The Rome of Fall

by Chad Alan Gibbs

  I smiled and said into the air, “That’s not terrifying at all, Mom. I’ll shave, geez.”

  Rita put her hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you go to bed now, try to get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long couple of days, but you don’t have to do anything. Your mama has had everything planned for months. All you’ll have to do is wear a suit and hug every neck in Rome.”

  “And shave,” I said, standing up to stretch.

  “Right, please don’t forget to shave,” Rita said.

  I went to my room and collapsed into bed but couldn’t sleep, so I took a shower instead then made myself a cup of coffee and sat on the front porch swing. It was a warm night by November standards, and I watched a car pass, tossing newspapers into the driveways of the few people who still subscribed. I wondered if I’d have to write my mother’s obituary or if she’d taken care of that too.

  The funeral home van arrived just as the sun rose, and the driver met me on the porch and began asking questions about my mother’s makeup and clothes, but Rita came to my rescue and took them inside to answer all their questions. Half an hour later, they took my mom away, and I called my dad. He told me he was sorry before he said hello—I usually called him on Saturdays, and he knew the Sunday morning phone call meant Mom was gone. We talked for ten minutes, and he got choked up telling me the story of the first time he saw Mom on the concourse at Auburn. Then he told me he was sorry he couldn’t make the funeral. I called Becca next, and she pulled up ten minutes later with a warm hug and breakfast from Krispy Kreme.

  In Mom’s kitchen, over donuts and coffee, Becca said, “You’re getting a break because it’s Sunday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, all the little old ladies have Sunday school this morning, then they’ll attend the service, and then they’ll go to lunch. I suspect no one will show up at your door with a casserole until three at the earliest.”

  “Wait, people are just going to come over uninvited?”

  “Yeah, but when you see the food, you won’t mind.”

  Becca was right to the minute. Norma Porter, mother of Methy Mark, arrived at three sharp, hugged me, and handed me plastic containers full of sweet potato casserole, sautéed green beans, something pink that tasted better than it looked, and an entire pumpkin pie. For the next three hours, a steady stream of blue-haired ladies shuffled through my door, leaving casseroles and pies and bread and jug upon jug of Milo’s sweet tea. I hugged necks and stacked the food in Mom’s fridge, and Becca, God bless her, did most of the talking for me. However, once when three mourners all arrived at once, a little old lady cornered me and said, “You know, Marcus, your mama is in a better place now.”

  “The morgue?”

  Again, Becca came to my rescue, saying I was thankful my mother was in heaven and no longer suffering, but I suspect not before the woman made a mental note to add me to the heathen section of the church’s prayer list.

  My mother’s visitation was Monday night at Rome First Baptist, and though she’d already planned everything, I still had to meet with the funeral home director that morning to go over the paperwork. Kitts & Sons Funeral Home and Crematory was in Riverton, close to the R&R Tire plant, and the director, whom I suspect was either Kitts or one of his sons, was a touch pushy. I sat across from his desk, and after I signed my name a few times, he said, “Now, Mr. Brinks, your mama only paid for basic funeral services tomorrow, but if you’d like to upgrade to one of our premier services, I’ve got a price sheet right here.” He slid a laminated sheet across the desk, and I stared at the letters and numbers without reading them before handing the sheet back and saying, “No, thank you. Rita said my mother planned this the way she wanted it, so I’d hate to change anything.”

  “Of course, Mr. Brinks,” the director said, “of course. I gotta ask though, ’cause it’s my job, but do you think your mama might have only bought the basic package because she hated to spend money on herself?”

  He slid the laminated sheet back across his desk, and I said, “Look, Rita Bell said my mother knew exactly what she wanted, and she threatened to haunt anyone who changed a single thing.”

  The director pulled his laminated sheet back and said, “Well, we don’t want that. But look, we do offer a la carte services. Have you considered having a bagpiper graveside or perhaps a bugler? No? Okay, well, do you think your mama would like the logo of her favorite college football team added to her coffin?”

