Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer

by Michael C Bailey

  “Carrie? Who is it?” Mom asks, stepping out of the kitchen, where she and Ben are tending to the frozen pizzas that will stand in for a proper dinner. “Oh. Brian. Um. Hi.”

  “Hi, Christina,” Dad says. He lets me go and crosses the living room, ostensibly to hug Mom, but stops short when Ben appears behind her.

  “Who is it?” Ben says. “Hello,” he says to Dad.

  Mom fidgets. My God, she never told Dad she was dating someone? What the hell, Mom?

  My fingernails slip into the bruised grooves in my palms.

  “Ben, this is my ex-husband Brian. Brian, this is Ben,” she says. Ben, I can’t help but notice, doesn’t get a title, but Dad’s not an idiot. He can read between the lines.

  “Oh. Uh, hello, Ben,” Dad says, trading a handshake that is clearly uncomfortable on both sides.

  “Brian, good to meet you,” Ben says. “Sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “What are you doing here?” Mom says. “I’m sorry, that sounded —”

  “It’s okay,” Dad says. “I wanted to see how you and Carrie were doing, see if you needed anything. Uh, I thought Carrie might need to get out of the house for a little while,” he adds.

  Mom nods. “That might be good. We’ve both been cooped up since yesterday. Honey?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good,” I say without a lick of enthusiasm. Not that I’m not keen on the idea, but this has been an exhausting day. Bruce Springsteen could walk through the door, and I’d be like, Oh, hey, how about that. Neat.

  Dad and I head into town, the ride passing in silence, and we land at Junk Food. We settle into a booth and order a pu-pu platter, which I pick at listlessly because I’m not really hungry. Besides, everything I’ve eaten today has tasted like cardboard.

  “So,” Dad says. “That’s the new boyfriend.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Mm. How long’s that been going on?”

  “I don’t know. Since February. I think since February. Maybe January. I don’t know.”

  Dad nods. “He seems nice.”

  I shrug. “He’s okay.”

  Dad nods again. I make a mental note to feel outraged on Dad’s behalf at some later date. I know they have separate lives now; they don’t have to check in with each other about anything, but Mom should have said something to Dad. Something. Anything. He shouldn’t have found out about Ben like this.

  Dammit, Mom.

  Dad lays a hand over mine and squeezes. “How are you holding up, honey?”

  “All right,” I say, but God, am I getting sick of that question. I stick a fried shrimp in my mouth and chew it listlessly. Yum. Fried cardboard.

  Dad obviously wants to ask me something, or say something, but he’s holding back.

  “What?” I say.

  “Could you do something for me?”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember how your mother was after Grandma died?”

  I think back to two — no, almost three years ago now, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for. Everything is a jumble of images, most of them involving Mom crying a lot.

  “Yeah. I think so,” I say.

  “It’s going to be a lot rougher this time. Everything she felt when she lost her mother, she’s going to feel it ten times worse. She’s going to be angry, a lot, and often over nothing.” He sighs, and his mouth twists into something halfway between a scowl and a sneer, an expression that signals he’s about to say something he knows I won’t like. “You two have a tendency to butt heads. I’m asking you to try to keep a lid on your temper, because your mom, she won’t be able to. One of you needs to be the cool head and it has to be you. Please try to be understanding. That’s all I ask.”

  Oh, is that all? Well, sure, Dad, you’re not asking anything unreasonable, only that I let Mom throw a fit whenever the hell she wants and smile through it all, smile like it doesn’t bother me in the least.

  Like I’m doing right now.

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Mom knocks on my bedroom door. “Carrie?”

  “Yeah.”

  The door cracks open. Mom steps in. She’s wearing a simple jacket and skirt — in black, naturally — and a plain white blouse. I’m wearing the same thing and, like Mom, my hair is up in a loose knot at the base of my skull. Great. That all but guarantees some asshat is going to try to lighten the mood with a lame joke about us being twins. Why, Carrie, I didn’t know you had a sister, ha ha.

  “You look very nice,” Mom says.

