Vices

The year was 1956, it was mid October time, rainy season. The graveyard was vast, but only a few hundred headstones occupied the acres of land. Ralph Steadman's headstone was tragically one of these. As light drizzle trickled down on the black clad mourners, the casket was delicately lowered down into the sodden ground. Ralph's bereaved parents did not hold an umbrella over their heads, the droplets of rain joined the tears on their faces. The hole in the ground seemed to never end, bottomless, the shiny wooden box descending for what seemed like an eternity. Paul Steadman, Ralph's father, made the coffin himself. He holed away in his toolshop stockroom for 3 days solid, crafting the casket. He lined it with the finest silk, cushioned all the way inside. For 3 days he didn't speak to his wife Gloria. He said nothing to his daughters, Nancy and Bonnie. He served no customers, he acknowledged nothing but his work. It was the morning of the funeral, and Paul had still not spoken. Gloria, in the privacy of their bedroom, tried to coax something from him, but to no avail. They all got ready, black dresses and headwear for all the girls, and a black suit for Paul. It began raining as the coffin was being brought to the gravesite, a light trickle soon evolving into heavier shards. The reverend spoke of commending Ralph's body to the ground, and Gloria let out a yelp. Paul stood, staring blankly into the hole his son was being 'commended' in to. He did not acknowledge his wifes anguish. Instead, he let her cry alone, just as he cried in the shop when Ralph fell from the ladder and hit his head. Just as he cried when he watched his son's blood drip from his ears. Just as he cried when he held Ralph on the hard floor of the shop, knowing the his precious son was gone. Paul looked into his son's eyes, watched the whites turn to red, watched the life in his pupils escape. They had been laughing and cavorting the moment before, a lapse of concentration by Ralph caused his footing to slip whilst stocking the nail shelf. And that was it. His head his the floor first, his brain haemorrhaged and it was over. His life, 17 years of it, was done. Finished. That's it. Paul had already pondered this over and over. His outlook had not changed. He didn't think anything more on the fragility of life. His views were not tarnished. But he was somehow different. He had always been distant emotionally, always headstrong and logical outspoken only when appropriate, something he had passed on to his daughter Nancy. But as he stood in the graveyard, the shaded sky insulting him with its ablution, he had changed. He decided, as his two creations were touching the soil at the bottom of the hole, that neither of them shall be spoken of again. By anyone.