Peter, Paul, and Mary

Some days you just want to crawl into bed and shut out the world. Paul longed to walk away from the small ceremony and hide under the covers with his hangover, but no, he was stuck here at least until he’d delivered his stepmother’s eulogy. It was a short speech, with little information about her early years, as Paul had never really been interested in her life before she married his father, Peter. He didn’t know, or care, about Mary’s childhood. She was the woman who swept in and married his dad the year after his mother, Irene, had walked out of their lives, and he’d never really forgiven her for it.

A quiet voice murmured in his ear. “Are you sure you’re o.k to do this?” His half-sister laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it away and gave a brusque nod. Rising, he made his way to the podium and looked at the small group of mourners. Who were these people? Some he knew, but some were complete strangers to him. Huh. Must be friends of Mary’s, or maybe distant relatives? A small scowl drew his eyebrows in. They better not be relatives; he had no intention of sharing any more of Mary’s estate than he had to. It was bad enough that he had to split the money with Cassidy. She had a home and a family of her own, she didn’t need her mum’s money. Paul did need it. He had debts. And desires. And dreams for the future that only Mary’s wealth could finance. If he could, he’d have already challenged Cassidy’s share of the money in court, but as his lawyer pointed out, Mary was Cassidy’s birth mother, and she had more claim to the estate than Paul did. “You’re lucky she even split the estate fifty-fifty”, the lawyer told him. “A court case might lose you more than just your sister’s goodwill”.

“HALF-sister”, Paul grumbled. 

Cassidy had tucked a folded note in his hand as he had stood up, and he opened it out now onto the podium. Behind him, a slide show of family photographs began scrolling, and “Blowin’ in the Wind” played softly in the background. What was this? Another eulogy? Of course, Cassidy would have expected him to mess up his speech, so Little Miss Perfect had written one for him. She was always so damned organised! Paul scowled down at her, and she smiled sadly. He skimmed over her neatly typed speech; it was pretty good. Better than his, anyway. “Whatever”, he muttered quietly, and began reading it aloud.

The eulogy spoke of Mary’s early years, and the happiness she had found with his father, Peter. It mentioned her delight in being a part of her own little “Peter, Paul and Mary” trio, as they were her favourite group. “That explains the whiny music”, he thought, as the song finished and “If I Had a Hammer” started playing. He read out all the usual flowery stuff about her joy when Cassidy was born, and how family was everything to her, and it was all he could do not to roll his eyes. It was all so saccharine! As he reached the end of the speech, there was a short poem with the caption, ‘A poem for my children, by Mary’. 

            As I take the last step

            To my soul’s final home

            I give you my promise

            You won’t be alone

            I’ve raised you from childhood

            Now I’ll guide from above

            You will always, always

            have all of my love.

Paul shuddered as he read the words. They were as corny as the lyrics to one of her silly songs, so why were there tears in his eyes? He dashed them away with the back of his hand, as an odd thought popped into his head. “She really did love me like her own. My own mother didn’t”.

Paul stood still for a moment, feeling a little breathless. He hadn’t thought about Irene for years! She had walked out on them when Paul was three, and he hadn’t seen her since. He had only the vaguest memories of a blonde woman, and a few photos Peter had given him years ago. She had been pretty, but her expression was hard, like the woman he could see in the back pew of the chapel right now…

Paul’s face flushed. It was HER! It was Irene! She had come back! He felt dizzy, and suddenly he realised Cassidy and the funeral director were gently guiding him back to his seat. “They probably think I’m overcome with sadness about Mary”, he thought. They couldn’t seen his mother, his REAL mother, sitting just inside the back door.

Questions ran through his head as he waited for the funeral director to finish the service. “Something something … sandwiches and coffee … something something … thank you for coming … something”. Why wouldn’t the man shut up? Paul wanted to jump up and run to Irene. And then suddenly, he didn’t. Why did she leave, all those years ago? Why hadn’t she come looking for him when he had grown up? Why hadn’t she ever written? Why had she abandoned him? Peter had never explained it to him, and now anger surged up Paul’s throat, staining his face a brilliant shade of crimson, forcing its way out of his eyes in fat tears that streamed down his cheeks. What was wrong with him? His hand scrubbed at his cheeks as the director finally shut up, and Cassidy stood to accept the condolences of approaching mourners. Paul ignored them all. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do. He sat still, listening to the soft strains of “Leaving on a Jet Plane”, wishing he were on a plane right now.

