The Woman at My Father's Funeral

By: Shelby

A funeral was being held at the cemetery. A man in his mid-twenties with dark hair and dark eyes stood over a coffin. He watched as his father was lowered into the ground with detached eyes. His clenched fist opens and dirt falls on top of the shiny, black box.

"Beautiful service," the priest concluded. He patted the man on the back and then left. On a day like the day of the boy's father's funeral, a man of God has to lie. It wasn't a beautiful service, but only a lonely one.

No one showed up, not that he expected them too. The few people who might have were dead. The rest who knew his father he was sure hated him. His father died alone and now would be buried that way. The boy shook his head in sadness for the man that could have been, but never was.

"Goodbye, Dad," Clyde Bass concluded. He bent down and traced his fingertip over the engraving on the tombstone. It only said his name, his birth date, his death date, and that he was a father and friend. But to be honest, he wasn't much of either.

"Funny, I feel like I don't even know you." Those were the last words he said to his dad's grave. Then he pushed himself to his feet and turned around. He was about to leave when the corner of his eye caught something. He stopped and turned to look at what it was.

What he saw was a woman. She looked to be in her early fifties, but had aged gracefully. Clyde could tell that she was gorgeous when she was younger. She had chestnut colored hair with a few gray streaks in it and porcelain colored skin. She wore all black and stared at his father's tombstone from across the yard.

He walked closer, but she did not notice him.

He saw that she was crying, silently. It was the way a woman would cry when she had no tears left. His eyes looked to hers and he knew that whoever the woman was her father had meant something to her. She didn't strike him as a mere whore or past lover, but someone of importance. Perhaps he was crazy and she had meant nothing to Chuck Bass, but he wanted to think she did. He wanted to believe that at some point in time his father had shown perhaps just a shred of humanity to someone. After all, he had never shown it to Clyde's mother or even Clyde, his son. But maybe, just maybe, the woman before him had been the lucky one. Or depending on how one looked at it, the unlucky one.

"Excuse me," Clyde called. It left his lips before he knew that it had and his feet moved towards her before he could stop himself. For a moment it looked like she might run, but then she didn't.

"Hello. I couldn't help, but notice that in this empty cemetery the only other person here was staring at my father's grave. Did you know him?" he asked. He was straightforward, to the point. He was like his father in that way. No matter how hard he tried to be different, there were always similarities.

"You're Clyde," the woman breathed. She put a hand to her chest and wiped at her tears with the other one. He frowned, further contended, but nodded his head.

"Yes, does that mean you know my father then? Or perhaps we have met and I do not remember." He wanted answers from her. What were the questions that those answers belonged to he did not know, but he wanted the answers.

"I knew your father, but we have not met. I do not know of the Chuck Bass in your lifetime, only in mine," she sighed sadly.

"How-how did you know him then?" He took another step towards her. Her eyes fell from his. She smiled, but in a solemn way.

"Well I was not one of his whores if that is what you are thinking. No, I was a friend first and then… well after all these years I still cannot think of what label to refer to us as." She looked up at him. The tears were gone, but her eyes were glossy.

Clyde's brow furrowed. He parted his lips as if to offer her the word she needed, wanting to help for some reason, but how could he? So he stayed silent and waited.

She looked up and shook her head. "Well," her voice lowered, "It's getting rather late. I should be returning home. You surely know how traffic can be?" She didn't expect him to answer.

He nodded and then turned to leave, but stopped. He didn't want to let the woman go. He didn't know her, but she seemed to know more about his name than even he did, his name Bass that was. He came back to her, hands in his pockets.

"Do you want a ride in my limo?" Clyde offered. It would give them time to talk. Perhaps then he could get the answers of the questions he only begged for his entire life.

She paused for a moment. Her eyes looked past him, but not to the present. Instead she seemed to be peering into another time, another place, and into the eyes of another, but similar man. "Those were the last words your father said to me, given they had different meaning," she explained.

He tilted his head in question and leaned in closer. "You mean?" Clyde asked, not finishing. They both knew what he meant.

She smiled sadly and spared the smallest, most elegant sounding of laughs. She nodded, "Yes, but I did not accept. It was my wedding day after all."

"He tried to take you away on your wedding day?" Clyde asked, astonished. It sounded like something a man deeply in love did in a romance movie. And there was no way Chuck Bass, his father, ever fit the profile of that character.

She rolled her eyes and the strange smile returned again. Then she sighed, "Unfortunately that was typical of Chuck. He was always just a bit too late. And that day there was a part of me that wanted to go with him, but… I couldn't do it anymore. I had to move on. I'll never forget the look on his face though, when he stood in the back of the church and watched me leave with my new husband." Her eyes left Clyde again.

"So you never saw him again?" he questioned. He sounded devastated, but captivated and could explain neither. They surely could not be speaking of the same man anymore.

She shook her head and met his eyes once more. With a much more formal tone, she spoke. "No, I did, but I didn't speak to him again."

"What do you mean?" Clyde furthered. Wouldn't one even make small talk? His father seemed to do that best. He didn't get close to anyone, meaningful conversations were nonexistent.