  “Thanks. You too,” I say politely. I mean, it’s a memorial service; it’s not really the place for bold fashion choices.

  “Ready to go?”

  No.

  “Yes.”

  Mom gives me a weak smile and holds out her hand. She slides her arm around my shoulders and we head downstairs. Ben is waiting for us by the door. He plays chauffer, driving us into town. The radio stays off. None of us talk. The atmosphere is appropriately somber.

  We enter the funeral home, and I’m hit with a powerful wave of déjà vu: this is the same place where we held Grandma’s funeral service. Granddad’s casket is even in the exact same room, the Sunset Room (oh, what clever symbolism, guys. Bet you stayed up all night thinking that one up).

  Mom and I take our positions at the front of the room, near the head of the casket. When Grandma died, I remember playing the role of witness during the service. I sat in the front row next to Dad while Mom and Granddad handled receiving line duties. I remember thinking at the time how nice it was, seeing so many people there, listening to them tell Mom and Granddad how much Grandma was loved.

  It’s not nice. It’s hell.

  The first visitors, two of Granddad’s bowling buddies, wander in ten minutes after the official start of visiting hours. They introduce themselves to my mother, lean in for a friendly consoling hug and a kiss on the cheek, then repeat the process with me. I force myself not to turn away from the kisses, but it’s not easy. The first guy has Slim Jim on his breath. The other reeks of Old Spice. I give them both a fake smile and a thank-you that sounds completely sincere. You’d never know I really wanted to punch their teeth down their throats.

  As the evening progresses, the flow of visitors becomes steadier and my displays of false gratitude get easier and easier. I fall into a rhythm: introduction, handshake, hug, kiss, nod and smile as platitudes are offered, thank you very much, next customer, please. I’m so in the zone it takes me a few seconds to realize that Megan, Kilroy, and Farley Quentin are next in line.

  “Hi, Carrie,” Farley says, looking up at me with his big, soulful Frodo Baggins eyes.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, kneeling down. He throws his arms around my neck and squeezes tight, and my God, this is the first time all night I give a damn about anyone’s sympathy.

  “I’m sorry about your grandpop,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say, then I stand to get my hug from Meg.

  “Hey, girl,” she says. “Mom and Dad send their love. They’d have come themselves, but Dad didn’t want to be a distraction.”

  Yeah, a seven-foot-tall rock guy does tend to draw focus. “I understand,” I say, and accept a hug from Kilroy (who, to his credit, keeps it brief and chaste).

  “Carrie?” Mom says inquiringly.

  “Oh, yeah, right. Mom, this is Farley, the boy I babysit for sometimes, and his brother and sister, Kilroy and Meg.”

  “Mrs. Hauser,” Kilroy says with a small bow. “I hope you don’t mind that we came by.”

  Wow, that was positively gentlemanly. Didn’t know he had it in him.

  “No, of course not, thank you,” Mom says before her tone turns curious. “I’m sorry, you two look familiar somehow.”

  “We have those kinds of faces,” Meg says.

  “Devastatingly handsome faces,” Kilroy says to me. There we go, back on familiar territory. “Hey, we saw the others on our way in. I think they’re stuck at the back of t
he line, so we’re going to go keep them company.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say, and I return my attention to the parade of faceless mourners. I can’t say how long it takes for Matt, Sara, Stuart, and Missy to reach the head of the line, but their arrival marks a distinct shift toward the familiar. Until now, the vast majority of visitors invading my personal space were utterly unfamiliar to me. They were all Granddad’s friends or Mom’s friends from work, but now people I know are the rule rather than the exception. Mr. and Mrs. Steiger accompany Matt, and Dr. and Mrs. Hamill are with Missy. Stuart is sans parents but has buddied up with Malcolm. By coincidence, Dad is right behind my concentrated clump of friends, and behind him I catch sight of Jill from the Coffee Experience, who is chatting with Natalie and Catherine, who cross-chat with Mr. Crenshaw.