“Hello Paul”. 

Startled, Paul almost jumped from his seat. Irene had plonked herself next to him, and was looking at him expectantly, waiting, he guessed, for some acknowledgement that he recognised her. Again, anger surged through him. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. “Hello”, he muttered brusquely. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you. Are you a friend of Mary’s?” Irene’s eyes flickered with doubt, then she smiled and placed a hand on his arm. “Not really. My name is Irene. I’m your mother”. Paul feigned a look of polite disinterest, but his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his ribs. “I’m sorry, Irene, is it? You must be mistaken. My mother’s name was Mary”.

Irene’s eyes flickered slightly again. “No dear, Mary was your step mother. I gave birth to you”. Paul’s anger was almost unbearable. Who was this woman, to sweep in here like this when the only mother he’d ever really known was lying in a box, not five metres from where they sat? Paul stood up. “No, dear”, he said firmly. “Mary was my mother. Maybe you’d like to leave now?”

Irene’s face froze in a mask of surprise. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it again when she saw Paul’s look of grim determination. After a moment of indecision, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small card with her name and phone number on it. She laid it on the pew where Paul had been sitting, then rose to her feet. “If you change your mind, there’s my number”, she said, before quickly making her way towards the exit. Paul picked up the card and stood looking at it for a moment. 

“So, that was Irene, huh?” Cassidy was beside him again. Paul didn’t trust himself to speak, and merely nodded. “I thought she might show up. She’s been calling mum’s lawyer, asking questions about challenging the will”. Paul gaped at her, as a startled “What?” burst from his lips. Cassidy smiled wryly, “She seems to think that she’s entitled to half of the money mum inherited from dad when he died”. “But that’s insane!” Paul exclaimed. “She got half of his money when they divorced! Dad had to sell the house, and we had to live in a ratty little apartment in the city! It was awful! I was so relieved when we moved into Mary’s house after the wedding…” Paul’s anger drained away, and a coldness seeped into his limbs. Irene hadn’t come here today looking for him, she had come looking for a quick buck. How could she? But he knew how. it was something he would have done, given half the chance, and suddenly he felt ashamed. He’d tried to find a way to get Cassidy’s inheritance for himself. His own sister. He thought back over the years, remembering how Mary had always treated him like her own, with love and compassion. He regretted now the times he had snapped, “You’re not my mother!” at her, or corrected everyone by saying “HALF-sister” whenever they mentioned Cassidy. He regretted throwing away the chance to love and be loved by a good woman. Most of all, he regretted that Mary had died before he realised just how lucky he was to have her. He felt sickened by his own callousness.

Well, not any more. Never again. Resolutely, he tore the small card into pieces, and dropped the scraps back onto the bench. Cassidy smiled. “I didn’t expect that”, she said. “I thought maybe you’d team up with your mum and challenge my mum’s will”. Paul smiled. “You mean, OUR mum’s will. Don’t worry, we can stop her, together”. 

Cassidy smiled. “It’s o.k, we don’t need to. I gave mum’s lawyer a copy of the divorce settlement that I found in dad’s old papers. It seems Irene got more than her fair share in the divorce. And she was supposed to pay child support, but she never did, so the lawyer has arranged for a garnishee on her bank accounts and future tax returns. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but you might end up with a few dollars in back payments”. Paul felt a surge of appreciation for Cassidy that he’d never allowed himself to feel before. He reached out and took her hand. “You’re a good sister, Cass”.

“Don’t you mean, HALF-sister?”

“No”.

Hand in hand, Paul and Cassidy moved towards the small crowd at the refreshment table, ignoring Irene who stood, waiting and hopeful, by the exit. She scowled, and slipped out of the door. Nobody cared. Nobody even noticed.