The Ghost of Providence

Chapter Four

Corbyn

Corbyn tapped his foot along the soft-wood panels in restless fits. He had never done anything like this. He didn’t want to do anything like this.

Murmurs rippled through the chapel as seats began to fill in unexpected numbers. Staff members had their hands full finding more from wherever they could to satisfy the turnout.

It was an unprecedented showing for a cobbler’s funeral, after all.

Familiar faces, as well as many that Corbyn hadn't known, poured through the open doors of the small, ornate building. Friends, classmates, acquaintances, colleagues, and customers from all walks of life were welcomed in attendance and ushered to their seats, which were arranged by section: Gully folk with all their bluster and life to the left, Brigham Street residents, stoic at the close loss, in the middle, and then the elites of the Plateau to the right, a surprising addition, and reason for the need of extra chairs. His father had been respected by many in life. He would be appreciated by many in death. Of that Corbyn was sure.

His small hands gripped the podium and awaited the moment he would give his eulogy.

There weren’t many expectations for funerals on the island. Communities were tight-knit so there wasn’t typically a need for formality, and religion had long since died away in place of nihilism. So unfortunately there were no priests of the sort who would speak for him.

There weren’t many expectations but a gathering like the one in front of him didn’t happen. Not like this, anyway. He was nervous as he watched the room grow full with somber faces. He replaced them in his anxious mind with expectant ones. Oh, shit. I’m gonna throw up.

Okay, breathe. Keep your chin up. Keep your eyes sharp. Focus.

As the boy awaited a nerve-racking moment, faces of great familiarity filed through the door over the next few minutes, one after another.

Hugh Lightly ruffled plumed feathers as the boy forced his body through the crowded entrance, caring little for the aristocrats it went through, his father all the look those primmed people needed to swallow their reprisals.

The man was even larger than his son - his short temper was infamous to many of them. In the wake of the father and son were the two boys Hugh had been with before, their names still unknown to Corbyn. Arms slung by sides in matching slings, the duo looked less than pleased with their attendance.

But Corbyn was sure they wouldn’t make a scene. The Lightlys and Panes may have fallen out, but they were bound by blood.

Corbyn’s mother was Hugh’s aunt. Likewise, Hugh’s father was Corbyn’s uncle. Even if they hardly spoke, the Lightlys were obligated by that. They would allow no provocations here.

Next after them came the Harrowbirds. The entire venue breathed a sigh of relief to know that the two families hadn’t come face to face at the door. Their disputes were legend in Providence.

Corbyn in particular was relieved not by the convenience of their timing, but by the faces they offered. Whatever awkwardness had emerged between Olivur and him that night weeks ago had seemingly disappeared with the circumstance. As soon as he entered the chapel, Olivur made a beeline for the front podium, his excess family of two trailing along, one carefully, one reluctantly. He climbed the four stairs up in two steps and had Corbyn in a hard hug before either said a word.

Neither spoke for a while. Neither needed to. Just having a friend around can make all the bad things okay for a moment.

He felt a familiar hand on his head and knew who it was before they said anything. It was a deep voice that spoke. It did so slowly, not wanting to intrude but not willing to say nothing at all. “I’m sorry, Corb,” Uncle Regan empathized.

Corbyn parted from his good friend to face his uncle in name only, a noteworthy individual by all accounts.

He was attractive in the fashion that faces without flaws typically were: cheekbones as high as his station in life, a chin that gripped the skin of his cheeks taut along the sides, a pair of sharp brows, and blonde hair of distinguished length. But it was his eyes that Corbyn remembered him by. They were the Harrowbird blue, but there was something instinctually familiar to them.

Corbyn nodded and thanked the man for his condolences. “Thank you, Uncle Regan.” He was happy to see these two. They were the closest thing he had to family now…

“Quit calling him your uncle.”

As if she had read his mind, Halle threw into the conversation with signature bite. She narrowed her eyes his way and her lips curved downward in a small frown. “Do you know what people will say?”

Her comments threw a wrench into the good mood, and the girl was altogether unfazed by her father’s glower or her brother’s apologetic, awkward smile.