  It hits me now how one person’s life can overlap other lives in unexpected ways. I’d have never expected my grandfather to have common ground with the woman who whips up my mochaccinos or one of my friends or my boyfriend.

  Stuart reaches us first, and Mom, who’s managed to make it this far with dry eyes, starts to tear up. “Mrs. Hauser,” Stuart says.

  “Mrs. Hauser? What happened to calling me Christina?” Mom says with a small chuckle. She pulls Stuart into a long embrace.

  “Greg was a really cool guy,” he says.

  “Yeah. He was.”

  The line dwindles out after Dad finally gets to us, and people settle into their own little cliques to chat before the service proper. My group owns the hallway outside the Sunset Room. I bring Dad over for a round of long overdue introductions. Dad, meet my friends, my (not really a) math tutor, my (not really) youth service group coordinator, my barista, and last but not least...

  “Dad, this is my boyfriend Malcolm,” I say. “Malcolm, my father, Brian Hauser.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir,” Malcolm says, shaking Dad’s hand. “I’m sorry it’s not under happier circumstances.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” Dad says, and they start talking. They refer to me, nod and gesture at me, but they don’t actually say anything to me.

  No one is saying anything to me. All the conversation is happening around me, near me, about me, but none of it is directed at me. Once in a while I get a “How are you doing?” or “Are you okay?” or what’s supposed to be a reassuring hand on my shoulder, but they’re all empty, perfunctory gestures. I’m the hostess of a party no one wanted to come to.

  Reverend Daley announces the start of the service. Everyone flows into the Sunset Room. Seats fill up quickly. Standing room only. Mom sits in the front row, Ben on one side, me on the other. Dad sits next to me and completes the human chain of clasped hands.

  The reverend passes a smile over the assembly and begins the service, which he promises “will be brief because, as you all know, Greg Briggs was a modest and uncomplicated man who would no doubt take issue with me showering him at length with praise.”

  Soft laughter ripples through the crowd. Mom laughs with them for a second or two before the tears come, and they don’t stop throughout the rest of the homily — which, as promised, is quick and simple. The reverend is up there for three, four minutes, but it’s the longest three or four minutes of my life. He ends with an invitation to join the family for drinks at a nearby restaurant one of Granddad’s friends owns.

  The family.

  All two of us.

  The Quentins leave after the service, as do the Steiger and Hamill contingents, followed closely by Jill, Natalie, and Catherine. I have to practically shove Sara out the door. She wants to stay, for me, but I refuse to give her father any further reason to dump on her.

  Stuart catches a ride to the restaurant with Malcolm and me. The boys stick close to me the rest of the night, like they’re my bodyguards.

  Because it’s a private function, I’m allowed to sit at the bar to drink my soda. I tuck myself into a far corner, away from the main dining floor, away from people because I’ve hit my saturation point for sympathy. Every sad smile, every How are you doing?, every fond anecdote about my grandfather makes me want to scream, but I suck it up and smile back and say I’m fine and say thank you because I promised Dad I would, for Mom’s sake.

  Not that she looks all that upset. I glance over at the small round dining table where she’s set up shop, and she’s having a grand time. People come and go in steady rotation, briefly sitting down to chat, share a laugh, presumably about something amusing Granddad said or did that one time (Oh, remember that? Wasn’t that hysterical?), then move on, so the next well-wisher can offer up an entertaining story.

  Behind Mom, Dad and Ben lean against the wall and talk animatedly. They seem to be getting along just fine. How lovely.

  Hell, everyone here looks like they’re enjoying themselves. People talk, drink, snack, and joke like there’s nothing to be sad about, certainly not the unfortunate state of the late Gregory Briggs, present in neither body nor spirit. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I look up from my drink. There’s a man standing next to me, dressed in a black suit. I glance over at Stuart and Malcolm, who have become momentarily distracted by some private conversation. The man gives me the same melancholy smile I’ve received a million times over tonight.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he says, “but I wanted to let you know how sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and the effort of saying even that little is exhausting.

  “You’re strong,” he says, and for a moment he looks like he’s got something more to say to me, but he turns away and melts into the crush of mourners.

