They Always Turn Up Late

Trigger Warning:

This story contains themes of family conflict and betrayal, death and grief, substance use, psychological manipulation, mature language, and brief violence.

“Today, we say goodbye. We say goodbye to a friend, to a mentor, to a colleague, and to a father. We say goodbye to Jim Mercer.”

Jack gave a deep sigh. “A father,” he muttered, the words tasting bitter. He slouched back on the torturously uncomfortable bench, crammed between people he didn’t recognize, their shoulders pressing awkwardly against his. Around him, mourners dabbed at their eyes with tissues so fiercely it looked as if they were trying to gouge them out of their sockets.

All the while, his father lay mockingly comfortable in the fine, plush interior of his mahogany casket. The lucky bastard, Jack thought, glaring at the corpse. They’d dressed him in a suit, likely rented—his father could never have afforded something so luxurious without cheating someone. His hands were neatly folded over his chest, and his face was concealed by a white cloth; it was said the accident that killed him had left his face too disturbing for an open-casket funeral.

It had been fifteen years since Jack last saw his father—living, that is. And he would have gladly waited another fifteen to avoid these tearful speeches, each one painting a picture of a man who never existed—honest, noble, generous. He glanced at the casket, tempted to walk up and see what was left of the face beneath the cloth, just to be sure he was at the right ceremony. They couldn’t have gotten it this wrong, could they?

Andrew, Jack’s closest friend, squeezed his way down the pew in a sloppy, drunken motion. Clutching a paper plate of cubed cheese and small sandwiches swiped from the service, he slid into the seat beside Jack. “Better late than never, huh?” he said with a grin, glancing at the casket before turning his attention back to the food in his lap. “These kinda things are always good for a quick bite, at least.”

A few mourners shot Andrew judgmental glances at his inappropriate behavior. Jack, however, kept his eyes on his watch, its hands ticking reluctantly, dragging each second unbearably slow.

Without looking up, he spoke in a hushed tone only Andrew could hear. “What do you think’s the respectable amount of time we have to sit through this? Twenty, thirty minutes? We’ve gotta be about halfway through by now.”

Andrew chuckled, leaning closer, his breath confirming Jack’s earlier suspicions. “Hell, I mean… you showed up, didn’t ya? That should be enough to please your sister. She didn’t tell you to stick around and give the old man a kiss on the cheek, did she?”

Jack rolled his eyes, looking up to see the next stranger step up to give a eulogy, already crying and unable to get through the first paragraph. He turned his gaze toward three women seated in the front pew, none of them aware of each other or able to see past the tears streaking their faces. “That’s convenient, don’t you think?” he said, leaning closer to Andrew.

“What is?” Andrew followed Jack’s gaze to the front pew, confused.

Jack nodded toward one of the women wearing a loudly dramatic veiled feathered hat, mascara running down her cheeks, pouring from her eyes like a fountain. “He died before any of them could figure out he was cheating on all three. And I doubt he stopped there. Not much you can do to a dead man—they can’t suffer any further. Takes all the pleasure out of it. Selfish, really. Always was, the bastard.”

“Yeah, well, his face is all fucked up, right? Maybe someone else made him suffer for ya, gave it to him real slow. Maybe one of his lovers caught him. Maybe he double-booked himself.” Andrew gave another drunken chuckle, finishing the last of the sandwiches on his plate before sliding his trash under the seat.

“And hey, if you ever wanna punch someone, I’ve got an arm. You wanna head out?”

Standing up, Jack brushed lint off his rented suit, the fabric loose in the shoulders and slightly too long in the sleeves—only he and Andrew stood out, their suits clearly not custom-fitted like everyone else’s proud displays. The next speaker cleared his throat, preparing for their eulogy, unfolding five pages of prepared words and straightening them on the podium. “Might as well. I can’t handle another speech.”

Andrew laughed a bit louder than Jack would have liked, then staggered to his feet, swaying as he turned to face the casket. Clutching his chest, his voice rose with exaggerated sorrow. “Oh, to see an angel fall so tragically! He was a saint, he was!” He threw his head back, one hand pressed to his forehead as if struck by grief. “The world will never know a man as kind and genuine as our own Jim Mercer!”

Despite the sarcasm dripping from his words, he blended right in with the rest of the dramatically grieving faces—mourning a man his own son refused to shed a tear for. Andrew shot Jack a sideways grin, eyes twinkling with mischief as he continued his act, unfazed by the glances cast his way.

Jack looked over to where his sister was seated, ignoring his drunken friend’s theatrics. She gave him a polite nod, signaling he’d fulfilled his promise to her. Grabbing Andrew by the collar, Jack walked to the exit, not looking back at any of the faces except hers. Why would she miss him? Why would she want me to miss him? I recall there being a party when Hitler fell.

He glanced back at the casket, half-expecting to feel something, but there was nothing. What was there to feel? He was manipulative, a liar, a fraud. He never had any of the traits they praised him for—and if he did, he kept them a well-guarded secret from his son.