What did I expect? Corbyn tried his best to reign in his temper. This was just how she was and now wasn’t the time to try to argue with her. He had a eulogy to prepare for.

He responded to her taunts dryly, and without turning to her. He would show her as much respect as she showed him.

“Wow, it’s so nice to see you too.”

Wait. He drawled the enunciation in a show of sarcasm, but it still felt to Corbyn more respectful than she deserved.

Why’d she even show up, he wondered. From what he could remember of her, she really shouldn’t be here. She and her grandfather were very much of the belief that they were above society. So why had she come? Was it just to ruin the moment?

The girl snorted from the side in that miss-mannered way people did when they thought your quibbles beneath them, and Corbyn could imagine her face without even looking at it.

The upward tilt of her chin. The decadent clothing. The high and mighty sneer about her lips that her blue eyes seemed to reflect in a squint. All proudly displaying her highborn position. He could imagine the blonde hair she had tucked behind her neck. It was long and silky; it was healthy. Her skin was tanned from the summer and rosy from birth; it was clear.

She was pretty. Sure. But he remembered her so vividly only because he used to see her in his nightmares.

He heard her turn to walk away without looking to make sure she had. “I’m going to find a seat.” Having said so, the girl no doubt sashayed down the steps on her way away, leaving the boys to their moments alone.

“I don’t know how you do it, Uncle Regan.” Corbyn shook his head, offering his uncle a sympathetic glance.

The man winced. “I don’t really. She’s like that with me too.”

The two shared a heartfelt look and sighed. There’s nothing that bonds quite like mutual suffering.

“I'm sorry to hear about Jacob, Corbyn. He was a good man...and a better friend than I ever was.”

Corbyn shook his head in refute. “No, you’ve done so much for us. It isn’t fair to say that.”

The man said nothing. He just looked guilty, a sentiment Corbyn felt was exaggerated. He had been a good friend to his father from everything he knew about the two.

“Ar-Are you ready?” Olivur stammered. About the eulogy, Corbyn inferred.

“No,” he didn’t think he ever would be. “But I’ve gotta do it, don’t I? This is for me as much as it is for him,” Corbyn thought aloud.

Uncle Regan nodded his head. “Yes. It is for you just as much as it is for him, so say whatever it is that you want us to know,” he comforted. “And - if it isn’t asking too much - I’d like to say a few words for Jacob as well.”

Color tinged Corbyn’s cheeks as he looked to the man with appreciation. Whether or not he knew it, having another speaker up here felt like a load off himself.

“I’d like to say a few t’ings myself, boy!”

Corbyn swiveled to find the loud voice in the audience and found Hugh’s father waving his hand at the very forefront of the Gully’s seating arrangement. The giant man could probably hear their entire conversation, they were so close. He and his group of three boys had no doubt pushed some poor early arrivals further back.

“Can I?” His face spoke of a sincerity uncommon among a community of banter. He seemed one of the most sorrowful in the crowd.

Corbyn didn’t trust himself to answer, his emotions were getting the better of him. That so many people cared for his father made him happy. It was his Uncle who responded for him. He had no place to do so, but Corbyn appreciated it anyway.

“After me?”

“After?” Hugh’s father looked irate. More so because it was Uncle Regan who asked rather than because of any slight.

“Yes.” Uncle Regan rolled his eyes.

“Fuck that.” The man tucked his hands beneath his pits in crossed arms.

“After,” Uncle Regan sighed. “Now’s not the time for this, Lugman”

“It’s time for whatever the fuck I say it’s time for, pretty boy.”

Corbyn cut in. “I’m not siding with Uncle Regan, but he did ask first,” he interjected with a shrug.

Hugh’s father took on facetious hurt upon his face. “Wait, boy’o. How can you say that? I’m your real uncle. Look at me! It’s Uncle Lug! I held you like this when you was just a tyke,” he shouted, holding a bag above his body with a hammer fist around it. “You used to love it!”

Corbyn rolled his eyes and smiled at the image in his head. It’s probably best he didn’t keep doing that.

“You’re after Uncle Regan. He asked first.”

Uncle Lug huffed and crossed his arms once again, but grumbled his agreeance anyway. “Fine.” Perhaps he meant to agree the whole time.

