Dark Skeleton

Cynthia looked around hoping she would see him.

For a room that was occupied by around a hundred-or-so people, it was painfully quiet. The occasional sob or sniff was one of the only audible sounds. The muffled footsteps of the still arriving mourners echoed against the high ceiling of the chapel. Sunlight poured in through the stained glass windows, adding a touch of colour to the cluster of black.

She recognised a fraction of the people. They included William’s school and college friends and classmates, neighbours from New York, friends and acquaintances of her father, distant aunts and uncles. There was also a massive influx of politicians and businessmen she had never seen before. Although she recognised a few people as associates of William’s, a majority of them were claiming that the reason for their attendance was the “sheer admiration” they housed for the man. Unbelievable, she thought, hardly the time for gaining publicity.

William’s former secretary, Jeffrey Payne, had given strict instructions to the head of security that the press were not to step foot in the chapel. Thus the shutterbugs had been compelled to clog the entrance, harassing every “mourner” that came through the door. 

She also, irritably, recognised a couple of William’s ex-girlfriends. William had always been a ladies-man. He had always been extremely handsome and an absolute charmer. But one couldn’t say his money didn’t help. In fact, it had been the driving force for most of his relationships. Not that he ever minded, not in the least. Almost all the women he had dated had been money hungry airheads attracted to the limelight like insects. But for them to attend his funeral accessorised by fake tears, just to get into the papers… Cynthia fought the temptation of throwing them out, as she had more important things to worry about. 

People constantly walked up to her, offering her condolences and patting her shoulder in an effort to comfort her. But she wasn’t paying attention. Her eyes travelled constantly from the chapel door to the crowd, scanning it. Anxious, she hoped to spot him.

Cynthia came from a very powerful and affluent family. Her grandfather had been one of the greatest industrialists of the fifties, followed by her uncle who took over after her grandfather’s death. Her father had created a league of his own by becoming an eminent figure in politics.

She was the youngest of Bill Lassiter’s three children. William was the oldest: Charismatic, intelligent, a born leader. Jonathan was the second: Bold, opinionated, and at the same time, sensitive. Cynthia had always been in awe of her brothers.

Although she didn’t admit it she was even slightly afraid of them, William more than Jonathan. But this was only because she saw him as an authority, as a father figure. She sometimes even found it hard to talk to him for the fear of saying the wrong thing. But she knew this was only because he commanded a sense of fear. He was very similar to her father, assertive of authority, maybe even more so than her father. As she had been very young at the time her parents had died, she had a very vague idea of her father, but she imagined he had been something like William.

Jonathan was the liaison between her and William. Surrounded by such domineering people in her life she was justified to be afraid. Jonathan would always try and dissolve this fear. She felt closer to him, than to anyone else.

It had been seventeen years since it had happened. Her memory was slightly hazy due to her young age at the time, but she remembered the gist of it. The three of them had been living with their grandmother after their parents’ death and had been currently visiting her during their Spring Break week off from school. It had been a Saturday. William and Jonathan had been eighteen and fourteen years old respectively, she had been four.

She had been hiding in the closet as she accidentally overheard the heated argument between her brothers. Unable to understand the subject of the fight, she had listened dreadfully, hoping the screaming would end.

And it did.

         There had been a harsh silence. William had spoken last. His closing statement seemed to have ended the fight. She had heard sobs. Then two sets of footsteps sounding in two directions. It had been the last conversation between William and Jonathan Lassiter.

Cynthia believed it was a minor disagreement that had been blown out proportion, but neither of them agreed to make peace with the other. Jonathan had taken it particularly hard. He would not even look at William and hastily left the room whenever William was to enter it. The latter, however, would maintain a cold but composed demeanour, a manner in which the son of one of America’s most dignified political leaders was expected to disguise his feelings.

Cynthia, being a child and bound by the authority of her older brothers, could do nothing to try and settle the matter for the fear of adding fuel to the fire, but their Grandmother Frances tried her best. From trying to engage them in sports to having them both sit down and talk it out, she tried it all. Neither would budge. They were after all the sons of Bill Lassiter, former New York senator. They were genetically programmed to be stubborn and egoistic.