"Well there were society events, but of course to approach him while my husband had his hand on my back would not end well. So we just shared looks across the room." She started to get passionate in her speaking once more. "There was one time…" Suddenly, she stopped and shook her head. The mask returned to her countenance. "No, he wouldn't want me to talk about that."

Clyde felt his heartbeat increase. He almost grabbed onto her, but found restraint in physical actions at the last moment. Instead it showed in his voice. "Please, he is gone now and the man you speak of was gone way before now so just tell me. I need to know. I know that you cannot understand why I need to, but I do. I don't want to remember him by my memories, but perhaps I can with yours," he explained with a sense of hopefulness he hadn't known before.

"I'm sure your father loved you, Clyde," she returned.

He laughed though, "Love? Please, he did not know the meaning of the word." It was something Clyde easily dismissed. He considered it a stupid and pointless word, just like he knew his father had.

She shook her head and spoke strongly. "But he did." She sounded so certain.

Clyde paused for a moment. He looked down and then up at her. "And how can you be sure?" he asked, surprisingly not as skeptical as he thought he would sound.

She put a hand to her chest. "Because, he is the only man I have ever truly loved and I am the only woman he ever even knew how to love. I will hold onto that until I meet up with him again, wherever I end up that is," she answered. A coy smile graced her lips after the last sentence. It was like she had a secret, one shared with the now deceased, and she knew he was listening.

He shook his head though. "A woman like you would not end up where my father went, if there even is a hell… or heaven," Clyde dismissed.

She smiled, "You sound just like him." Her hand then reached up to touch his cheek, but she retracted it. She looked at him apologetically.

He didn't mind it though. Instead he just sighed and shook his head. "One of my many faults, I'm afraid."

"You shouldn't say that. Chuck Bass was not all bad. There was a great deal of good in that man that hardly anyone knew of," she replied quickly, grabbing onto his arm. Her eyes looked seriously into his, like she needed him to believe her.

Clyde looked down at where she touched him and then to her eyes once more. He shook his head, "Well he did not exactly care to show us."

"Then perhaps you should find it on your own," the woman told him. She retracted her hand then and folded both of them delicately in front of her.

"And how? He's rotting in the ground below us now," Clyde replied. He sounded some amused. It was a cynical and sick sense of humor.

She winced at his words as her eyes snapped shut.

"I'm sorry," he quickly apologized. Her reaction hurt him. It made him feel guilty.

She took a moment, but eventually nodded slowly. "Thank you," the woman breathed.

Clyde didn't want to hurt her again so remained silent and thought of what to say. He knew it might, but he had to ask. "How can you care about him so much?"

"I loved him," the woman answered passionately. She looked up at him then with tears in her eyes. "I still love him."

"But how? How could you love him?" Clyde questioned, shaking his head. It didn't make sense. His father wasn't capable of being loved. Perhaps liked if he signed your paycheck or gave you a gift, but nothing past that.

She took a step towards him and reached her hands up to his face. She cupped his cheeks. The resemblance to his father was cunning and she couldn't help, but study it. Then she told him, "You couldn't understand even if I told you."

"Then help me, help me to understand!" Clyde pleaded. He grabbed onto her arms that connected to her hands, which held his cheeks.

She pulled back from him quickly though, out of his hold. It was as if his touch had burned her. "You'd have to get to know your father in order to do that," she told him.

"Well I can't. So-"

She cut him off. "Come by this address tomorrow afternoon. There you can meet your father. But on one condition," the woman prompted. She held up her finger and lips pursed some.

"Anything. What is it money?" Clyde even prepared to take out his wallet right then and there. He reached into his pocket, but found his hand stopped by hers.

"You are Chuck," she smiled.

"What is the condition?" Clyde asked though. He just wanted to give it to her so she could give him what he wanted, what he had always wanted, but not always known he'd wanted.

She came closer and nodded her head. "That plaid scarf he keeps in a box, way up high in his closet, I want it," the woman more or less demanded.

He frowned, "Why?"

"It's the only part of him I can have left other than my memories," she explained, but sad once more.

"It's yours then," Clyde agreed. The piece of cloth that had gone out of style didn't mean anything to him, it never had. Even when his father tried to give it to him he had rejected it. He wouldn't tell her that though since it obviously meant much more. He didn't want to hurt her.

The woman pulled back, straightened herself out, and nodded with a polite smile. "Thank you, Clyde. I will see you tomorrow," she told him.

"Twelve o'clock sharp and thank you again," Clyde agreed. He was almost afraid to let her go. What if she really were a figment of his hopeful imagination?

"You're welcome, goodbye." Her voice brought him from his thoughts. Then she turned and started the lonely walk down the grassy hill of the cemetery, towards her car.

"Wait!" Clyde called after her.

She turned around and looked back at him. "Yes, Clyde?" the woman asked.

He came closer to her, stopping right before. "What's your name?" Clyde asked. He realized right before he lost her that he didn't even know.

She smiled, "Blair, Blair Waldorf."

XOXOXOXOXO

A/N: How was it?