The Smile They Remembered

Father Joseph looked around the sea of black in front of him as he stepped towards the lectern. The polished oak at his fingertips was cold to the touch. The lingering smell of candle wax mingled with the scent of the lilies neatly lined up in brass pots along the aisle. He had completed these motions many times before, spoken the same words, watched the same reactions. But he could confidently say that this funeral service was unlike any other he had experienced. Sunlight streamed weakly between the rain clouds building up outside through the stained-glass windows of the chapel. The light cast fractured patches of blue, red and gold across the mourner’s shoes and on to the cracked stone floor beneath them.

The crowd in front of him belonged to the late Antony Charles Jackson, a man loved by some but known by many. Antony, born in Roxbury, Boston in 1991 to Jackie and Charles Jackson, had left a mark on everybody he interacted with.

Father Joseph took a pause as he looked over the crowd gathered before him, scanning the pews. He took in the silence. Broken only by the occasional shuffling of feet or a stifled cough. Some of the mourners did look grief-stricken, some of them showed no emotion, almost like they were only present to show face.

Antony’s mother, Jackie, sat front and centre on the left-hand pew. Despite everything that had happened to lead up to this moment she still loved her boy. Just like any mother would. In her eyes he could do no wrong, it was them, the ones who villainised him who had got it wrong. Looking at Father Joseph waiting for him to begin she glanced, just for a second, away from him. Her eyes briefly meeting Antony’s on the memorial board placed next to his coffin. A collage of pictures and memories portraying Antony’s life. His eyes meeting hers, the room disappeared.

It was late spring, the smell of blossoming flowers still lingered, the air finally losing the chilly bite everyone had now become used to. Looking down at where he was sat, though she could only see the back of his head, she could not have been any prouder of him in that moment. She had placed herself front and centre on the left side of the bleachers looking down on to the football field now set up for a graduation. A stage placed in front of two hundred and fifty students all patiently waiting for their names to be called. Jackie was only waiting for one name. Her son.

“Anderson, Malik.”

The first name of the day finally called. A scattered applause spread across the field before quickly settling back to silence.

“Coleman, Tiana.”

A few voices by now calling out throughout the crowd in celebration.

“Foster, Jordan.”

Jackie began to shift ever so slightly. Her eyes focused forward as Antony’s name drew closer.

“Harris, Keon.” The sound of clapping had begun to grow warmer now. People had finally started to wake up.

“Jackson, Antony.”

If anybody else in the audience had clapped or cheered, Jackie wouldn’t have noticed. The noise coming from her drowned out everything around her as she looked on at her golden boy.

The sun sat high above the field by the time Jackie had pushed her way through other families to reach him. Antony had already taken off his gown and cap revealing his casual wear underneath when she reached him. She embraced him, an action he was able to mimic with ease.

“Antony, baby, I’m so proud of you,” she said, reluctant to let go.

“Ok, thanks.” A warm smile etched its way onto his face. A rehearsed response.

His smile lingered longer than she remembered, frozen under the early summer glow.

“It is not for us mortal souls to judge the fullness of life. This will be left for God alone. We gather here today with our own understanding of Antony Charles Jackson. Though not all of his life can be discussed within these walls.”

Father Joseph continued his sermon, his eyes scanning the room, locking with another mourner. Antony’s best friend Marcus Johnson. Marcus wasn’t sure if he was going to show up today. That was until Jackie had visited his house late last evening and asked him to attend. Using their history as leverage. Father Joseph’s voice was slowly becoming background noise to him, words no longer making sentences. His mind had already drifted off somewhere else.

The Father’s words now replaced with bass thudding throughout the room, the sound of scattered conversation overlapping, creating a constant wall of noise. The smell of stale beer and sweat clung to the room. They both stood at one end of a beer pong table as far away from the music as possible. One of the table legs had somehow shrunk and no longer touched the floor, the wall next to them covered in the alcohol stains from previous games.

Red cups set up in triangles, some missing or empty and others half full waiting to be scored on and drank. They were playing doubles, two versus two. Him and Antony against two girls from their business class. It was Antony’s turn, he took his shot without hesitation, watched as the ball arced perfectly into the other teams final cup. A cheer erupted from the people around them, he gave a short nod of acknowledgement. Brief but controlled.

“Again,” Marcus cheered as he reset the cups. “What you say ladies? Run it back?”

