What Can You Not Buy With Money?

I walked home, pleading for Lucy and Vern to let me have some time alone. I wondered how I harnessed the strength to move one foot in front of the other, but I managed to walk to my old neighborhood, in Mira Mesa. As I walked through the battered and desolate suburban landslide, I stopped by the park bench where I first met Walker.

I never found out what friend lived here that compelled him to appear in this bad neighborhood. For all I knew, it had been a lie. But the memories of the way he had just came up to me and brought me comfort during one of my most desperate times was something I was indebted to him for. I never was able to pay him back for it.

I sat upon the splintering wood, recollecting the emotions I had felt when I was evicted from my home: betrayal, depression, and uncertainty. And it seemed that fate had shown me mercy by bringing Charles Walker to me.

I looked down the potholed road, in the direction where my mother's house was. I felt it was time to pay her a visit.

When I arrived on the weed infested front yard, I had second thoughts of confronting her. I hadn't seen her since the kidnapping, and for all I knew she had overdosed on the money Bohr paid her for luring me into that trap. But I pushed those mental words away, knowing that I was going to see her anyway.

Surprisingly, I wasn't worried or nervous of seeing her. The only thing that filled my heart with astonishment and shock was that I felt this sudden compilation to see her. And there was no fear that clouded my sight, for I felt assured that I was safe from harm.

And I felt protected, as though Walker was watching over me at that moment.

When I knocked the door, there was no answer for many minutes. I took the time to wipe the caked tears out of the corner of my eyes and took slow breaths to prepare myself for the worst.

When the door opened, I had to blink to realize that it was a strange man who answered the door.

"What do ya want?" He demanded, his face pocked and scabbed with what I assumed was from meth abuse.

"Does Valerie Hall still live here, Jack?" I tried to look past his shoulders, but he was large enough to block my vision. Dealing with people from my origins, I learned that by responding with the same amount of brash and purpose, your standing with them would improve. But only by a slight percentage. And calling a guy 'Jack' was just the cherry on top. Gets them every time.

"What's it to you?" His eyes narrowed, the whites so cracked with angry red veins it seemed he never knew the joys of slumber.

"I'm her kid, Mary." My voice was clear, but I noted I still sounded as though I didn't belong in the area. I guess, I never really did.

'Jack' looked me over one final time before begrudgingly opening the door. I was surprised he was submissive.

I walked in, the familiar smell of alcohol and mildew violating my nostrils as I carefully avoided crushing the strewn garbage on the aged carpet. Home, Sweet Home.

"Mom," I quietly looked at the disheveled hair upon the head of the woman who raised me. The head turned, and I gazed upon the familiar face of my mother.

"What?" She turned to me, a lack of recognition sparking in her eye. She was intoxicated right there on the rotten couch. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk." I quietly walked up to her, hoping she'd gesture for me to sit. Any sign of familiarity on her part was nonexistent.

"Well, I'm busy right now. And I thought you weren't going to be around anymore." Valerie Hall slurred her words as she looked up at me with glassy beads for eyes.

"I didn't think so, either."

"Then why're you hear?" She was suddenly angry with me, her volume raised to maximum. "Get out!"

Instead of rage or any passion rushing into me, I merely felt saddened at the state she was in. Saliva slipped down her lip and her fingers were trembling from age and abuse.

But still, I persisted. Despite everything, she was still my mother. And I felt a need to try to make the world around me a little better.

"Don’t waste your love."

"Mom," I quietly took out of my pocket a piece of paper. I carried a purse with me, and took out a pen as I carefully wrote my phone number. "I'm not here to do anything but try to help you. If you want to see me, give me a call. I love you." I looked at her as she glared down at the note I gave her. I half thought she was going to throw it in my face. "Good bye," I quietly left.

As I walked home, I quietly muttered to myself, and to Walker, "I'm trying. It's the best I can do."

>

“Charles Michigan Walker liked people to just call him Walker. And when I first met him, I thought he was the strangest guy I ever met. I had no idea that he’d be the one guy who’d change my life. He gave me a home when I had nowhere else to go. He gave me the friends I have now. And he gave me the most important advice I ever heard.” I was in front of the many people who attended Walker’s funeral, among them people from Walker’s elite past to his closest friends. I recognized most of them, though the occasional person made me wonder who they were, and in what way did Walker touch them in a way that they felt obligated to attend his memorial service.

I was the one who wrote his eulogy. Everyone felt I should be the one to do so.

He was going to be buried within the next few hours. Though I expected the weather to reflect the sadness of the mourners, it seemed that Walker’s spirit thought different. The sky was a deep blue, the sun a bright light that felt hot on my black dress. It reminded me of Walker's smiles, that could light up the world better than any star.

I was done crying to the point of exhaustion. But still, as I read the thin sheet of paper that I spent only a few minutes writing, I felt new tears slide down my face. It wasn’t that hard to write about Walker. But being the perfectionist had me editing the small speech until that morning.

Walker’s body was cremated, as were his wishes in his will. He didn’t have many material possessions, so thankfully there was little need for a lawyer. And I was happy with what I had, which was Walker’s memory. Though I made my promise to him, I still loved him. And sometimes, I would pretend that it was all a lie, and he was waiting at the Neo Sushi Club for me. But when reality returned, the only comfort I could find was knowing that I would see him again one day.

“Walker was an artist, though he never outwardly admitted it,” I continued, looking at the many people. Lucy, Vern, Lawrence, Madame Slater, Pierre, and even Terra were there. In a corner, I found Burgess, who was listening intently to my words. Bohr was there, also, though I didn’t know he had any relation with Walker. “He'd make the most amazing sculptures out of raw fish." The crowd chuckled with melancholy at this. "And he was full of life. He was a good man, who loved passionately. He cared for his friends, and was always there whenever a person needed him the most. Before he died, he had every one of us promise him that we’d live to the best of our ability. That in itself, was perhaps one of the greatest moments of Charles Walker. I know he’s in a better place, watching over us. And I know that no one will ever forget him.”

The applause that people gave me was enough to help cover my hidden sigh as I took the paper and went back to join the people. A Catholic priest was there, which surprised me. I had no idea that Walker was Catholic. The man bestowed a blessing and led the congregation, shedding his own words on Walker and providing the blessings over his coffin, which protected his ashes from the outside world.

Nearby the coffin were small platforms that held photos of Walker. Most of them were from the road trip; others were from when Walker was a young child. I saw one photo of him with his parents, and it was the first time I ever really looked at them. There was a peaceful euphoria that filled me as I ran my eyes over the many images. There was so much that one life had done, and the pictures only reflected a small bit of the overall reality.

My eyes stopped on the group photo that Vern had demanded be taken on that road trip. His arms were around me, and we all wore the widest smiles.

When it was time to bury him, we all threw flowers into his grave. I chose a rose, watching it slowly descent upon Walker’s coffin. “Goodbye,” I quietly whispered.

When the service was over, and the coffin was underneath six feet of moist soil, I began to cry again. Lucy squeezed my shoulder, while Vern timidly rubbed my back. “Come on,” Lucy whispered. “Let’s take you home.”

It felt strange, hearing those words from Lucy. It was what Walker usually said.