Finally, they were separated by circumstances rather than each other. William had been accepted into Harvard (and Princeton, Yale, NYU, Brown and Berkeley). When he left for Boston, Jonathan seemed to ease down, like a dog being freed from his leash.  In wake of William’s absence, Cynthia, who had always felt closer to Jonathan, being closer to him by age, often questioned him about the events of that day. But he would always respond with a scowl and a curt, “Let it go, Cynthia.”

Soon it escalated to a point where the mention of the other’s name was taboo while talking to either of them. Christmas and Thanksgiving was always spent with one or the other. Years passed, and they grew further apart. Jonathan, who had attended Yale Law School, proceeded to work for one of the best law firms in Boston, Gordon and Shaw Associates, while William followed in his father’s footsteps and immersed himself into the world of politics. Within eleven years he, too, was running for Senate.

Things went from bad to worse. When Grandmother Frances expired, two separate services were held, one by Jonathan and the other by William. Cynthia attended both, with no explanation for the press except that “they were troubled times for the family”. But the media detected the tension between the brothers. Cynthia remembered the incredulous misinterpretations the papers had conjured up; “Lassiter brothers feud over property”, “Jonathan Lassiter snubs brother’s campaign”, “Lassiter vs. Lassiter: the heir vs. the spare”. She shuddered to think about how her mother would react to this, and was glad she wasn’t alive to see it.

Although she had given up trying to learn the cause of the prolonged feud between her brothers, at the back of her mind she always thought that eventually the conflict would be resolved. How could a petty childhood fight escalate into such strong abhorrence? But on the night of the accident she was proved wrong.

The phone was constantly ringing. It was all mostly the press asking for comments. Other calls were from various acquaintances calling to express concern and remorse. The television news channels would report nothing else that entire night. Images of the devastated helicopter were plastered on the television screen all night. The reporters on some news channels offered her empty condolences and expressed the loss that New York experienced, while others found a hidden profit in the “unfortunate” situation by claiming to have received word of a terrorist threat or to have uncovered a conspiracy concerning William’s political rivals. Others, incredulously, had the nerve to blatantly accuse Jonathan for the murder of his brother. 

But none of it, not even the death of her brother, hurt her more than that phone call.

“J-Jon! The news! They’re saying he’s-”, she sobbed into the receiver as her fingers trembled, and struggling to hold it still, “William’s- the chopper- he’s dead Jon!” she wept harder as she waited for a response from her brother. Jonathan had always been the consoler, the protector. Even as children at their parents’ funeral, while William maintained a strong stature, Jonathan had provided her a shoulder to cry on. She waited.

But there was nothing.  The silence was tense. An unasked question hung in the air, seemingly, on a loose thread. The receiver fell to the floor as she sat, traumatized.

It was at that moment that she realised the severity of the situation. It hadn’t been just been a squabble between brothers. This was bigger, much bigger. The fact that Jonathan chose to stay indifferent towards the death of his brother made her contemplate her life. Had she been kept in the shadows of something so dire that it could shatter the bonds of family? What was it that generated this utter disgust between the two men, which even death could not do away with? What was it that compelled her brother to turn so cold that he felt no remorse? Would William also assume this indifference had their places been interchanged? But all these questions had brought her to ask the hardest question of all: Did she know her brothers at all?

It had been two weeks since William’s death. Today, she sat waiting dressed in her black veil, hoping, praying that she was wrong. Jonathan could not be this apathetic towards his brother’s death. He couldn’t. He would show up. He was just traumatized. He was merely silent that day on the phone because he was in shock. That’s all it was. She spent all her mental strength into convincing herself this was true.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the preacher began the service, “we are gathered her today to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of an tremendous soul. William Patrick Lassiter II was an extraordinary man in all respects…” The preacher continued to sing William’s praises but Cynthia wasn’t listening.

Come on Jon; don’t do this, she thought, Please Jon. Please!

Come for me!

Do it for me!

Please Jon!

I need you right now!

More than anybody, I need you!

“…And I will now call upon any of William’s friends and family, if they should feel the urge to say a final goodbye-”

The preacher was distracted as the noise outside the door grew louder. There was some excitement among the paparazzi. Heads turned to see the cause of the ruckus. The curious chatter that began to spread like wild fire broke the silence inside the chapel.