  My entire body goes rigid with a sudden rush of undiluted rage. My fists ball up so tightly I could crush rocks in them. My chest constricts and each breath becomes a Herculean effort and my head spins and I need to get out of here.

  “Carrie?” Malcolm says as I stumble off my barstool.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you need —?”

  “I’m fine. Going to the bathroom,” I lie.

  I head outside, away from people, away from sympathy, away from pity, away from I’m sorry and He was a good man and He’s in a better place now...

  The restaurant, a converted Colonial-era home, sits on a good-sized piece of property. It’s surrounded on three sides by lawn and shrubbery and trees, and there are park benches scattered around the periphery. I all but collapse onto one of the benches and let the cool night air settle onto my skin, hoping it’ll relax me. It doesn’t, so I sit there, my legs jittering with enough nervous energy to power Boston for a year.

  I close my eyes for a minute. When I open them, I see Stuart strolling across the parking lot toward me. He stops at the edge of the grass.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Stuart stands there, hands in his pockets, perhaps waiting for me to tell him to piss off, go away, leave me alone. I scootch over on the bench. He sits.

  For a long time, neither of us speaks.

  “You know what the worst part of this whole thing is?” I say, my voice strangled.

  “Feeling like you have no right to your own emotions,” Stuart says. “Your family’s a total mess and you think, okay, someone needs to be the whatchacallit, the level head, and you decide it’s going to be you, so you bottle everything up. It’s for a good reason so first you’re like, okay, no big whoop, I can deal — then all these other people start showing up, and they’re miserable too, so you keep the game face on, but you start wondering when it’s going to be your turn to feel sad. I mean, you’re broken up about it too, right?

  “Then you look around and all of a sudden people are acting like everything’s normal. They’re talking and laughing and goofing around and no one’s sad anymore, and you’re convinced you totally missed your chance to mourn — like there was a deadline and you completely blew it because you were too busy being strong for everyone else. Now you’re pissed off at everyone for cheating you like that. And the thing that finally pushes you
over the edge? No one even seems to notice. It’s like you made this huge emotional sacrifice and no one noticed because they were so wrapped up in themselves.”

  Stuart sighs and looks up. We’re close to the center of town. The glow of countless lights from nearby parking lots and homes and businesses peers over the treeline like a false dawn. We shouldn’t be able to see anything because of the light pollution, but tonight the stars are defiant. Every constellation is crisp and brilliant in the clear night sky.

  “I noticed,” Stuart says.

  Of course he did. If anyone would, it would be Stuart.

  Something in me cracks. I try to speak but all I manage is a coughing sob, and then my bottle shatters. Stuart drapes an arm over my shoulders. I slump into his chest, and everything I’ve been holding back comes gushing out of me.

  My grandfather is dead.

  SEVEN

  My alarm sounds and, instead of following my normal snooze button abuse ritual, I turn it off and roll right out of bed. I head to the bathroom for my morning preparations, and less than a half-hour later, I’m dressed and ready for my triumphant return to Kingsport High.

  Ever since my epic crying jag two nights ago, I’ve felt, for lack of a better word, lighter. I bawled my eyes out for God knows how long, and in doing so completely purged every last iota of pent-up stress. It was an exhausting experience, literally; after I was done befouling Stuart’s suit jacket with tears and snot, I crawled into the back of Ben’s car, curled up on the seat, and promptly fell asleep. I have a vague recollection of Mom shaking me awake once we got home, but my next clear memory is of waking up in my bed in the morning, still dressed. I hadn’t even bothered to take off my shoes.

  Yesterday was the funeral, which was a short and simple graveside service for a select few: me, Mom, Dad, Ben, Reverend Daley, and that was it. A lot of people asked if they could attend. Mom insisted that the burial remain private, for close family only (well, family and Ben). There was no crying, but not in a bad way. I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me there was a sense of relief; it was over, and I could begin healing and moving on. I know that sounds awful, but it isn’t. I promise. Closure is a good thing.