Though Jack managed to walk through the parking lot in a straight, steady line, Andrew moved more erratically, like a stray leaf caught in the autumn wind, following each unpredictable gust without restraint.

“All right, fork over the keys.” Jack held out his hand expectantly. “I’m not in the mood to attend another funeral, much less yours.”

Andrew spun around, his face falling into an exaggerated pout. “Oh, Jackieeeeee, you wouldn’t cry over me?”

Jack opened his mouth to respond to Andrew’s teasing when something in the corner caught his attention—a figure lingering at the edge of the church. The man wore the same somber clothing as the mourners still inside, but his face was hidden. A hat sat low over his brow, while a thick scarf wrapped tightly around his mouth and ears, concealing all but his eyes. They were bloodshot and brown, staring intently. Something about those eyes tugged at Jack’s memory, stirring an uneasy familiarity.

Oblivious, Andrew pulled out his keys and dropped them into Jack’s hand, jolting him slightly; Jack had almost forgotten his hand was still outstretched. “Oh, come on, Jack,” Andrew said with a lopsided grin. “You know I’m just messing with you. You’re not actually offended, are you?”

The stranger approached the two slowly, “Are you Jack Mercer?”

Andrew placed himself in front of Jack, trying to convey the confidence of someone sober. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “That’d be me,” he said, steadying his voice. “And you are?”

The two had a long-standing pact: whenever someone came by looking for Jack, Andrew would pretend to be him, and Jack would return the favor whenever someone went looking for Andrew.

The stranger hesitated, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Do you recognize my voice?”

Jack’s stomach twisted. The bloodshot eyes, the broad shoulders that had once been strong but now sagged with age, the raspy voice scarred from years of abusive smoke—he knew exactly who it was.

“Should I?” Andrew asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I hope so,” the stranger replied with a trace of regret, though it felt far from genuine. “I suppose it has been a while.”

Edged with rage, Jack finally spoke. “Guess you don’t recognize mine, either.” With a swift motion, he grabbed the end of the scarf and yanked, pulling it free to reveal the face of the man he’d attended the funeral for: Jim Mercer.

Andrew’s eyes went wide as he took a step back, staring in bewilderment. “Woah, holy shit! Did we get the date wrong?”

Jim put his hands up in defense, his voice rushing to defuse the situation. “Look, I can explain. I—”

But before he could squeeze out another sorry word—Jack, with all his strength, punched him right in the mouth, wiping the blood of his knuckles with his shirt. “Of all the fucked-up things I’ve watched you do, what the hell makes you think you can walk up to me and casually throw out my last name like that? You bastard. You fucking bastard. I’ll put you in the grave myself.” As his rage started to simmer down, a sudden realization hit him. “If you’re still breathing who the hell was that in your place?”

“An old friend who owed me one,” Jim replied, his words muffled by the hand clutching his jaw as he shielded himself from any further blows. “I’m not the one who bashed his head in, if that’s the conclusion you’re getting at. The accident was real—‘cept it didn’t happen to me. But he happened to fit my suit, and it was better if everyone thought I was dead.”

He lowered his hands, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Look, I’m in debt to some shady fellas, and them thinking I’m dead saves a trip. I need your help getting out of town without drawing attention. I can’t exactly buy my own train ticket—since I’m dead, my credit card’s frozen and my bank account’s locked. I would’ve planned ahead if I’d had the chance, but Robert didn’t give me much time before he died—the guy in the casket, taking my place.”

Jack let out a dry chuckle. “What makes you think, after all that, I’d help you?”

Jim’s gaze turned pleading. “I may not be dead now, but if you turn me down, I will be. Come on, help me out. You won’t have to see me again—no more surprises.”

With a heavy sigh, Jack looked up at the sky, seeking an answer. Death was too good for his father; he needed to suffer first—and he stood by that thought. But now, seeing him alive, standing in front of him, asking for help with yet another half-planned scheme, death seemed like the easier option. His sister’s name popped into his head. “Why don’t you turn to Clair? She’s always been closer to you, God knows why. She’s still inside mourning a stranger she thinks is her father.”

“Clair…” Jim scratched at the back of his head and glanced back at the church. “It’s… it’s complicated. I need someone I can trust—but not anyone close like your sister or anyone else in there. I’ve created an image of myself, you know? That’s the man I want them to remember. The gentleman I posed as.”

“And what about the conman who still breathes?”

“Well, you know that man better than anyone else. Which is why I’m turning to you.”

“Right,” Jack said, unconvinced. “So I’m the only one who knows you for who you really are?”

“The only one I can trust. Look, I know I’ve fucked up as a father. I might not have been around to see you grow up, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t asked about you. What you’ve been doing.”

“Don’t you dare call yourself a father, and don’t give me excuses to make yourself feel any less guilty,” Jack said harshly. “I’ll help you—but not because I have any compassion for you. It’s for Clair. I don’t need you doing anything else to hurt her. Once I get you out of town, you stay out of town—you stay dead.”

Jim held out his hand, uncomfortably eager. “Deal.”

