The Pearly Gates

The Pearly Gates.

He walked through God’s arches remembering his mother was an atheist. Maybe it was the best the best thing that she achieved.

His grey Oxford pin-stripped suit and leather shoes was tricking his body into believing it was just another day at work. However, his head wouldn't let him forget.  In this room there was no product, or phone, or anonymous customer. 

People with their due diligence to the dead had brought gifts of food. Slices, fruit baskets and pretty fairy cupcakes wrapped in sorrow. The stream of people had been spreading them out over an unsteady table that was struggling with the weight. Past the pews, the stage, partially obscured with a sheer white drape had been decked out with the casket.


Paul took his seat at the front of the church as it began filling up with the mirrors of her life.

“How are you feeling mate?” his uncle Daniel said. 

Not knowing exactly how to answer, Paul replied truthfully.

“I’m doing great.”

Patting him twice on the shoulder, Daniel turned away. Paul began to chuckle at the ‘manly’ gesture of sympathy and the glazed look he saw in his eyes.

“I’m here, you know,” said Daniel. 

Daniel had three kids to a mother who was a bit of a twat, and then there were the kids. The eldest Christina was passionate about arts, Laura, the middle child, was all about fashion. A quiet boy, James was the youngest. Having neither academia or fashion to carry him through, and he seemed to be struggling with his place within the family. All the while, his uncle Daniel was struggling to be there for the kids. Paul never really knew how to take his balding uncle with his lack of confidence and critical manly bravado.

The guests, if you could call them that, had began to fill up the space. Skimming over them, his eyes caught his girlfriend Sarah’s dark hair. He watched her as she furiously hooked a stray piece behind one ear. With her hands now free, she began gesturing at his Auntie. The women were both unconsciously loud, and he could hear their conversation, 

‘Yes, I know it is shame, it was her life choices though wasn’t it.’ His aunty paused. 

‘She never really got the hang of life, and never really gelled with anyone.’

‘You know, that when we were children we use to twirl each other around when our dad wasn’t looking. Then Cass and I, grabbing each others hand would run away from the living room. We would run away from all the grown-up talk, put on high heels and paint each other’s fingernails’ She sighed at the memories of her sister when they were little. Growing older the women had drifted apart. 

‘ I just…feel for the boys, they just don’t know what to do with themselves or how to react.’

‘I think they will be ok.’ Sarah murmured.

‘ I just…don’t…’

Trying to smother a giggle, Paul began to cough. He just couldn’t help but analyze those two women who got along so famously. On one hand, his aunty Mariana and her overhanging cloud of barrenness. On the other, his talented and beautiful girlfriend’s obvious depression.

Directly opposite to them was Grandfather. Always a pinnacle of manliness, he was sitting alone and looking at the stage.

Maybe, Paul thought, it was his well-cut suit that was making him look so put together at his daughters funeral, or perhaps Grandfather had simply dozed off in spite of the celebrations.

Grandfather had a passion which bordered on obsession, but was tired after the death of his wife. Relating to people was something he was good at, but only on a hormone level. His work in endocrinology had made his quick opinions and outlook clinical, rather than emotional.

Wanting badly to hit a club and dance frantically with the crazed population of Sydney, Paul kneeled. His knees complaining at the treatment.

The minister mumbled about singing, and the strains of Amazing Grace began filling the air. He wondered who picked it. It was fitting. He could almost hear his mother mocking the song. A wretch like me, was blind but now I see!!! That is a bundle of bullshit, a fucking Christian wank.

It was funny, he thought. He had tried so hard to erase her voice from his head, but his mind was still conjuring it.

He stood up, knees and back complaining from the treatment. As the trembling and off-key singing of the congregation wound down, he began to climb. There were four stairs, a mountain. With every step becoming slower than the one behind.

Paul wasn’t really sure how to prepare for times like these. Sitting down to write a speech a few weeks ago he had almost given in and called his dad to say he was unable to speak. Really? What do you really say when this happens? The truth?

His brothers Steven and Chris were no help, as they had come to him.

"What are you going to speak about” said his older brother Chris demanded.
“I don’t know” he had answered, as honestly as possible.
"You’re the one that is good with words.” his younger brother Steven piped up.

It was true, Paul was good at words, he spun them in a merry dance for a living. Making people buy a product that they might not necessarily need, want or desire. Hr prided himself on his use of words, on his negotiation tactics, on his ability to get what he wanted, when he wanted it. 

“I think” he began slowly.

“You should just pick an anecdote, something that reminds you of her… and say it.”

Stephen, always the joker of the family, had to break the mood. “What about playing some heavy rock music and leave it at that,” he smirked.

Not to be outdone, his older brother chimed in,

“How about I just take a dump on the stage, she would like that more than anything.”
 
They laughed together. After all, it was what they did best.

Paul opted for something that he would never regret, when you want to abuse someone, he thought, abuse them in vagaries.

‘Mum was….’
‘Mum was a person who made her mark, and fought for she wanted.’ he paused to let a sharp pain in his throat pass. 

‘I am now going to read to you a poem of what a successful person is.’

Sitting down, his knees shook and his girlfriend smiled. Luckily, there was only ten minutes left.

He looked next to him at his brothers and father, broad shoulder to broad shoulder. As the minister began to close the ceremony, and a final song began playing. Briefly thinking it sounded like Mozart, Paul stood. In synchronized motion with his two brothers flanking him, he walked out. 

Thank God there was air out here, he thought. Stealing a cigarette from his girlfriend and walking to the corner of the chapel he took a breath. After lighting it, he noticed his Dad had been following him.

His dad was the one who saw it all, yet had the inability to do it all, mainly from his life throwing curve balls at him again and again. With out wanting to, Paul looked up, his dad’s face looking heavy and older than normal. 

‘Paul, she was your mother.’ He said. Every word was spaced evenly and accented with care.

‘I’m sorry for what she did you to you; I wish that it never happened. I know that you would have wanted this to be different.’ He took a deep breath, breathing in the atmosphere, the people milling around. Breathing in his son.

‘I know that you regret what happened… but… don’t let this stop you from moving forward. You have so much potential. I just wish that I could have done more.’ His dad finally looked him in the eyes, as he often neglected when he dosed out advice.

‘Yes Dad, please just go away.’

There was nothing really to say was there, he thought. How can you tell the man who wants the best for you that you have to do it for yourself? That you are scared of...well, a situation. That you don’t know what you are doing, and really, you don’t know that he knows what to do either?

The cigarette began burning his fingers, reminding him that he was angry.

"Fuck cigarettes" he mumbled.

He could only just remember when he decided that he hated her. He was five and had just kicked his ball into a glass window at the back of their house. The impact of the ball shattering the bottom pane. 

'You’re a fucking idiot’ she said calmly. Grabbing his arm with one hand, the other swung back, slapping him across the face. He fell to the ground crying in shock. Lifting her foot, she kicked him swiftly in the back.

Lying on the ground, after he had finished crying. He looked forward to tomorrow. It was soccer practice. He got up, brushing down his pants and picking up the soccer ball that was abandoned in the shards of glass. Running as hard as he could, little lungs bursting he went to the soccer field. The ball hit the wall with repetitive ease. Harder, faster the ball flew. Home was a memory to be examined another day. 

The End.