  The great thing about grieving is you can call people money-grubbing assholes, and they don’t even get upset at you. The funeral home director just stood up, shook my hand, and said, “All right, basic package it is.”

  ~ ~ ~

  My job during that evening’s visitation was to stand next to my mother’s body and accept handshakes, hugs, and condolences from half of Rome. At my mother’s request, her logo-free casket was closed, because she didn’t want, in her words, “a bunch of blue-hairs from church standing over my dead body going on about how peaceful I look.” Rita told me Mom even threatened to turn into a zombie and bite everyone in the church if we left the casket open, something I relished relaying to the funeral home director.

  Becca stood by my side for the duration of the two-hour visitation, providing moral support and whispering people’s names before they hugged me. Every member of Sunday’s casserole crew came through the line, as did Marshall Ford, who tried to squeeze the life out of me with a bear hug then told me a weird story about how his dad wanted his head frozen like Walt Disney so they could bring him back to life with a robot body in the distant future. “I just keep it out back in the deep freeze,” Marshall said then slapped me on the back and added, “Sorry ’bout your mama, Brinks.”

  Silas came to pay his respects, as did Darryl Loder, Melvin the high school janitor, MeghanJennifer, who’d married twin brothers from Weepel and lived next door to each other, Brent Holdbrooks and Mandy Duke, now Mandy Holdbrooks, and even Deacon, who for some reason picked then to ask if I knew of a discreet veterinarian who’d take a look at Diana’s sore tooth.

  “Is Diana his dog?” Becca asked after he left.

  “His wolf,” I said, but I don’t think she believed me.

  Fletcher Morgan brought his mother, who told Fletcher she’d never heard of me when he mentioned I used to be in a band, and then some of my students came through the line.

  Karl, the small, thoughtful boy from my second-period class pulled me aside and asked, “Mr. Brinks, do you know that man?”

  “Yeah, Karl, that’s Fletcher Morgan,” I said.

  “Mr. Brinks, he keeps sending me snaps of naked women and invitations to a party at his house Thursday night called eXXXtravaganza.”

  I rubbed my temples and said, “Karl, he’s a very disturbed man, and he’s trying to get members of the football team in trouble before the big game Friday. Please tell the rest of the team so they’ll know not to go.”

  Karl said he would, and I was about to tell Becca what Fletcher was up to, when Jackson and Amy walked in. They arrived just before the doors closed, I suspect, to avoid the crowds who’d want to talk about the Middlesboro game. Jackson hugged me, said he was sorry, then talked to Becca while Amy quoted Leviticus and inquired about my mother’s eternal salvation. Just for fun, I told Amy I’d found a Koran in Mom’s nightstand.

  Mother’s funeral was at ten the next morning at Rome First Baptist, and Brother Shawn asked me to meet him in his office beforehand for a time of prayer. I didn’t want to go, but Becca said she’d go with me, and we waited on a couch in the church lobby until Brother Shawn entered with a knockout blonde. Becca and I stood, and Brother Shawn shook my hand and said, “Good to see you, Marcus, Becca. I hope you know your church family is here for you in these tough times.”

  We followed Brother Shawn into his office where he introduced the blonde as his wife, Tiffany. I shook her hand, and she asked, “What year did you graduate from Rome, Marcus?”

  “I was only here for fall semester in ’94,�
� I said.

  “Oh, okay,” she said. “I finished in ’92, but you might have known my little sister. Tabatha Thompson?”

  “Tabatha Thompson,” I repeated then said, “that name sounds familiar ... so you were ...”

  “Tiffany Thompson.”

  Holy shit. I looked at Becca who, in wide-eyed terror, told me to shut up with an almost imperceptible shake of her pretty head.

  “That ... doesn’t ring a bell,” I said through gritted teeth then, for the duration of Brother Shawn’s five-minute prayer, fought back laughter and the mental image of his wife wearing nothing but Mississippi State socks.

  “You should have warned me,” I whispered to Becca, still fighting back laughter as Mom’s service began.

  “I’d honestly forgotten,” she whispered back. “She’s been back in town so long people don’t really talk about it anymore.”