Stepping into the apartment, Andrew headed straight for his room to sleep off the alcohol, while Jack made his way to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Jim as he followed behind.

“So… this your place, then?” Jim asked, taking off his hat and scarf and setting them on the counter. He looked around, nodding approvingly. “It’s clean. Shows good character.”

Jack shot him a glare. “What would you know about character?”

Jim’s gaze shifted to an ashtray on the counter. “Does your mother know you smoke?”

“Does she know you slept with her sister?”

Jim froze, caught off guard. “How did—fine. Listen—”

“Where are you going?” Jack interrupted.

“What do you mean?”

“The train ticket. Where’s it to?”

“Oh—Brookdale.”

“Not far enough. Try Northfield.”

Jim blinked, surprised, as he watched Jack grab a pen and start writing a note. “Northfield? Do you know how far away that is?”

Jack set the pen down, looking up at Jim briefly before glancing back down to continue writing. “About a thousand miles. Unfortunately, that’s as far as the train’ll take you.” Before Jim could protest, he added, “What name should I put on the ticket?”

“Ryan—wait, no, he’s dead too. Mackwell Swanson.”

Jack nodded and continued jotting down the information as he looked up train departures on his phone. Anxious for something to fill the silence, Jim cleared his throat. “You seeing anyone? Any girlfriends?”

Jack continued writing without looking up. “Boyfriend, actually. He’s in the other room.”

Jim turned toward Andrew’s door, clearly struck with surprise. “The drunk?”

“He has his moments.”

“That’s—that’s great, yeah. You, uh… you two been together a while then? Or is this… new?”

Jim’s awkward attempt at conversation finally made Jack look up as he responded. “I thought dead men didn’t talk.”

Jim looked away from his son’s face and spotted a crumpled piece of paper in the trash. It caught his attention, and he fished it out of the bin, smoothing it out to read the first few lines: Today a man has died. As did a man yesterday, and so will a man tomorrow. Either from accident, old age, or something else entirely. So what makes the death we’ve gathered here today any different? What impression did he leave?

The rest was scratched out, erased, and rewritten so many times the paper was almost torn, the remaining words illegible.

Jim looked up, surprised. “Didn’t think you, of all people, would write a eulogy for me.”

“I didn’t.”

Jim held up the paper. “Then what’s this?”

Jack’s expression didn’t change as he snatched the paper from Jim’s hands and tossed it back into the bin. “Trash. You’ll leave at nine; I’ll take you to the station and get you situated. It’s a one-way ticket, and they shouldn’t ask for any ID if you keep your head down. You can sit on the couch until then, take a nap—just don’t talk to me or steal anything. I’m the one who keeps this place organized, so I’ll notice. Like how you have my salt shaker in your pocket.”

Jim pulled the salt shaker from his left pocket and put it back in its place. “Can’t blame me for trying. You’re a quick, that’s good.”

“Mhm.” Jack walked toward the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Andrew, already lying down in bed, watched as Jack shut the door and collapsed onto his spot next to him. “You alright there, Jackie?”

“I can’t believe he faked his own death. Who the hell does that? And then he puts it on me to help him.”

“Why did you help him? I mean—anyone else, I’d expect it, but your da—Jim.”

“I don’t know, I really don’t. He has a way of manipulating people. You give him an inch, and he’ll run away with a mile.”

“Well, if he tries to run off with a mile, you let me know and I’ll chase him for a mile.”

Jack chuckled. “Yeah? Can you walk in a straight line yet?”

“That won’t stop me. I’ll go zigzag, cover more ground. The funeral was messed up, but damn, they didn’t cheap out on drinks. If the dead guy in the room doesn’t get you to tear up, the alcohol will.”

Jack pressed his head against Andrew’s side, his words muffled. “I love you.”

“Awwww, so you can say it.”

Andrew pulled Jack closer. “When’s he leaving?”

“Nine. Bought the ticket—Northfield.”

“Alright, so we stick him on a train, ship him to Northfield, and then drink to celebrate.”

“I’m assuming not water?”

“Hell no. I said we’re celebrating.”

“Here.” Jack handed Jim the printed ticket, with Andrew standing beside him, steady now and no longer swaying.

“Thanks, kid.”

The train gave a final whistle—last call for departures. Light from the station lamps pierced through the fog and steam rising from the train engines.

Jim sighed deeply, looking toward the train that would take away the final moments of life from Jim Mercer and give birth to Mackwell Swanson. “Take care, alright? Don’t let anyone else swindle you—you’re too smart for that.”

He extended his hand for a final handshake, and Jack took it. As Jim pulled his hand back, Jack looked down to find an old family photo in his palm: himself as a child, sitting on his father’s lap and smiling. The photo showed signs of being folded and unfolded many times, the colors dulled and the edges worn.

“What’s that?” Andrew asked, peering over Jack’s shoulder.

“A con,” Jack replied, watching as the train carried Jim Mercer away. Today, we say goodbye. We say goodbye to an enemy, to a conman, to a liar, and to a father. We say goodbye to Jim Mercer.