Page 227 of The Holy Grail
“Well, that was sincere,” Martin muttered, as he started the car and began driving them back to the cemetery, so Malcom could get his car. “Maybe I should have just let you get charged.”
“Maybe you should have. I did do the crime after all.”
Martin shook his head, managing to convey both aggravation and disappointment. “Speaking of which, what were you thinking, vandalizing Dad’s headstone like that? Do you need to be on medication, or something?”
“I was thinking I was pissed off, and his epitaph needed to be corrected. So, I corrected it,” Malcom replied, ignoring the medication reference. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing,” he added, although taking the time to drive to a hardware store and buy supplies didn’t really count as spur-of-the-moment.
“Was it worth it?”
“It was, actually.”
“Even though you almost ended up being charged with a misdemeanor?”
“Yes.”
“You’re honestly not sorry at all?”
“I’m sorry I got caught, but not sorry I did it, because he wasn’t a loving father or husband, and having that fuckinglieengraved, for all to see, was unacceptable to me. I actually hope that son of a bitch was able to see me remove it, from wherever he is.”
They had reached the cemetery parking lot, and Martin killed the engine. It was now almost completely dark outside, the only light coming from a few street lamps nearby.
Martin took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry you and Dad were having issues, but—”
“Issues? For fuck’s sake.”
“—today’s behavior seems a little unhinged to me—”
“I’m sorry you see it that way. I found it to be quite satisfying.” Malcom narrowed his eyes at his brother. “And before you try and somehow blame this on Evan or Jules, let me just say this was all me. They don’t know anything about it.”
Martin looked out his window into the dark. “I wishIdidn’t know anything about it,” he murmured, before turning back to Malcom. “What were you doing at his grave, anyway, given how much you seem to hate him? You obviously couldn’t have been paying your ‘respects’ like you told the groundskeeper.”
Malcom pursed his mouth for a moment, before saying, “I was there to read my ‘Fuck You’ letter.”
“Read it to whom?”
“To Monroe.”
“I just can’t get used to you referring to Dad as ‘Monroe’,” Martin said with a sigh. “And honestly, I don’t understand it.”
Malcom explained how the name change had come about in therapy, and the reasoning behind it. When he was done, Martin cocked his head. “Your ‘therapy’ seems to be really working.”
Even though the comment had been made with full sarcasm, Malcom replied to it as if it hadn’t been. “Yes, it is, and don’t say ‘therapy’ like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s bullshit. Because it’s not.”
They semi-glared at one another for a long moment before Martin asked, “What, exactly, is a ‘Fuck You’ letter?”
“It’s pretty much what it sounds like. It’s a letter to someone who has abused you, in which you basically give them the big middle finger. It’s meant to be cathartic, and give you closure as you move forward, without that person in your life anymore.”
“So, you were there to get closure by reading a letter to a dead man at his grave?”
“Yes, because Monroe died before I could tell him to go fuck himself in person—which was my original plan—so going to his grave and reading a letter instead, became my only option. Only, I wasn’t able to do it because I kept getting distracted by that goddamn epitaph. So, now I still don’t have closure.”
Martin appeared to be struggling with everything he was being told. “You’ve become such a different person in the past year, I’m not even sure how to process all the changes … Jules and Evan, the three of you living together, you being gay—”
“Bisexual.”
