front porch at nine o'clock at night, but."

"But?"

"But this is a matter of grave importance. It's urgent that I speak with you. That kind of but." She laughed, a cheery sound that warmed his heart.

He had to prompt her. "Well?"

"I'm sorry. This was a mistake." She turned and walked down the steps. Midway along the walk, she looked over her shoulder at him. "This is the point where you ask me why I'm here."

Jack leaned his hip against the railing and folded his arms across his chest. "Is this about a story? Something you think I might be interested in for the paper?" She didn't say anything, simply looked at him.

"The Bison Tribune doesn't have a social or gossip column," he said.

"I'm not here to get revenge on anyone."

"Enlighten me, then."

A car drove past.

She cringed and pulled the hood on her jacket over her head.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked. "If you're in trouble, I don't want you here."

"I'm not the one in trouble, Mr. O'Brien." She put her hand in a jacket pocket and came out with a plastic bag, which she offered to him.

Jack didn't have any idea what was inside the bag and, truthfully, he didn't want to know. He held his hands in the air, palms outward, and backed up. "That's it. Conference over." He hurried to get inside his house. At the door, he heard her say, "No one in Bison is safe."