The Anonymous Man Read online

  The

  Anonymous

  Man

  by Vincent L. Scarsella

  Edition 3.01 Copyright © 2016 Vincent Scarsella

  Story Copyright © 2016 Vincent Scarsella

  All rights reserved.

  Part One First Betrayal

  Chapter One

  It’s my funeral! Jerry Shaw thought as he watched in his car from a safe distance. It was not his actual funeral, of course. He was obviously not dead.

  First to arrive that crisp, sunny October morning was Holly Shaw, Jerry’s wife, playing the part of the grieving widow to perfection. She was helped from the car by her younger brother, Raymond. She leaned against him and moved forward with a slow, mournful gait, even faking a misstep along the way. As she reached the wide oak entrance of Marzulak’s Funeral Home, one of the funeral director’s sons pulled the door open, allowing her a slow, dramatic entrance with a grief-stricken sigh.

  The other somber mourners arrived steadily after that. They included four of Jerry’s fellow sales reps from Micro-Connections, the computer software distributor for whom he had worked the last six and a half years in what had disappointingly evolved into a dead end job after so much early promise. Next, college chums from New York City and Long Island, including Dan Cormack, his best friend from those days, Andy Schneider, now a doctor, and little Stu Holman, drove up in a rented Ford Mustang and walked gingerly into the funeral parlor after a long night of partying and remembering funny things about Jerry. Like the time he spent the afternoon “pennied” in his dorm room and had to pee in an empty Coke can. Even Joe Reed, Jerry’s best friend from high school, whom Jerry hadn’t seen since the summer after graduation, showed up.

  The usual array of old aunts and uncles and three or four distant cousins arrived, including, on his mother’s side, Aunts Judy and Bernice with Uncle Lenny in tow; and, of course, his moronic, bachelor cousin, Lenny Junior who, as far as Jerry knew, still lived at home with Uncle Lenny and Aunt Judy. Jerry remembered Aunt Bernice’s sauerkraut pierogis and mushroom soup and regretted that he’d never be able to taste another mouthful.

  At a quarter to nine, Jerry’s older sister, Joan, dropped their father, Big Pete, off and pulled his ten-year-old Buick Century into the space in back of Holly’s car directly behind Marzulak’s long black hearse. Another of Marzulak’s sons came rushing down to help Jerry’s father up the steps to the front door. Jerry noted that Big Pete looked ashen, feeble, and grim–faced, every bit his seventy-four years.

  No wonder, Jerry thought. Now, both his sons were gone.

  His oldest, Peter Shaw, always Petey, the golden boy of the family, had died fourteen years ago. Petey had everything, as Jerry was repeatedly reminded—athleticism, good looks, a winsome personality. He'd been a high school football star, a solid, fast safety and tight end, six foot one or something. He had signed a letter of intent to attend Michigan State on the day he was killed after the last game of the football season his senior year. Joe Denz, one of his teammates, had guzzled too many beers at a post-game party and lost control of his father’s pick-up on the rain and ice-slicked asphalt of old State Route 391 and smashed into a tree. Petey was thrown from the truck and killed instantly. Naturally, the drunken Joe Denz survived the wreck.

  His parents’ grief over Petey’s death never seemed to stop after that night. And it seemed to Jerry, and his sister, Joan, that after Petey’s death, Big Pete and their mother simply gave up on life. Jerry and Joan had their good points, but their parents never seemed to notice. They could never quite match the awesome promise of the golden boy. The letter of intent granting him a full scholarship to Michigan State was framed and hung forever on a wall in his parents' bedroom, an unhappy reminder of what might have been.

  Of course, Jerry’s mother and father acted with appropriate pride upon his graduation from college. They seemed equally proud when Joan received her nursing degree. But somehow, these accomplishments were far too ordinary when compared to what Petey had seemed destined to accomplish—a stellar college, then a pro football career—and the celebrity that his certain fame would have brought to the household and the family name.

