Page 225 of The Holy Grail
“I really like that one. It’s very creative.”
“I know it’s goofy as hell, but it made me smile.” Malcom paused, growing serious again. “I know the most likely scenario would have been as soon as I told Monroe what he didn’t want to hear, that I was making the ‘wrong’ decision, according to him, he’d cut me out of his life.” Malcom sighed. “I’m just really angry at how this has ended ... with me not being able to do a damn thing.”
“You can still write a letter, you know.”
He leaned back on the loveseat. “What’s the point, though? Monroe’s dead, so it’s not like he can read it—not that he necessarily would have if he was still alive—but hereallywon’t read it now.”
“The letter wouldn’t be for him. It would be for you, so write the letter anyway.” She gave him a long look. “Write the letter you want, using all the words you want, to address every shitty thing he said to you and every shitty thing he made you feel.”
When he still looked skeptical, she added, “And when you’re done, you can take your letter to the cemetery and read it at his grave. ”
Chapter 76
Row 35, Plot 14
Malcom stared at Monroe’s name carved into the rather ostentatious headstone, which had been put in place just that morning. It was black marble, and stood almost four feet tall, with a large cross on top, which was funny, given his father had not been a religious man.
He was clearly virtue signaling.
What Malcom didn’t find funny was the epitaph engraved beneath the date of Monroe’s birth and death. Malcom had to read it twice to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, but his father had been the one to specify what went on the headstone, so it obviously wasn’t a mistake … which meant the words ‘Loving Father and Husband’ had been chosen on purpose.
If ever someone was on the far end of the douchebag spectrum, it was Monroe Elias Hodge.
Clearing his throat, Malcom began speaking. “First, let me start off by saying I’m not grieving your death. I am, however, incredibly pissed off at your timing, because we were supposed to have one last conversation, and now you’ve robbed me of that. I had things to say to you, things I wanted you to hear, but you fucked that.”
His eyes went back to the ‘Loving Father’ portion of the inscription, and his anger kicked up another notch.
For fuck’s sake, focus.
“Anyway, where was I? Right, I’m not grieving you, and I hope you have some way of knowing that, because—”
He broke off, staring at those two words again. It was like he couldn’t help himself, which made him even angrier, and he felt his chest tighten and his breathing become a little constricted. With sharp, jerky movements, he loosened his tie so it hung crookedly around his neck, and wished he’d gone home and changed first, instead of coming straight from work.
In the distance thunder rumbled, and the overcast day sort of complemented his oppressive feelings and mindset, and with determination, he pulled out his ‘Fuck You’ letter. He’d tried writing it as a traditional letter, but after several attempts, settled on a short greeting, followed by a list of basic bullet points, in random order, as they’d come to him while drinking several glasses of bourbon the night before.
Shaking his head, he looked down at the paper, and started reading, hoping that would solidify his focus. “Dear Motherfucker: In an effort to keep this ‘Fuck You’ letter short and sweet, I’ve made it into a list of bullet points which I will now share with you. Some of them have added clarification, just to really drive the point home—”
Those fucking two words wouldn’t leave Malcom alone. Now, even angrier than he was before (and knowing Lauren would be telling him to not let those two words have such power over him, that he wasallowingthem to have power over him, only made it worse), he glared at the black marble. “‘Loving Father’?” he muttered. “I think not, you unmitigated motherfucker. In fact, I think you have some pair of balls on you—well, had, anyway—for having that engraved on your own headstone. Who does that? An unmitigated motherfucker, that’s who.”
Then, as more thunder rumbled, this time getting closer, Malcom turned and began heading toward his parked car, just as lightning split the sky.
It seemed fitting.
After getting all the supplies he needed at the nearest hardware store, Malcom drove back to the cemetery. Before getting out of the car, he opened up the Ménage à Trois Group Chat and quickly texted Jules and Evan, who were both home, and likely wondering where he was, since he usually got home at 6:00 p.m. every night.
MALCOM: I’m going to be a little late. I have something to take care of, but I should be home in about a half hour.
They both responded fairly quickly.
JULES: Okay. See you soon.
EVAN: We’ll heat up some leftovers for dinner.
Putting his phone away, Malcom got out of his car and stalked back to Monroe’s headstone, which was now getting splashed with drops of rain.
With a chisel in one hand, and a hammer in the other, he dropped to his knees on the slightly rounded mound of earth. Forcing away the disturbing thought of an embalmed body in a casket six feet underneath him, Malcom turned his focus to the word ‘Loving’ and set the chisel firmly in place. Then, with a steel resolve, he started hitting it with the hammer and began chipping away at the letters.
It was harder than he thought it would be.
