Page 105 of The Holy Grail

Malcom stared at Monroe’s name carved into the rather ostentatious headstone, which had been put in place just that morning. It was black marble, and stood almost four feet tall, with a large cross on top, which was funny, given his father had not been a religious man.

He was clearly virtue signaling.

What Malcom didn’t find funny was the epitaph engraved beneath the date of Monroe’s birth and death.

Malcom had to read it twice to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, but his father had been the one to specify what went on the headstone, so it obviously wasn’t a mistake …

which meant the words ‘Loving Father and Husband’ had been chosen on purpose.

If ever someone was on the far end of the douchebag spectrum, it was Monroe Elias Hodge.

Clearing his throat, Malcom began speaking.

“First, let me start off by saying I’m not grieving your death.

I am, however, incredibly pissed off at your timing, because we were supposed to have one last conversation, and now you’ve robbed me of that.

I had things to say to you, things I wanted you to hear, but you fucked that. ”

His eyes went back to the ‘Loving Father’ portion of the inscription, and his anger kicked up another notch.

For fuck’s sake, focus .

“Anyway, where was I? Right, I’m not grieving you, and I hope you have some way of knowing that, because—”

He broke off, staring at those two words again.

It was like he couldn’t help himself, which made him even angrier, and he felt his chest tighten and his breathing become a little constricted.

With sharp, jerky movements, he loosened his tie so it hung crookedly around his neck, and wished he’d gone home and changed first, instead of coming straight from work.

In the distance thunder rumbled, and the overcast day sort of complemented his oppressive feelings and mindset, and with determination, he pulled out his ‘Fuck You’ letter.

He’d tried writing it as a traditional letter, but after several attempts, settled on a short greeting, followed by a list of basic bullet points, in random order, as they’d come to him while drinking several glasses of bourbon the night before.

Shaking his head, he looked down at the paper, and started reading, hoping that would solidify his focus.

“Dear Motherfucker: In an effort to keep this ‘Fuck You’ letter short and sweet, I’ve made it into a list of bullet points which I will now share with you.

Some of them have added clarification, just to really drive the point home—”

Those fucking two words wouldn’t leave Malcom alone.

Now, even angrier than he was before (and knowing Lauren would be telling him to not let those two words have such power over him, that he was allowing them to have power over him, only made it worse), he glared at the black marble.

“‘Loving Father’?” he muttered. “I think not, you unmitigated motherfucker. In fact, I think you have some pair of balls on you—well, had, anyway—for having that engraved on your own headstone. Who does that? An unmitigated motherfucker, that’s who. ”

Then, as more thunder rumbled, this time getting closer, Malcom turned and began heading toward his parked car, just as lightning split the sky.

It seemed fitting.

After getting all the supplies he needed at the nearest hardware store, Malcom drove back to the cemetery.

Before getting out of the car, he opened up the Ménage à Trois Group Chat and quickly texted Jules and Evan, who were both home, and likely wondering where he was, since he usually got home at 6:00 p.m. every night.

MALCOM: I’m going to be a little late. I have something to take care of, but I should be home in about a half hour.

They both responded fairly quickly.

JULES: Okay. See you soon. EVAN: We’ll heat up some leftovers for dinner.

Putting his phone away, Malcom got out of his car and stalked back to Monroe’s headstone, which was now getting splashed with drops of rain.

With a chisel in one hand, and a hammer in the other, he dropped to his knees on the slightly rounded mound of earth.

Forcing away the disturbing thought of an embalmed body in a casket six feet underneath him, Malcom turned his focus to the word ‘Loving’ and set the chisel firmly in place.

Then, with a steel resolve, he started hitting it with the hammer and began chipping away at the letters.

It was harder than he thought it would be.

It also took longer than he thought it would (mainly because rain made the marble slick as hell and hard to chisel), but thirty minutes later, the word ‘Loving’ had been removed from the headstone, leaving a rough, rectangular-shaped crater in its place.

He was soaking wet, cold, and filthy, but as he admired his work, there was a satisfied smile on his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” a voice demanded off to Malcom’s left.

Glancing over, he saw what appeared to be a groundskeeper getting out of a golf cart, which was pulling a little trailer filled with lawn tools. Malcom had been so caught up in the moment, he hadn’t even heard the man arrive.