Corbyn laughed. There really was nothing that bonded quite like mutual suffering.

***

As the lights inside the building dimmed down to a heavy glow, Corbyn made his way to the front podium with steady, confident steps. Though, the confidence was a facade to soothe his nerves. In reality, he was not so confident, and his nerves were not so stable.

But I’m not about to have other people know that.

Having made his way, he now found himself the master of the room. Every eye was on him.

“Oh, shit.”

Wait, did I say that out loud?

...

Nobody’s saying anything, so maybe not. He too said nothing for a moment, until someone finally snorted and the rest of the crowd followed suit.

There wasn’t anything demeaning about it; the lighthearted chuckling and the knowing that he’d already messed up made Corbyn even feel a little more comfortable. If he’d already messed up, it couldn’t quite get much worse.

“Whoops,” he smiled at the gathering. “Didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he laughed, and the crowd did so too.

“‘Think before you speak,’” he continued. “Maybe it’s because he’s not here to tell me anymore that I feel like I’m forgetting all he taught me. Those little things he’d neg me about so often that I couldn’t forget, now seem so distant from thought. Like my time with him was an illusion that I’ve woken up from, like a fever dream that felt all too real. And just like dreams, you recall them so vividly in the moment, but once you wake up you’ve already forgotten half of it and the rest makes no sense.”

The noise of laughter died down to thoughtful quiet.

“But that’s the thing about dreams, isn’t it? Even when they’re gone, we try to remember them. And that’s the thing about people, isn’t it? Even when they’re gone, we try to remember them.”

Corbyn swatted at a tear before it even had the chance to show, but his voice was all the crowd needed to hear to know how he felt.

“My father was much like that about my mother, you know? He was always doing things to remember her. It’s why he became a cobbler,” Corbyn laughed. “He could’ve done anything, really, but he chose shoemaking. I didn’t think it was weird until I was a little older, but then I thought to myself, ‘Who the hell wants to make shoes for a living?’” The crowd smiled and Corbyn continued. “So, I asked him, ‘Why do you like making shoes? Aren’t there better things to do?’ And you know what he said? He said, ‘There may be better ways to live a life, but there’s no better way to love mine.’”

“When I asked him to explain, he said simply that he made shoes because my mother used to do so when she was a girl...That’s all. That’s the entire reason he centered his life around shoemaking. Because it was what my mother loved doing. He was himself trying to remember his love, even when it was gone.”

Corbyn let out a long-kept shudder and realized he couldn’t do this much longer. It was taking everything he could to keep himself together.

“So, I’d like to thank you all for coming together to remember the man my father was. He may be gone but his memory stays with us. Even when we work to remember. He was a man born to the Gully. A man who rubbed elbows with Plats in school, at which he was the top of his class by the way. He was a man who raised a child by himself, throwing away the future he could have had to pave the way for mine. He was a cobbler from the Brigs, but he was more than that. He was respected by the lot of us, but he was more than that. He was my father, but he was more than that. What he was more than anything else was beloved...and we all saw to that. So, thank you for coming.” He smiled. “I may be a little biased, but he was the kindest and most intelligent man I’ve ever known, and if anyone deserves a funeral this grand,” he claimed, gesturing to the crowd. “It would be the little cobbler from Brigham Street, Jacob Pane.”

Corbyn finished, stumbled down the stairs, and made his way to a seat reserved for him at the front before anyone could look at him cry. He didn’t. But his eyes did start sweating an awful lot.

***

By the time Corbyn had wrested control back from his sweating eyes, Uncle Regan had already made his way up to the podium and was beginning to speak. Corbyn hated how poised the man looked as he faced the crowd, and wondered how he had looked up there himself.

“Definitely not that good,” he grumbled to himself.

“Jacob was a great man. The only one I respected, at least.” What could have been inferred as an arrogant comment was instead taken as flattery by most in attendance when it was Uncle Regan who said it. Corbyn too took it as such. “Corbyn described him aptly.” The man nodded his way. “He was by far the most kind and intelligent person I have ever known as well. Myself included.” He chuckled and scrunched his brows. “Of course, I didn’t think so when we met. I actually hated his guts.” The crowd lilted in humor as Uncle Regan continued his tale with a good-natured smile.

