Free The Laughterhouse by Paul Cleave Page B

children and God how he misses them, how he would do things differently if he could, how he’d make them safe.
    Fifteen years—his son would have been fourteen, his daughter twenty-five. A multitude of possibilities—he could have been a grandfather, his daughter could have been a doctor or an artist, his son a straight-A student in school with dreams of playing in a band. With them dying so young, those possibilities remain timeless, endless.
    The cemetery is cold and wet and his feet sink a little into the soft lawn as he stands motionless by the graves. Threegraves in total, one of them empty and waiting for him. Then he can lie next to his children, murdered fifteen years ago, his wife murdered too by a bunch of people who didn’t care enough to make a difference. They were ignorant and lazy and stupid.
    His wife hated him for what he did. The coroner said she took over fifty pills. That’s a statistic he has to carry with him, one that shows how desperate she was to leave him. He was no use to her back then. He was in jail when she died, he’d gone there without a trial, having confessed to the police and to the courts, asking for leniency—after all he couldn’t control himself. Only he wasn’t given any. Instead he was given fifteen years and a week into that sentence his parents came to tell him his wife and unborn son were dead.
    His parents. He misses them. Each of them died because of illnesses that are easy to get the more years you see after seventy. They used to come and see him in jail. For the first ten years it was every week without fail. Then age crept up on them and they’d miss a week here or there, then a few weeks in a row. He wasn’t there for them when they died. Wasn’t there to keep his wife alive. His family has died around him and all he can do for them now is check off names. The first time he even saw his wife’s and daughter’s graves was the day he came out of jail. He had to ask the priest at the adjoining church for directions.
    “It’s always harder on the ones left behind,” Father Jacob had said.
    “You couldn’t be more right,” Caleb had answered.
    The cemetery could double as a maze. There are trees and hedges cordoning off sections of graves, plots cut off by archways and stone pathways. The church is hidden from the cemetery behind a horseshoe ring of trees, only the very top visible over them, though more becoming visible as autumn takes away the foliage. He looks at the gravestones and wonders how many people out here have similar stories to his own and comes to the conclusion none of them do.
    “I’m sorry,” he tells his wife, and he truly is, and if he couldtake it all back, he would. There’s a cool wind whipping rain off the grass and from the trees into him and he begins to shiver.
    “I really am,” he repeats, and he doesn’t know what else to say. She can’t hear him. Coming here was pointless, really. The dead can’t talk, they can’t listen, they can’t hear, not in this state anyway. But he does have a message for them—one he can’t give them after he dies. For what he’s done, when all of this is over he won’t be able to join them. He knows he’ll be going somewhere different from them. He has to tell them how sorry he is. And he wants them to know he can’t make up for it, but he can hurt those who let it happen. Including himself.
    And he must admit, he wants them to forgive him. They won’t—he knows that—and it’s painful when the psychics toy with that emotion.
    “I just wish that . . .” he says, but no other words come. There are many things he wishes for.
    He walks away from the grave, his shoes soaking up more water, the maze slowing him down, his body heavy with thoughts of the past as he trudges through wet grass and gardens on his way back to the parking lot.

CHAPTER TEN
    I’m not alone when I get back to my car from seeing my daughter’s grave. There’s a guy sitting in the car I parked next to, trying hard