Jumping the Fence, Part 1

In my hands I held a leather-bound journal, its yellowing pages filled with handwritten notes and sketches made by my grandfather. “I have been studying its contents closely and now I’m closer than ever to piecing together his discovery."

I boomed out the last words as though I was a priest at a pulpit. The journal, held by my right arm, raised high above my head, caught the light of the rising sun.

There was silence, marred by the small cough or two, as my audience attempted to interpret my revelation.

Bwahahahahahahahaha!

I wasn’t surprised. I shook my head in disappointment. I lowered the journal from its prideful position to my pants pocket, where I had kept it throughout the morning as we had awaited the beginning of the funeral services.

The white-stoned walls of the church seemed to amplify the laughter, reflecting it into my ears. My cheeks turned burgundy; my teeth gritted together. Fools, I wished to bellow, all of you! But I couldn’t; they were my family, and we were honoring the man whose journal I then possessed. Yet, I was infuriated that these people, my family, were denying my own words concerning the ancient journal on the grounds that I was either delirious, or nobody had ever gotten close to solving the mystery of the old man’s demise. Having made each of my movements dramatic, gesticulating in synchronization with my words, doing all I could do to communicate my points and rile this audience, I felt ready to kill at their disrespect and derision.

“Sir,” spoke the kindly old church minister from his pulpit, I turning to face him, “Please, step down.” He made a conciliatory gesture with his hands, to which I obliged. I stepped down and onto the red carpet, walking down the church aisle with an air of dignity, though people pointed and made laughing remarks at my expense. I wore an expression on my face, with my hands balled into fists for dramatic effect, which indicated that anyone who dared cross me would have it on the chin. My cape, black as my grandfather’s coffin, flitted about angrily, as though it was a bee. My black uniform wavered, as did I, and I took my position sitting on the wooden bench beside young Jeremiah, towards the right side of the church.

I sat patiently, arms crossed, my cheek shade transforming from red to paler and paler, as I grew sober under the weighing influence of the minster standing on his pulpit, spewing out the last speeches and precious words of a supposedly caring family. They, my said family, lay affixed by his words, in such a manner that I felt that they did not care for me nor anything I stood for, that I was just a trifle. I was annoyed at their disrespect, and, had it not been for the fact that the old man lying in state was the only person who ever gave respect and support for my ideas, I would’ve walked out the church and left them to rot in shame. Or, so I lambasted inside my head before young Jeremiah tapped my shoulder.

“What?” I said, turning my focus upon himself, half of me still wishing to hear the minister speak his words, so strong was his influence.

“That was a good speech, sir,” replied he. The boy wore a formal suit, comprised of a white shirt with an interchanging red-black striped tie, and black jeans, which extended to his brown derby shoes, they clicking on the ground as he made the occasional step. His belt had bronze buckles; they gleamed in the light. He bore a resemblance to me, in the way his brown hair fell about his face, his blue irises, and his smile and head shape, which stood as more oval than circular. His teeth, however, were a bit big for his mouth; always, a couple of them poked out, even when he was stock still and expressionless. Maybe it represented his joyous personality, the way he was so precocious, his voice and words almost beyond comprehension for his age. Maybe it was so profound that the physical aspects of his body came to existence from the mimicry of the mental aspects.

“Thank you,” I replied, taking a more relaxed pose in comparison to stooping, hands on my knees, my feet firm on the ground. I breathed a sigh.“ The whole lot of them,” I murmured quietly, moving my left hand around to highlight the many family members in attendance, “Just, hypocritical. Not my nuclear family, mind you, but, respect is all I ask.”

Jeremiah wasn’t there. His mother had grabbed him around his waist with both her arms, and heaved the young child between her and his father. She turned to face me, her red lips highlighting her pink outfit, her brown-black hair falling down her face delicately. Her features were pronounced, smug, almost as though she was deriding me, with her head tilted upwards. Her face grew into a scowl, evident by the lines that marked the edges of her face, scarring its smooth beauty, though she did not change her expression much; she was too concerned with being the gorgeous queen of the gathering. I ignored her, my eyes leaving her throat-wrangling, killer glare, turning my focus back upon the minister stationed on the pulpit, who continued, in white, red, and gold-interlaced robes, to speak. His wrinkles, evidence of his ancient age, were held close to his face as though he was wearing a mask, and his robs flitted about him like they were caught up within a wind.