  My mother’s service was short and beautiful. The Rome First Baptist choir sang “Amazing Grace” and “Morning Has Broken" then Brother Shawn read Mom’s favorite psalm before, with tears in his eyes, he spoke briefly about the special role Beverly Brinks had played in the life of his church. And as the pianist played “Let It Be” and the pallbearers, men I didn’t even know, came forward to carry my mother to the cemetery behind the church, I understood how special this fellowship had been to my lonely mother through the years. At the graveside, in the cold November rain, Brother Shawn read, “I am the resurrection and the life ..." and then it was over. There were more handshakes and hugs, and we left the workmen to bury my mother in the red Alabama dirt on a hill overlooking Rome.

  Becca spent the rest of the day with me, and I was thankful, because our house had never felt emptier. Hospice had already removed the bed and equipment from my mother’s room, and there was more food in the kitchen than I could eat in a year. We fixed ourselves either an early dinner or a late lunch and ignored the food for half an hour until I stood to throw away our paper plates. And as I caught myself thinking I should ask Mom if we should store some of this food in her deep freezer, it finally hit me she was gone. A flood of questions I’d never get to ask her rushed through my mind—What was her favorite childhood toy? Who was her first kiss? Where did Dad take her on their first date? Hundreds of questions I’d never be able to ask her because she was gone, and her memories were gone with her.

  We spoke for the first time in ten years the day I turned twenty-eight. I’d thought, or hoped maybe, that I, like so much rock royalty before me, would die at twenty-seven. But when I woke up on my birthday alive and somewhat sober, I called my mom, and I’d called her every Sunday night for the last thirteen years. Over the years, we’d worked through some of our issues, ignored others, and usually talked about much of nothing for half an hour each week. Of course, I’d left things unsaid, unasked, but I always thought we’d have more time. Turns out, it was later than I thought.

  Maybe it’s always later than we think.

  “Oh god,” I said and caught myself on the counter because I felt dizzy, then I sat on the floor and cried for the first time since Mom died. I cried until there were no tears left to fall, while Becca sat next to me on the floor, holding my hand and telling me it would be okay.

  I needed out of the house, so we went for a walk late that afternoon, but it didn’t help much. I don’t know why, but I’m often overcome with anxiety in the fall. Maybe the distant drums of practicing marching bands call to mind an invading hoard, or perhaps I suffer from some undiagnosed seasonal affective disorder, but on chilly autumn afternoons, I’m often overcome with a low-level apprehension. A feeling like my friends are all somewhere without me, and now it’s too late for me to go. I felt the familiar pang of dread that day as we walked the darkening streets of Rome, listening to the Marching Legion practice across town.

  Becca squeezed my hand and said, “It was nice of your students to come today.”

  “It was,” I said, “though I suspect they just wanted to get out of class.”

  Becca smiled. “I’m sure they’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll see them tomorrow,” I said.

  “You’re going back to school tomorrow?”

  “It’s either that or sit in an empty house all day, and as you saw, I’m not handling that very well.”

  Becca started crying, and I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just ... I thought ... I was sure you’d leave, now that ...”

  I put my arm around her and said, “When I came back that was my plan, but ... but I’m happy, Becca.” We stopped, and I looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m happy for the first time since I was a kid, because of you. And I want to stay here, because of you.”

  “But we wouldn’t have to stay here,” Becca said. “We could go anywhere. We could run away.”

  “I’m through running away. Besides, your life is here; your parents are here.”

  “My parents wouldn’t even notice if I left.”

  She was sobbing now, and I squeezed her tight. “You deserve so much better than me, Marcus. Better than this town. You ...”

  I held her by both arms and said, “This is where I belong. It’s where I’ve always belonged.” She wouldn’t look at me, and for a moment, I feared I’d misread the last few months entirely. “But look,” I said, “I don’t want to pressure you. If you ... if we ... if this isn’t what I think it is ...”

  She wiped her eyes and hugged me for a long time, and when she finally pulled away, I said, “I love you,” and through her tears, she said she loved me too.

