Page 63 of Spades

Laurie Caulkins.

* * *

Everyonein the Chicago political sphere made it to the funeral.

They’re supposed to be here. It’s their duty. You attend the funerals of people who held important offices, regardless of how unpopular they were at the end of their term, regardless of whether your political party was at odds with them.

And every political party was at odds with my father in the final year of his term.

He was supposed to win reelection in a landslide.

Instead, he threw it all away with some foolish legislation that no one understood. His advisors begged him not to, but all their counsel fell on deaf ears.

Just like they told him, he lost.

And within another year, he was dead. That last year of his mayorship took its toll on his physical and mental health. The press had a field day, and there was conjecture that his death might be ruled a suicide. The coroner laid those rumors to rest. Heart attack, the kind where you’re alive one minute and dead the next. It was quick and painless, in his sleep.

Probably a better fate than a lot of the people sitting right here in this cathedral—pretending to be focused on the program so they don’t have to socialize with their political enemies—thought he deserved.

I haven’t seen Dad since I left home a week after I turned eighteen. Mom called me every so often to check in, but she always seemed to do so when Dad was out of the house. He never visited the shop, but he cashed the checks I sent him every month with his share of the profits. I thought about holding onto a check once to see if he’d be forced to come to the shop to collect. He’d see everything I’d done—what I’d sacrificed a promising political career for.

But I knew that I wouldn’t get the reaction I’d be hoping for. So I always paid on time and in full.

Mom isn’t here. She’s become something of a recluse since her divorce from Dad. She scrapes together enough money to live, and I’ve offered to help her, but she refuses any assistance. She rarely takes my calls anymore, and when she does, I can tell that she’s been drinking heavily.

When—or if—the shop takes off, I’ll try to get her the help she needs.

“You okay, babe?” Laurie squeezes my shoulder.

She came with me, and I’m glad to have her here. We started seeing each other soon after I opened the haberdashery. It’s been nearly two years. If my father’s death hadn’t dominated my life the past few weeks, I’d be shopping for engagement rings.

I force a smile. “I’m fine. Just… It’s weird to be here, you know?”

She nods. “Of course. You had a complicated relationship, but he was still your father.”

“He was a decent dad, for the most part. He wasn’t going to win any awards, but he was there for me when it mattered.” I look down. “Until the moment I decided not to steer my life along the pathway he chose for me.”

“I bet he’d be proud of you. What you’ve made that little shop into.”

I scoff. “Unlikely. But it’s a nice thought.” I kiss her cheek. “Thanks for being here. It’s nice to have someone on my side.”

Indeed, I’m something of a pariah in the room. The cathedral is full of state senators and representatives, Chicago city councilmembers, several former mayors. Even a few members of Congress flew in. The governor of Illinois couldn’t make it, but his wife is here.

And all of them hated my father at the end. By proxy, they hate me.

A lot of them were in the room on my eighteenth birthday when I declared my decision to not attend Yale, not pursue my place in the Hathaway dynasty. I can still see them all shifting uneasily in their seats as I made my birthday speech, as my dad ripped me away from the podium.

None of them have greeted me with anything more than a curt handshake and a muttered “Sorry for your loss.”

The funeral proceeds. I zone in and out the entire time. The eulogy is delivered by Macy Hastings, the woman who served as mayor before my dad was elected. He unseated her, and their relationship was always frosty. She manages to speak for twenty solid minutes while not saying a single kind thing about my father.

Finally, the deacon utters the three words I crave to hear every time I’m in a church service.

“Go in peace.”

People stand and silently file out of the church. Dad was cremated, so there is no burial, and there won’t be a reception, either.

I’m glad I came. It was the right thing to do. But right now, all I want to do is go home, have a few drinks, and go to bed. Maybe fuck Laurie’s brains out. The sex we have together is something else. She brings out a wild side of my personality, a version of me that she christened “Mad Maddox.”

---