Well, fuck.

Slowly getting to his feet, because his knees were not cooperating very well, Malcom ridiculously answered, “I’m just … paying my respects,” even though it was unlikely the groundskeeper hadn’t seen what Malcom had been doing .

A flashlight clicked on and the beam of yellow light was directed at the headstone, illuminating the destruction even in the light drizzle.

“Paying your respects? It looks like you’re vandalizing a headstone …

which is illegal.” The groundskeeper frowned in disbelief, before shining the light on Malcom’s face. “Are you drunk? Or high?”

Shielding his face, Malcom wondered if being one of them would get him off the hook, and he briefly considered lying. “No, and no,” he finally replied, because claiming either one could be easily disproven, and he didn’t want to add being a liar to this situation.

The groundskeeper lowered the flashlight. “Well, since you’re way too old to be doing this because of a fraternity dare, you need to explain yourself.”

Malcom sighed. “It’s my father’s headstone.”

“And you’re vandalizing your father’s headstone, because why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“You have your reasons,” the groundskeeper repeated, looking at Malcom with heavy contempt. “Is one of them because you’re an asshole?”

As rain fell on his face, Malcom blinked at the man and said, “No.”

“Well, when the police arrive, I’m sure they’ll want to know what your reasons are.”

Having expected to be charged with a misdemeanor for intentionally defacing a headstone, Malcom was surprised when instead of being booked right away and having his fingerprints taken, he was placed in a holding cell with two other men, one who was obviously drunk, and one who looked like he’d been on the losing end of a bar fight.

Malcom had been relieved of his wallet, keys, watch, and phone, and also hadn’t been given his one phone call yet, so he had no way of letting Jules and Evan know what was going on.

Because jail time moved really slow, the hour that passed before the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard felt more like two.

Almost in unison, all three men looked up .

Malcom didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed when he saw Martin standing on the other side of the bars, along with Officer Gardner, who had been the one to put Malcom in the cell to begin with.

“You’re free to go,” Officer Gardner told Malcom, unlocking the cell door and sliding it open with a tremendous amount of grating metal noise.

At that, the drunken man tried to get to his feet, apparently thinking he was getting sprung, but was quickly corrected by the officer. “Not you.”

Martin and Officer Gardner led Malcom into the main part of the jail, where he was given back his belongings and then released. As he and Martin walked out to his Mercedes in silence, Malcom checked his phone and saw he had a few texts from Evan and Jules.

JULES: Where are you at? EVAN: How much later are you going to be? EVAN: You missed dinner …

He quickly texted back.

MALCOM: Sorry. I should be home shortly.

As they got into the car, Martin finally broke the silence. “Here’s the part where you thank me for pulling a few strings and getting you released without being charged.”

Malcom wasn’t at all surprised to hear what Martin had done, since his brother had a lot of clients come through this police station, and knew several of the officers there.

“Thank you,” Malcom returned.

“Well, that was sincere,” Martin muttered, as he started the car and began driving them back to the cemetery, so Malcom could get his car. “Maybe I should have just let you get charged.”

“Maybe you should have. I did do the crime after all.”

Martin shook his head, managing to convey both aggravation and disappointment. “Speaking of which, what were you thinking, vandalizing Dad’s headstone like that? Do you need to be on medication, or something?”

“I was thinking I was pissed off, and his epitaph needed to be corrected. So, I corrected it,” Malcom replied, ignoring the medication reference.

“It was kind of a spur-of-the- moment thing,” he added, although taking the time to drive to a hardware store and buy supplies didn’t really count as spur-of-the-moment.

“Was it worth it?”

“It was, actually.”

“Even though you almost ended up being charged with a misdemeanor?”

“Yes.”

“You’re honestly not sorry at all?”

“I’m sorry I got caught, but not sorry I did it, because he wasn’t a loving father or husband, and having that fucking lie engraved, for all to see, was unacceptable to me. I actually hope that son of a bitch was able to see me remove it, from wherever he is.”

They had reached the cemetery parking lot, and Martin killed the engine. It was now almost completely dark outside, the only light coming from a few street lamps nearby.