  We walked back to my mom’s house and sat on the porch, and I held her close against the evening chill. “I’ve always loved this old house of your mother’s,” she said after a while.

  “I haven’t always loved it,” I said, but it’s a sweet old house. “Needs some paint, and I’d like to redo the bathrooms, maybe update the kitchen one day. There are plumbing videos on YouTube. How hard can it be?” Becca laughed, and I said, “But I don’t think I’ll teach next year. I’m terrible at it.”

  “Marcus, that’s not true.”

  “Yet it is. It’s almost Christmas, and I still haven’t learned most of my students’ names.” She laughed again, and I said, “This may sound crazy, but I’m thinking of opening a recording studio in Riverton. With all the publicity we’ve gotten lately, Geffen wants to reissue our album, and that should make me enough to get things started. After that, there are plenty of local bands to keep it in business, and I could give guitar lessons to make a little extra on the side. I still have friends in the industry too. You know, we could have a music festival here in the summer. Hold it at the amphitheater on the Coosa River and people could bring blankets or even listen from their boats. I can think of a dozen bands right now who’d come if—”

  Becca looked at me and smiled, and I asked, “What?”

  “I just like seeing you excited,” she said and kissed my cheek, and we sat on the swing and dreamed until she said it was late and she needed some sleep before school in the morning.

  I sighed. “I’m not sure if I can sleep in this big empty house tonight.”

  Becca grabbed my hand and said, “Then why don’t you stay with me?”

  I never slept in my mother’s house again.

  “Hey, fellow Brutes, I tracked down Chris Hollingsworth, MB’s freshman roommate at UT. He’s a pharmacist in Odessa. Anyway, I called the CVS where he works and he told me MB didn’t date a girl named Fiona freshman year. Not only that, he said MB didn’t date anyone freshman year. I think this proves CryHAv0c97’s theory that a high school girlfriend inspired the Beige Album, not some girl MB dated in Austin. Thoughts?”

  —Message board post by 2theBr!nks on www.dearbrutusfans.net, November 30, 2013

  Chapter Twenty-Five (1994)

  I didn’t go to school on Friday, and my mother didn’t even bother to knock on my door and ask why. I slept till noon, ate three bowls of cereal for lunch, then laid back down to sleep the afternoon away, when Silas call
ed.

  “Dude, you’re alive! I thought your mom might have found another condom in her bedroom and justifiably murdered you.”

  I laughed for the first time in two days then asked why he wasn’t at school.

  “They let us out at noon,” he said, “because of the game. Gaul is three hours away, and the team has to get there early. Seriously, where’ve you been the last two days?”

  I told him everything. About Steve trying to pawn my guitar, and me kicking his ass in the yard, and how my parents split up because my mom cheated on my dad, and not the other way around.

  “Holy shit,” Silas said, “and you broke your hand on his face?”

  “I think,” I said. “I lost myself for a minute there, so it’s possible I kept punching the ground after he ran away.”

  “Well, that’s awesome, about Steve I mean, not about your folks. That sucks.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “How was the talent show?”

  “Lame. Chase Malone did magic tricks, Mandy Duke sang “Can You Feel the Love Tonight," four freshmen calling themselves Nuns N’ Moses performed a Christian version of “Paradise City” that literally made my ears bleed, and Maggie Duncan squirted milk out of her eye.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah, it was totally gross. She won in a landslide.”

  “I hate I missed that.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I asked what else I’d missed, and he said, “Not much. We had a special candlelit pep rally first thing this morning, but it was weird. I’m not sure if everyone was nervous or half-asleep, but it felt like a strangely peppy funeral. Oh, and you should see Jackson. He’s been walking around with an I’m-about-to-puke face for the last two days. He told me he had a dream where Jake Norton broke his leg in the first quarter, and when Coach P told him to go in, he couldn’t find his helmet, so he had to play without one.”

  “I could actually see that happening,” I said.

  “Yeah, no kidding. Let’s see ... what else ... oh, they asked about you today.”