"Not a lot of people know this, but I was good friends with Olivia too, Corbyn’s mother. We grew up on Brigham Street together, her family having owned the shoe store on the corner and mine having owned the several fronts next door. I knew her before I ever knew Jacob.” Corbyn’s ears perked up. He hadn’t known that. His father never talked about his mom.

“Her and I were like peas in a pod. We did everything together. She was the only person around me who treated me...well, like me. We thought we were the Brigham Street duo who would topple the belief that money made you better,” Uncle Regan sighed. “Of course, that all changed when we turned sixteen and met the young Jacob Pane at school. We thought we were so smart because we had gotten into the Highland School as Brigs, which was a daunting task - unheard of, really. But then along came this boy from the Gully, who had just happened to get in the same year we did.” Uncle Regan shook his head and scratched it for good measure. He looked up to the stain-glass ceiling, from which light from the evening sun flooded the room with life. “And I can honestly tell you that I did not like him. An arrogant know-it-all who had somehow bewitched my best friend on the first day. He threw my life upside down in ways I still can’t bring myself to describe.”

“I had no idea how a schmuck like him had gotten in, but I made damn sure he knew his place in it...Well, I tried to.” The Plats in the crowd bellied with laughter, already having known the outcome of their disputes in school. “Yes, yes, yes. You all know the stories. And to those who don’t believe them? Yes, they are true,” he confirmed with a smirk. “The little shit never let me win an argument once. Not even when we became friends.” His smile grew an inch thicker. “And he made damn sure I knew my place,” he laughed.

“Pardon me, I’m losing myself here.” He made an exaggerated motion to calm himself and the gathering laughed at the notion.

He continued on saying, “He may have been the most infuriating individual I’ve ever known, but that didn’t change the facts. He was also the most intelligent. I never won an argument and he never let me take first place in our exams. But he was also the kindest.” Finally, he let emotion crack his confidence. His voice in particular. “Whenever I was in desperate straits, it was Jacob who got me out of them. He helped me more than anyone will ever know. With things nobody will ever understand. To me, he was family.” A snort interrupted the moment and Corbyn turned his head to find Halle storming out of the chapel. Good riddance. “As a man who quite literally made me tear my hair out, he was like the brother I never had.” Uncle Regan closed his remarks, saying, “Thank you, Jacob, for the memories you left for me of a time I often miss...I will remember them fondly.”

***

“I don’t have a lot to add besides what my nephew and the lanky bastard have said a’ready. Jacob? He was a good man. Sure. He traded up from the Gully when he got the chance, but who blames him, really? He was a bright lad who had more to offer than we could provide. And he saw that.” Uncle Lug shrugged his shoulders. “I hate to admit it, but we all saw that,” his fingers clutched along the podium sides and the small wood lurched beneath his grip. “Lil’ Olive saw that too. And she paid the ultimate price for it.”

He took a long inhale and continued. “My sister was many things,” he emphasized. “But she wasn’t a fool. Unlike me and my ilk, she had the chance to make something of her life. When our folks divorced, she went up with mum to the Brigs when the floozy found a new Hunny—” He looked up to the crowd with a gleam in his eyes, “ —and just so you know, if I hear any one of you call my mum that, it will be the last word you ever say. I can say it as her son, and that’s just how it is.”

He nodded at the awkward silence he’d made and in fact smiled at it. “Mum raised her right. Yes, she did. My sister grew up to be one of the most beautiful girls you’d ever saw. She was smart as a whip to boot. Probably why the pretty boy followed her like a damn dog,” he barked and pointed to Uncle Regan, who, funnily enough, looked away at the dig with his arms crossed. He wasn’t refusing.

“Anyways. I bring her up to say this. Any man who could catch the attention of a girl like her was a good one. And I hope they’re prancing whatever fields of the afterlife right now, enjoying their time together once again. Thank you for makin’ her happy, Jacob. Now, rest in the peace you deserve.”

***

That could’ve gone worse, Corbyn thought as his jaunt back home through Brigham Street came to a close. He found himself once again in front of the familiar yellow door to his house.