Suddenly the door was pushed open and the noise created by the paparazzi seemed to be magnified tenfold. And when the mourners saw the source of the excitement, so did the noise inside. Cynthia gasped. The crowd then, suddenly, went silent as he spoke.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, but in answer to your request I would be glad to pay my last respects to my brother”

Sarcasm dripped from Jonathan Lassiter’s words. He wore an expression of hostility along with his black suit. His stride towards the podium suggested anything but sorrow. Every footstep echoed loudly. All eyes trailed him as he made his way towards the coffin where the deceased lay. Without a glance at the body, Jonathan replaced the preacher at the podium, as the latter stepped down, slightly confused. Cynthia felt her breath get caught in her throat. He was here. And what she feared was true.

“As you all know,” Jonathan began, his voice booming, “I have not been on the best terms with my brother for the past years, and today I plan on disclosing the truth.”

As the curious chatter returned, Cynthia gasped. He was not going to do this now. He couldn’t. After all these years he chose now to break his silence? Cynthia felt a sudden chill as she hyperventilated. He hadn’t even made eye contact with her.

“My father worked his entire life for the betterment of this city, and he succeeded for the most part.” Jonathan continued. “Along with contributing towards the development of the city, he was also successful in building a reputation that would proceed to be the yardstick used to compare any future political leadership in New York with. And although I am not ashamed of my family and my lineage, I would have to admit that my siblings and I were forced to live in the large shadow cast by that very reputation.”

Cynthia felt herself flush as a reference was made to her. She was afraid to look up and catch his eye. Instead she stared into her black lace gloves as he continued.

“We all had our ways of dealing with it. But William took it too far. Not only did he get intimidated by my father, but he also proceeded to impersonate him. He put on a facade. And that façade concealed the man he really was and the same man I detest to this day.”

Cynthia now proceeded to tremble as she heard him speak. Detest. The word echoed horribly in her head. Now the question she had asked herself earlier had been answered beyond a shadow of doubt. She did not, in fact, know her brothers. She did not know them at all. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, shielded from notice by her veil.

“Initially I didn’t blame him. Though my father intimidated us all, William was put under the largest amount of external pressure. Bill Lassiter’s oldest son, his heir. I pitied him for a while. To constantly be judged on the basis of his lineage rather than his self, it was hard for him. I always tried to imagine what it was like for him to be treated like that. Like he was, in some way, obligated to follow in my father’s footsteps by numerous factors: my father’s extensive contribution to American politics, his unexpected and early passing, the need for my sister and I to have a strong father figure, among others. He was pressurised ever since he was born to grow up to be my father’s successor. To live constantly under that kind of pressure must have been difficult.

“It drove him into doing it. It drove him into modifying his own personality to match my father’s, so much so, that he began to believe it himself. But this took a toll on his true self. He gave the world what it wanted from him, but destroyed himself. On the outside he displayed a personality that was expected of him: the leader, the father’s son, the next Bill Lassiter. But on the inside was a boy who was nothing like Bill Lassiter, a boy who was just struggling to find himself, a boy, constantly trying to fight the pressure. But he went to unbelievable lengths to fight it.”

Cynthia’s mind was buzzing. Jonathan was speaking abstractly on purpose. What was he doing?

“You all sit here in awe of that man, of the entity that you thought he was. You even dare to compare him to my father. But I don’t blame you. He had you convinced that he was in fact the personality he projected. It isn’t new for someone to be known to lead separate lives in the limelight and in their own home, but William went too far. He convinced everyone, including himself, that he was a clone of my father.

“But for someone to go so deep into their own lie that they begin to believe it themselves…” Jonathan paused, his tone calming down. He looked at the floor, staring blankly, deep in thought. After a long pause he said “I assure William was not who you thought he was.”

The paparazzi outside were getting impatient. The noise grew louder. However the atmosphere inside was quiet, but tense. Everyone was so engrossed in his speech to notice or care. Cynthia could feel people staring at her as the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

“Sometimes I would ask myself to what extent someone could go to contradict their true nature by the false one they displayed. But more importantly how someone could, under the pretence of being a victim themselves, hurt someone…” he slowed down, his voice crackled. He was on the verge of tears. Cynthia proceeded to weep harder beneath her veil. “… Someone they claimed to love… Inflict physical pain…”

Suddenly a familiar feeling of anxiety came over her. She looked up for the first time since Jonathan had begun. Her brother’s stern eyes had swollen with hurt. She breathed heavily as she stared at his face. Slowly she started to decode the riddles he spoke in. As she did, her jaw dropped in shock. No…she thought, NO! What had William done?