  Mrs. Shaw had died in her sleep one night two years ago, still grieving, and Big Pete had carried on thereafter in his same silent and empty way. And so, as Jerry watched the old man arrive for his funeral that morning, he could not help but feel a pang of remorse. No man should have to face burying two sons in a single lifetime.

  Jerry’s co-conspirator, Jeff Flaherty, finally pulled into the lot in his silver Lexus. It was a minute after nine and Jeff was again fashionably late. He got out of the Lexus and strode toward the funeral parlor with the confidence and aplomb of the up-and-coming lawyer that everyone touted him to be.

  The ceremony inside the funeral home was brief. At ten past nine, Holly ambled unsteadily back out into the cool October morning, now completely supported by her brother's wife. Jerry had to laugh. She was some actress. Well, wasn’t that what she had aspired to be some lost time ago? Now the only thing that seemed to motivate her was money. Jerry found it ironic that she had to call upon her old acting skills to pull this off.

  His father was next to the exit, arm-in-arm with Joan, his face a solemn mask. Immediately behind them walked Father Mike, a young associate pastor from Our Lady of Victory Church, the parish where Holly and Jerry had been married but never had attended after that.

  Finally, the rest of the family and friends spilled out into the bright, chilly morning. They wore grim expressions, having paid their last respects to the closed coffin inside of which, they had been led to believe, was the burnt cinder of flesh that had once belonged to Jerry Shaw.

  Next, the funeral home associates assembled the pall-bearers—including Jeff; Paul Castelli, one of the sales reps at Micro Connections with whom Jerry had grown somewhat close; Joe Reed, Jerry's old high school chum; Dan Cormack, his best friend from college; his cousin, Lenny Jr.; and, finally, Holly’s brother, Raymond. Upon their somber assembly, the pall bearers were directed by the associates to march alongside the casket as it was wheeled, then glided, into the back of the hearse. Once it was safely deposited, each of the pall bearers scampered to their own cars for the short half mile ride down South Park Avenue to Our Lady of Victory Basilica for the funeral mass.

  Jerry waited until the last car in the funeral procession had driven out of the parking lot before starting after it. A minute or so later, he pulled into a space in the deserted rear of the basilica parking lot just as the last of the mourners had meandered into the basilica as the solemn bong of church bells beckoned them inside. From a paper bag on the passenger seat, Jerry pulled a long-haired auburn wig, a fake goatee, and a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses. He carefully put them on in the way he had practiced back at his motel room the previous night. He gave himself a long last look in the rear-view mirror before deciding, with some amusement, that he was disguised just enough to get away with attending his own funeral mass.

  Jerry left his car and hurried past several rows of cars, each of which were marked by a blue Marzulak's funeral home flag. He took the narrow walkway leading to the front of the basilica and, upon entering the foyer, he stopped a minute to catch his breath. He smoothed down his wig, adjusted his glasses, felt the goatee one last time and went on ahead into church.

  Chapter Two

  Jerry dipped his right index finger into the large marble bowl of holy water offered up to worshipers by one of two bucolic, life-sized marble angels standing at the end of the main aisle of the church. The long center aisle ended at a fabulously ornate main altar with its nine-foot tall, sixteen-hundred-pound marble statue of Our Lady of Victory herself. She had been sculpted in Italy and blessed by Pope Pius XI eight
y-five years ago. Four thick swirling columns of rare red marble flanked the altar, reminiscent of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

  After making a quick sign of the cross, Jerry took the aisle seat of the last empty, dark African mahogany pew. Father Mike had already started the funeral mass as Jerry sat down and lowered the kneeler. As Father Mike bellowed the opening prayer, Jerry looked up above the altar and was suddenly humbled to the core. The Holy Spirit and several saints hovered along a bright blue dome as if peering down from Heaven itself. By faking his death, Jerry thought at that moment, he and his co-conspirators, Holly and Jeff Flaherty, seemed to have mocked God Himself. The worrisome hex was broken when one of two pre-teen altar boys shook the ritual bells for the first reading.

  From among the sparse mourners, occupying only the first half-dozen or so rows of pews, Jerry’s cousin, Lenny, took a deep breath and hesitantly stood. Pursuant to Jerry’s request, he had been nominated to recite the first reading. A crumpled piece of paper shook in Lenny’s hands as he lumbered forward and stepped onto the altar.