His father’s house.

Two weeks had passed since the man had gone missing. One week since his body was found.

‘Who did it?’ That was the question coursing through the rumor-mill. The rumor mongers wanted to know. They badgered him about all sorts of rumored mongrels who could have done it, but Corbyn didn’t know anything for sure.

I’ll be damned if I don’t try to find out though.

He’d tried to look back on the days leading up to his father’s absence, but the memory was tainted somehow. He couldn’t recall much of anything.

Why not? He looked to the yellow door and wondered. Wondering had always been his modus operandi, but it proved difficult this time.

Ah, shit. He pulled the door open. It had been a long day and he was just finally glad it was over. He wasn’t quite sure which part he was glad to be done with though. He stooped beneath a canvas flier he’d forgotten to move and his thoughts continued. Am I glad to be done mourning? That people will treat me like they did before? It was hard facing people when you knew all they were thinking about was your dead father, even when the thought was appreciated.

Maybe I’m just glad that the funeral hadn’t gone worse than it could’ve. His uncles had come dangerously close to making that a very awkward experience. Apparently da’ wasn’t always so well-liked. Corbyn smiled as his mind replayed all the new stories he’d heard today.

Arrogant, huh? He laughed. Accurate. Corbyn had liked listening to all the tales he hadn’t known, especially the ones about his mum. The funeral had come with a rich history he was happy to have learned, but he was happier to know it was behind him.

Stepping into the workshop, untouched since what happened happened, Corbyn cleaned up. He hoped to find some peace of mind in the peace of things. But failed to do so.

Time to move on, Corbyn, he urged himself. He had really let the shop go, and if he was going to continue his father’s memory he had better get it back into shape...It has nothing to do with the fact that the family business is the only thing that will put food in my mouth.

With the tables decluttered, he moved onto removing tools and fabrics from the floor. Once that was done, and the room was presentable once again, he roamed over now to the kitchen. Where a dinner for two sat without memory of it.

There was something familiar to it…but wracking his brain brought no clarity.

He dumped the leftovers in an overdue bin. Better throw that out too... Then he washed the dishes and moved onto a single bottle of wine.

Why wine? He pondered. Da’ doesn’t even drink wine.

He made to dump the contents outside but oddly stayed his hand. It felt...important somehow. Like there was an answer there somewhere. So he stoppered the bottle and carried it with him to the backroom.

He hadn’t stepped in it for what felt like forever, and it showed. Books laid about under their little layers of light dustings. Nothing noticeable to casual viewing, but noticeable to a boy whose father kept a clean house. Lonely fixtures along four stout walls and the desk they surrounded spoke of a similar plight.

As he looped around strewn-about books and sharp edges, Corbyn traced a finger over the thick, mahogany desk with sad fondness. He sat atop the chair behind the mess of things and drew a lump in his throat as he placed the bottle in an open spot.

Da’...He shook his head. No. No, it isn’t the time for this. Opening the top drawer on the right-hand side, Corbyn took out the notebook on top titled ‘Company Ledger’.

I’d better get some of these done if I want to keep any meat on my bones, he chuckled self-deprecating.

Who’s first on the list, huh? He squinted his eyes, struggling to read the name on top as his father had fallen into the habit of writing with all sorts of swirls and swoops. “Catherine La’clair? I guess you’re first.” He remembered vaguely having heard the name before, though he couldn’t place where.

He set the notebook on the desk to be read again in the morning for a detailed look. Now isn’t the time for this either. In the morning...

Now was the time to prepare himself for the times to come. He leaned back into the old chair with a thud. It’ll be hard, he thought. But I’ll manage. He looked around his father’s office, remembering all the times he’d been there before. Things will be different now.

Corbyn touched the dented edges of the desk wistfully. It was then that he realized he had left the top drawer open. His hands moved autonomously to close it but paused as his eyes caught the contents inside. Because inside was something that wrought a gleam from previously, lifeless eyes. Just below the ledger had been another book, leather-bound and etched in reflective, orange script.

“The Ghost of Providence, huh?”

Corbyn grabbed the book from the drawer and opened its pages.