Questions swam around in her mind. Her head spun with confusion. The thought scared her. What had William done to Jonathan? She had never seen Jonathan like this. The hurt in his eyes made his face unrecognisable to her. This was not how she had envisioned her brother, ever. The hurt he had always hid from her, masking it with that bright smile of reassurance, unleashed itself. What was it that brought it out? What had William done that was so heinous? Had he…?

NO! She gasped aloud at the thought. Adrenaline pulsated through her. William’s face appeared in her mind. The thought terrified her. Her hands trembled and the tears on her face were accompanied by cold sweat. She hoped and prayed that the people around had not deciphered what Jonathan was saying. This would be devastating for the reputation her family held. The press continued to cause a ruckus outside the chapel as they tried to find out exactly what Jonathan Lassiter had come to say at his alienated brother’s funeral. Cynthia dreaded the consequences.

“Psychologists would call it ‘Displacement’. It is a defence mechanism one uses to fight internal conflict by imposing one’s superiority on an inferior being. But a line had to be drawn. I wouldn’t let him categorise his…” Jonathan’s lips quivered as he said it, “horrible act, as a defence mechanism.” His voice crackled again. “I couldn’t.”

“William Lassiter was a living example of a Jekyll and Hyde personality.” Jonathan continued, his tone changing again, now to angry. “He concealed the monster within him so well that he managed to occupy the position my father once held, in politics as well as in the minds of the people. But I knew the face beyond his mask and recognised it since we were children. Sometimes I asked myself if I could’ve ever forgiven him for what he did. But the answer would come instantly in the form of that face…” he paused, looking revolted. His face showcased that revulsion but his eyes reflected a strong combination of hatred and hurt. “What he had done was inexcusable by any standard. I couldn’t even consider forgiving him. And I never will.

“So today I ask you,” his tone changed for the forth time, this time to cold and stern, “not to hero-worship a man who could not even respect the sanctity of human innocence in his own home, much less care for this city.” Concluding, he stepped down from the podium and walked towards the door without a glance at anyone, not even Cynthia. People began chattering furiously, discussing as to what exactly he had meant. Cynthia froze in her seat, ignoring the thousands of questions that were directed at her, and pondered over the events that had occurred in the past half hour.

Pandemonium erupted as the doors opened and Jonathan strode out of the chapel. Paparazzi hoarded him as he made his way down the steps. “What made you come today Mr Lassiter?” “Is it true you were abused by your brother?” “Was your family aware of this, Mr Lassiter?”

Cynthia’s ears rang as the noise increased. The mayhem was making her head spin. Just when she thought her tears so far had run her dry, some more replaced them. Finally, unable to take it anymore, she got up and ran after Jonathan. People called after, but she ignored them. The paparazzi at the door found their new prey as she approached the steps. She dodged them the best that she could, with some help from Jeffrey and his men. 

Just as Jonathan was about to climb into the awaiting limousine, she grabbed his arm and turned him around to face her. Eyes swollen and voice crackling she exclaimed, “Tell me the truth this time, Jon! Did he do it to you? You cannot leave me in the dark anymore! Did he…? Did he do it to you?”

She stared into her brother’s eyes, the same eyes she attributed to home and sanctuary. But she felt that sanctuary crumble as tears rolled down from them. Hurt emanated from them in a manner she had never seen before. Today she had seen her brother, really seen him, for the first time. Not as her guardian, not as a safe haven, not as a father figure but as a person- a person who had driven his sorrow far within himself and was finally compelled to reveal it. At that moment she realised that all those years that her brothers had been apathetic towards each other, it was not the feud itself that had bothered her, but it had been Jonathan’s absence. Her protector, her liaison, her brother, her friend had been gone. Half her life had been void of him. She had missed him.

“No,” he said flatly, “but he did it to you.”