I stood there in silent repose, reminding myself of how I happened to gain possession of my grandfather’s journal, and the manner in which I discovered its lucid secrets.

My grandfather had died three days ago. The sickly man had spent the last few years of his life at home, writing in his journal conversations with the dear wife he had once been with for decades. Perhaps she had seen his Achilles heel, for she moved away before he began this state of self-exile, onwards to other houses and places, living her own peaceful life and corresponding with him. When we came to the house on the day of his death, one of them was stationed on the gray rug; it was saddening in the way it had never arrived to its target. The journal was stationed on his bed; his body was found in the living room, on the couch. He died in his sleep, said the coroner. I achieved the rights for possessing the journal for his will had not yet been read; it seemed only fitting that I, a member of the family, take a look into his personal life in those years he was physically dead. Too, I was suspicious that I had won the journal by circumstance, as many suspicious family members were all too greedy to have it, potentially find a second will, and strike it rich upon their claims. There was none, and I’m sure many of them knew it, but greed was the passion by which they were pushed into desolation. May haps the attorneys saw me and my intentions and knew that I would not be harmful to anything; primarily, my grandfather’s vast collection of riches and possessions that he’d acquired over his long life.

I scrutinized the journal in my establishment for the time over the next few days in which I was free from the bonds of work, and able to go about my business. Indeed, it provided for a mystical, fascinating story, as though I was snatching up the works of Pushkin or Tolstoy. The man was constantly talking with his wife; most every day they sent letters, his words would far outpace her own, each thoughtful and powerful, as though he was eager to bring about and express every last section of his soul. He certainly was. What I found most confusing was his self-professed “discovery,” consistently telling his pragmatic wife he had discovered Isla Nueva. However, she did not believe him, often changing the topic, sometimes flat out admitting her feelings. This did not stop his eagerness, and it made me smile, for that was what we all loved in the man. Too, I happened to stumble upon a small discovery when I scanned the journal with an ultra-violet light source that I had obtained from a distant cousin of mine after I had told him of the mystery, he supposing that maybe grandfather had left behind something too hard to look for normally, but too obvious to see logically. It was a series of letters scrawled repeatedly between numerous lines, broken into two sections: Flo and rida. I immediately, though at first I made a momentary confusion, I laughing at myself for such, noticed that he was referring to the state Florida. I was perplexed; I knew Isla Nueva was Spanish for “new island”, but I was unsure of what it had to do with Florida. I remained confused until the day of the funeral, and stayed as such during the procession…

The minister stopped. He turned, still holding the book in his hands from which he’d preached his words, and stepped down the stairs to beneath his pulpit. Others began to stand, a procession forming from the front downwards, as people made their way away from the church to the grave in which grandfather was going to be buried. As the procession came near me, I saw that it was my chance to confess my intentions for the day. I wanted to throw all peepers off and out of my way, so they could be off my sight for the time being.

“I will not be attending my grandfather’s burial. I hope you understand my feelings. I will be there in spirit.”

All eyes turned upon me, every face scrutinizing me for any remorse or tearful emotions. I stood up, stepping onto the red carpet, and kept a poker face. I turned orderly, as though possessed, or a robot, and began to walk away from the surprised minister and my confused brethren.

“Hey ! Wait! I want to go with you!”

I turned and saw Jeremiah running up to me with a joyous expression on his face, snatching my right hand and shriveling close to it, in a manner that suggested I was to be the person protecting him. I drew up my bravery for the society belle that stood upwards, and turned to face me. Her legs and arms were skinny, save the region around her hip, and her pink uniform and matching purse seemed to be at odds with the funeral. She stood, attempting to stare me down like headlights against a deer, for the possession of her child.

I smiled weakly. She wouldn’t do a thing; I knew it. They always went from mocking me, attempting to destroy my self-esteem and force me to give up the journal and my claim of riches, to giving me what I wanted, for they knew I was bound to receive the largest share of my grandfather’s money. Silently infuriated, she joined the procession as it moved away, and young Jeremiah and I exited the church at the helm, heading towards our destination…