  The day before his death was staged Jerry had sat down in the living room with Jeff and Holly in yet another post-dinner review of their scheme. After Jeff had led them, for the hundredth time, step by step over how they were going to stage the death the following morning, Jerry took another long gulp of his cheap bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, stood up, and announced to Holly and Jeff that he wanted to plan his funeral.

  “Plan your what?” Holly had frowned dubiously as she sipped her own low-priced white zinfandel, but Jeff immediately agreed with Jerry, saying, yes, Jerry boy, that makes perfect sense. He even gave Jerry faint praise for thinking of it and suggested that doing so would be at very least a symbolic break for Jerry, a way to purge his old life. He then asked Jerry what he had in mind. In the next half hour or so, Jerry laid it out, jotting down plans on a yellow legal pad while Holly rolled her eyes and mumbled to herself. Jerry noted what funeral home to use (Marzulak’s, of course); found the old bible his Aunt Bernice had given them as a wedding present and flipped pages to locate the readings that he wanted to be given at the funeral mass and added who should give them; finally, Jerry announced firmly and directly that Jeff should give the eulogy.

  “Me?” Jeff grinned. “Why me?”

  Jerry shrugged. “Why not you?”

  “Sure, why not you?” Holly chimed in. “You’re his best friend.” She gave a short laugh, took a sip of wine and added, “Well, his only friend.”

  That wasn’t quite true. Jerry did have friends down at Micro- Connections. Only, he hardly associated with them outside work so she was quite right.

  Jeff accepted the honor with an exaggerated bow while twirling his right arm up and around in an extravagant gesture for Jerry’s benefit. During this display, Jeff gave Holly a sidelong glance and, although Jerry could not fathom what this glance might signify, if anything, he decided to let it go and not make anything of it.

  That was all ages ago, it seemed, in another galaxy far, far away. Jerry now focused on the ridiculous sight of his daft cousin at the pulpit on the altar about to give the first reading at his—his funeral mass. Lenny held his breath momentarily before tapping the microphone, looking something like a comic playing a dumb-struck, dim-witted character about to launch into his act. He stared out at the mourners and it soon became apparent that a bad case of stage fright had incapacitated the poor man and that he was incapable of speech.

  After a time, Lenny lifted and pulled a hand through his thinning blonde hair. One of the altar boys leaned forward and pulled at the hem of Lenny’s sport coat and there was an inappropriate titter from the mourners. Then, because Lenny continued to appear transfixed, Father Mike stepped forward and was about to intercede when, from the audience Uncle Lenny barked something up to his son. Not encouragement exactly, just something to get him going. Lenny Junior squinted down at Lenny Senior, seemed to get it together with a nod, and feebly began to speak.

  “A . . . a . . . a reading from Wisdom 3:19,” he said, his voice quivering, difficult to understand. Then, after a pause, Lenny closed his eyes, took another breath, opened them, finally launched into it.

  “The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God,” he read and stopped a moment to look up and out at the mourners. He muttered the rest of it stiffly, painfully, without emotion, but it was understandable and without any further significant hitches. When finished, a small smile formed on Lenny’s thin lips and he nodded with ultimate relief. He stepped back from the pulpit, looked up at the monstrous statue of Our Lady of Victory and the small, suffering Jesus statue behind her. He made the sign of the cross before at last exiting the altar.

  The next reading, from Corinthians, was given by Joe Reed, Jerry’s best friend from high school. Jerry hadn’t seen Joe or had anything to do with him since the summer after graduation and he regretted that. Therefore, it seemed appropriate that he select Joe for this special honor. Jerry noted that Joe appeared to have become a solid citizen as he walked briskly to the pulpit, turned to the mourners and started the reading in a clear, confident voice. When he was finished, Joe left just as confidently as he had come.

  Next was Holly’s younger brother, Raymond. Halfway through reading, he broke down and sniffled for a time though the text of the reading was not all that stirring or memorable. Jerry was surprised, and a little embarrassed, that the kid had apparently been so fond of him.

