Legacy

[General Goose]

Harun liked to think he only smoked so he'd have something to do when he left a party to go outside and get some fresh air; an excuse to stand out in the cold without one of his older relatives chastising him for not wrapping up properly.

He knew that most people would just see that as a feeble excuse to cover up an addiction, but Harun genuinely believed it. He never bought cigarettes or carried a lighter on him; there just conveniently always happened to be a charitable smoker on hand who would be willing to lend him one and light it for him. Today, that charitable smoker in question was a middle-aged male funeral guest who Harun hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting, and soon after giving Harun a spare cigarette had returned inside without a word.

But today, as he lobbed the half-finished cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath his foot, he knew no-one was staring at him, disapproving of his habit, shaking their heads in shame and annoyance at his refusal to quit. He turned around, briefly glancing through the glass door into the after-funeral party (whatever the technical term was, Harun didn't know). The house was still crowded. People, especially the distant relatives, emotionally distant professional colleagues, forgotten friends, and little-known acquaintances, were chatting vibrantly, shaking hands, laughing politely at unfunny jokes.

The people who actually knew his father well...they were normally the quiet ones. They were the ones doing the comforting or being comforted. They were the ones sitting in corners or small groups, staring lost and in shock at the floor or wall. They were the ones talking in solemn, dignified tones, only laughing when recalling a happy memory or a funny anecdote, not just to flatter the ego of that pretentious not-funny Congressman wandering around telling almost offensive (luckily for him, he hadn't crossed the invisible line yet) jokes about Harun's father's work.

God, Harun wanted to punch that guy sometimes.

Not just now, though.

Right now, Harun had a craving for another cigarette, and that was the only thing on his mind.

He looked around desperately, trying to spot if there was anyone else outside, in the near distance, who looked like they'd have a lighter and a spare cigarette on them. Despite the fact he knew he only had his wallet and his phone on him, he still briefly patted down his jacket pockets, hoping that he'd happen to stumble on a stray cigarette, lost and forgotten yet still in working condition, that had managed to fall into his pockets without his noticing.

No such luck.

He resumed staring into the distance, shutting out the muffled sounds of the party behind him, his mind completely distracted from what was going on around him. With no cigarette on hand, fiddling with his tie and taking slow, heavy breaths would be the closest thing to smoking he could do. Short of rolling up some damp leaves and setting them on fire using one of the candles, but tie-fiddling and deliberate breathing was more cathartic for less effort.

So the door opening behind him caught him off-guard.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a smoker that Harun could beg for a cigarette from. Fortunately, it was his husband.

Brent had been his rock throughout this whole ordeal. It had been hard for Brent too; he'd gotten on very well with his father-in-law, and, like many other son-in-laws, had come to see the older, deceased Harun as a second father; more Turkish and a fair few years older than his, yes, as well as significantly more politically-inclined, but a vital member of his family just the same. But despite also losing someone close to him, Brent had been there for Harun.

When he heard of the news. Not via a phone call (that came several minutes afterwards, delivered by an emotional congressional aide), but by watching the news on the TV. The ambulances and police cars surrounding his father's Austin office. Brent was there for him during that.

When they told him what happened. His siblings, children and nephews and nieces standing outside crying. The officer in charge of dealing with the case showing Harun the picture of his father's face. Dried blood running down his face, a gory wound on the top of his head where the bullet had left, the dead look in his eyes. Brent was there, holding Harun's hand.

When he went to the viewing. His father didn't look like a suicide victim; he didn't look like he'd blown his brains out with a revolver to escape a potentially lethal political scandal. Maybe it was just the way they'd positioned the body; it just so happened to have hidden the gaping exit wound at the top of his skull. Maybe they'd just done a fine job with the embalming. There had been some bruising around his mouth and nose, but he looked fine aside from that. He looked like he was sleeping, but he still seemed unreal. He seemed too "at peace". Brent had been by his side for all those hours Harun had spent there, sobbing pathetically, or saying his last goodbyes to a corpse that probably couldn't hear them.

When he attended the funeral. Half of the speeches came from political allies and enemies of Harun; everyone from former Presidents to lowly congressional aides had attended the funeral of one of Congress's loudest voices. Harun didn't really appreciate their presence. Sure, he understood why they felt an obligation to attend, but they brought the irritating swarm of nosy journalists (including one who interrupted a reunion with a distant cousin to ask if he was considering running for his father's seat, only to be told to "fuck off") and to an extent politicised the event (he was sick of hearing "while I disagreed with Harun Kemal Sr. on many issues, he was a great man".) But while that was the "worst" bit, the hardest bit was when he had to go up to the podium. It was painful, going up there to read a speech, listening to other friends and relatives give their speeches or recite a poem. Brent had been by his side through all of that.

When he went to the burial. Luckily, most of the politicians had decided that they'd already satisfied their recommended daily requirement of cheap photo ops, and only the ones who were actually close to Harun's family attended the burial; most of the political "giants" decided to return home, taking their media followers with them. Their absence made the funeral feel warmer and more family-focused, but that still didn't make it any easier. The "thump" the casket made when it was lowered into the ground, in a plot right next to where Harun's mom was buried, was the straw that broke the camel's back, and Harun just burst into tears. It felt unreal. Not only was he losing a father, a friend and mentor, but it felt like he was, once again, losing his mother at the same time too. After her death, the senior Harun had "inherited" several of her characteristics, from placing blankets over sleeping grandchildren to religiously watching the same soaps. Now that was gone too. He was losing his father, but also all last traces of his mother. He cried. And seeing a grave with his name on it, even though the grave was not his own, was sobering. He cried even more. And once again, Brent was there for him.

This time was no different.

"Hey Harun. You did well...with the speech." A hug, a kiss on the forehead. "I know this has been difficult, but...well, he'd want you to be strong, and you have." A pat on the back.

"I know, I know, just....urgh. No warning. No warning whatsoever. And yes, it's about all that political shit, well, that's what everyone's said, but, maybe if we'd just seen him more or checked on him more often, we might have...prevented it or talked him out of i..."

Harun sighed. They'd talked about this before. No need to speculate about the what-ifs. No need to ponder if it might have been easier if it was a car accident, if it might have been easier if it was a long-drawn out disease, if it was a stroke; as Brent said...

"It's never easy", Brent muttered. "Now, let's go inside. It's freezing out here."

He guided Harun back inside into the house.





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Gratitude.

That was the final thought that passed through the mind of Representative Harun Kemal Sr. as he pulled the trigger.

Not just gratitude for everyone involved in the rescue mission that saved his life.

Gratitude for Samantha Baldacci; his wife of 33 years.

Gratitude for his children Harun, Leila and Ibrahim.

Gratitude for Brent, Joshua and Angela; for being such wonderfully spouses to his children.

Harun Kemal had gratitude for a lot of things and a lot of people, but in the split-second between the trigger being pulled and the bullet hitting his pain, he had no way of showing he felt such gratitude.

But that didn't matter. Never did. Never would. As Harun laid a rose on each of his parents' graves, he knew that was the only thing going through his father's mind in the last second of his life on Earth. He didn't need proof; he knew.

The younger Harun Kemal was grateful too. Grateful that his father, unlike so many of his innocent classmates, had been given a chance, no, a responsibility, to leave a legacy.

And as Harun turned around to his son, strapped in the stroller, distracted with a picture book, and his daughter, talking with Brent in the distance, he knew his father had left one hell of a legacy.