Antony smiled in response, matching the mood rather than helping to create it. He grabbed a knocked cup placing it upright at the tip of the fresh cup triangle now in front of them. They had won one game but Antony didn’t look like he needed to win, just needed to keep up. He was just about to release another ball when Marcus leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Y’know that one likes you, don’t you, T?” Nodding inconspicuously toward the other side of the table.

Antony hadn’t even noticed that the ball had left his hand until it had already splashed into their own cup. His eyes flickered in the direction Marcus had nodded.

“Which?” His tone even, bored.

“The one who’s been eyeing you up and down since we started playing,” Marcus said, a smirk on his face. “Man, you don’t clock anything. Like ever, d’ya?”

Antony looked over at the girl again. His face devoid of any emotion.

“Yeah?”

“I’m serious T,” his train of thought interrupted by the sound of a ball splashing in to their cup. “Oh damn, you’re drunk, bro.”

Antony grabbed his cup and finished it before turning back to Marcus.

“C’mon man, you give ‘em the smallest bit of attention and suddenly they think they’re something. Like they’re special.”

He didn’t lower his voice when he said this. Marcus caught the girl look over to them out of the corner of his eye just for a second before she quickly looked away again. This time, she didn’t want to get caught. Antony saw this, his expression never changed.

Marcus laughed the moment off at the time, same as he did anytime Antony made a remark without thinking.

“…We pray now, not only for the one departed soul,” Father Joseph’s voice clearer now. “But for all those left carrying the weight of others that we have lost.”

Father Joseph stopped, just for a moment. His eyes scanned the room one more time. It took him a moment to figure out something in the room had changed. A group of people now stood behind the pews, newcomers not there previously. Fifteen? Twenty? All In black, side by side. The space between them uneasily perfect. If any of them were moving, Father Joseph couldn’t tell. With no movement to focus on, his eyes shifted to what they were wearing. They were not dressed for mourning. Instead of wearing black suits or black dresses like Jackie had requested, they wore black hooded zip up jumpers, black jeans and dark trainers.

His pause didn’t go unnoticed. Every head in the room raised, all eyes on him. He considered acknowledging them, asking Jackie if she knew them. He moved on from the thought swiftly.

“My apologies.” Father Joseph cleared his throat one final time, returning to the notes that lay out in front of him. “When we lose somebody, it is hard not to think about the impact they had,” he continued, though his voice had lost some of its earlier certainty. “We also have to recognise the lives that were touched, some in ways not always visible to those who are closest to them.” He could still feel them there, the large group. Their heads now raised, eyes focused on him.

Jackie caught it this time, the Father’s unease, the direction of the glances. This time she turned. She knew who they were and exactly why they were there. Her hand instinctively shot up to her mouth, her body reacting before her thoughts had caught up. It didn’t matter, a sound broke through anyway. Muffled, strangled against her palm. Her shoulders hunched forward as the sobs began to come harder. Confusion spread through the crowd as heads turned between Jackie and the group. Marcus remained looking forward, he had already noticed them. A tear already running down his cheek.

Slowly one by one the group made their way forward, unzipping their hooded jumpers, the fabric parting to reveal beneath, all of them wearing a white T-shirt. An image printed on the front.

“Everyone, please,” Father Joseph spoke, calmly stepping away from the lectern. “Please, let us maintain decorum. This is a place to pay respects, to remember those we have lost. A place of prayer.”

“We don’t want any trouble, Father. We are here for the same reason as everybody else. To remember,” the man at the front of the group responded as they continued to inch forward.

The images now becoming clearer. Each one a different girl, all smiling. A few gasps broke out among the mourners. Heads still turned away from the front. Now facing each other, hoping the person next to them might know more. Father Joseph froze, any authority he may have had now lost to the spectacle unfolding before him.

“Pl… Please. Stop,” he pleaded.

Jackie still remained sat, uncontrollably sobbing, unable to look at them as they made their way past the final row of pews. Marcus continued to look forward, his cheeks glistened from dry tears.

They had now made their way past everyone. All eyes on them, the air thick with anticipation. The lead positioned himself close enough to touch the memorial board. His hand moved towards his pocket. He pulled something dark out, a photograph. He reached forward without hesitation and placed it over one of the images of Antony. Then another. One by one the rest of the group began to follow. No words, just a steady replacement of memories. The leader stepped forward, all eyes on him.

“These are the only smiles you should be remembering.” He looked back over his shoulder. His daughter smiling at him from the board, surrounded by the others.

The victims of the Boston Butcher.