  The remainder of the mass consisted of the usual prayers and rituals of any other mass. Father Mike’s sermon was a tad long, sprinkled with clichés including the one about the need to simply accept God’s will because He must surely have some good reason and plan for snatching life from someone as young as Jerry. A smile formed on Jerry’s lips as he agreed that certainly there had been a plan but not necessarily God's.

  There came the point in the mass, like every Roman Catholic mass, when the worshipers were asked to extend a sign of peace and goodwill toward their fellow churchgoers. Thankfully the row Jerry was in, and several rows forward were empty. Still, an old woman, a daily worshiper who often attended funeral masses of people she didn’t know, hobbled from her seat down the few rows to where Jerry was standing and extended her hand. She looked at Jerry as he shook her hand. For a panicked moment, he wondered if the old lady knew what he was doing there.

  In a voice just above a whisper, she said, “May peace be with you.”

  “And also with you,” Jerry said with a nod. She returned the nod and hobbled back to her pew.

  During the offering of communion, when most of the mourners got up and made their way to receive the Eucharist from Father Mike, Jerry felt the need to look up. At that moment his gaze locked upon Mary Grace McDonnell, Holly’s beefy cousin a few years her senior, staring down from the marble rail of the balcony. She was the family soprano who was always called upon to sing at funerals and weddings, celebrated for her stirring, hearty voice though she had never made it past local productions. Jerry gasped as their eyes met and quickly looked down, sick to his stomach.

  Perhaps because her glance had been so fleeting or her mind too clouded, worrying over singing the final song in his memory, or because his disguise was that good, Mary Grace did not appear to recognize him. Jerry sighed as she turned to watch as the last of his mourners glumly received God in the form of a wafer and returned to their seats for the ritual Eucharist prayer.

  After Father Mike deposited the remaining wafers in the tabernacle and proceeded to the front of the altar, he scanned the mourners in the pews to his left and then reached out his hand to call forth Jeff Flaherty. Jeff strode up to the altar, ready to give the eulogy. After looking over the mourners for a time, he glanced toward the back of the church until his gaze settled on the solitary, overweight figure sitting in the last row.

  Jerry tensed, knowing he’d been spotted. He knew Jeff was going to be furious that he had risked everything for the privilege of watching his own funeral mass. In the next moment, he heard Jeff clea
r his throat.

  “Most of you don’t know me,” Jeff began, his voice affecting a slight, delightful drawl as it settled over the mourners. “My name’s Jeff Flaherty and I work with Holly Shaw, in the same law firm she does. I’m a lawyer, but don’t hold that against me. And by the way, I’m not charging for this eulogy.” There was a smattering of laughter among the mourners, along with one or two uncomfortable chuckles. “I don’t need to be paid, or to be a lawyer for that matter, to say nice things about Jerry Shaw. I didn’t know him for very long, not as long as some of you, but what I do know is that he was a great guy. And for this to happen to him, and to Holly, is deeply troubling and like the Father said, makes you question your faith and all that goes into it.

  “But I don’t want to dwell on that. I want to dwell on the kind of guy Jerry was, and ask that you all remember what was good and decent about him, the fond memories you have. I found him to be smart and funny in that quiet, self-deprecating way. As I am sure all of you are aware, he was way too worried about the way he looked, his long battle with the weight demon. And what is really sad about all this was that Jerry had just started a new diet, thinking that this time it was really going to work. Anyway, he, he—” Jeff broke up a beat and took a breath to compose himself. Jerry marveled that his acting skills rivaled Holly's, watched him weep on command. Maybe that was something all lawyers learn in law school.

  “Anyway,” Jeff went on, “there are so many complexities about a person. Some we know about, others we don’t. Some we see, some we don’t. I bet most of you don’t know this about Jerry—that he was one damned good illustrator and in his spare time drew comic books that were quite good. He especially liked to draw storyboards regarding the adventures of this one particular guy, a unique superhero he called the Anonymous Man.”