Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  So this is it.

  This is how I go.

  Not in a fiery blaze of glory.

  Not risking all of my being for a cause both mighty and true.

  Not in any way that will be celebrated.

  Pants.

  These pants will be my undoing.

  No way the few threads keeping that button on will hold for the rest of the day. Or tomorrow. No chance. Maybe if I just don’t eat anything, they won’t be so tight.

  Painful red indentation lines have already formed under my muffin top. The pants are merging with my skin. I’m one deep breath away from losing them.

  It’s not like I ever asked for fancy dress pants. Mom bought me these for the spring dance in seventh grade, and they fit fine then. I know I’ve grown since last year, but maybe was in denial about my waist expanding with my height. These are the only black pants I own, and Mom said there wasn’t time to get me new ones before the wake. And they would have to do. And that was that.

  These pants may kill me.

  At least I’m already at a funeral home. That should save everyone some hassle.

  I need to get out of this car. Sitting only makes the pants more constrictive. We’re the only ones in the parking lot, so at least no one will see if my waistline causes a scene. I step out carefully to keep the button from popping. Standing helps some. My skin gets a moment of relief as I run my thumbs between my waist and its tormentor. We walk to the entrance, each of us in our shiny shoes, with seemingly extra-loud footsteps against the pavement. I wonder if everyone thinks that when they walk into a wake.

  The outside of the funeral home actually looks like . . . a home. A big white house with a parking lot. I know I’ve been by this place several times, but I never made the connection that it was a funeral home until now. It isn’t how I pictured a place with dead bodies should look. And the man opening the entrance door to greet us isn’t what I pictured, either.

  “Hi, folks! Come on in! I’m just heading out, but Marty’s on his way to join you.”

  He’s . . . excited? I didn’t expect this greeting, or the funeral director to be wearing a cherry-red baseball shirt with EMBALLMERS in gleaming white across his chest.

  “Big day today. Chamber of Commerce season opener this afternoon. Every year we are sooooo close to the championship but never seem to get out of the playoffs. Not this year. Things are clicking for us, and this will be our season.”

  I’m not sure what I expected walking through the doors into my first wake, but an easily excited softball-playing mortician is a bet I would have lost.

  “Uh,” Dad responds, trying to get his bearings on this guy, “good luck to you, then. Listen, I know we’re early, but we were wondering if we could just set up a few —”

  “Pictures! Sure! We can help with that. Shoot . . . I’m glad you said that. I was about to leave without my good camera. The wife promised to get pictures of the team. Should probably bring my coat, too — not exactly softball weather lately. Can you believe it’s March and we still have this cold? Crazy, right? Going to make for a long seven innings. At least it’s warmed up some since the weekend.”

  “So, we just need to get a few things set up,” Dad says a bit more assertively.

  “You know we’ve lost to the Sons of Pitches for the last three years? We’re going to take them down today, though,” he boasts, waiting for our approval.

  “Can we set up for our nephew’s wake now?” Mom interjects. She’s done with this man.

  “Oh, sure, sure. Let me just see where —” He places his hands on his hips while bobbing his shoulders around. “Marty should be here any second. . . .”

  I don’t know that this guy can focus on anything other than his upcoming softball season. May as well have fun with it.

  “So, what’s the strength of the EMBALLMERS? Pitching? Defense? A fierce lineup that can go yard?”

  The mortician stops searching for Marty and looks at me as if I’m the coach who just called him in to pinch hit for the win.

  “Oh, we’ve got it all! Our cleanup hitter absolutely killed it last season. He’s a machine. Our leadoff guy is Mr. Reliable, and our catcher can throw anyone out. It’s going to be such a great season.”

  He’s positively glowing. Any sense of empathy for a family about to bury a child has been replaced with sheer anticipation for his upcoming seven innings. How does this guy work with dead people? Or live people who are here to mourn dead people?

  “Wow,” I respond with a toothy grin. “You guys are going to have an awesome day. I, on the other hand, will be —”

  “Jimmy, we need to get set up.” Mom cuts me off before I can bait the EMBALLMERS any more. She knows I love toying with people who don’t get it.

  “Hey, there he is! Marty will take care of you folks. Wish me luck today!”

  “Good luck, sir!” I respond cheerfully. I envy this chipper grown man whose love of his sport outweighs reading his customers. He gets to play seven innings of softball; we get to attend the wake of a thirteen-year-old boy. “Knock ‘em dead!”

  Mom gives me the familiar glare to knock it off.

  “What? Can’t I wish him good luck? It’s an important day for the emBA —”

  “Jimmy.” Dad’s warning tone lets me know he’s done with my game, too.

  The other mortician hurriedly greets us. No softball uniform: his suit is a serious black that matches his hair.

  “Good morning. My condolences,” he says while extending his hand to Dad. Not sure how he combines a sunny phrase like “Good morning” with a somber “My condolences” and doesn’t sound weird, but he pulls it off. I guess when you do this for a living, you get good at that stuff.

  “I’m Martin. We spoke on the phone yesterday. However I can assist you, please let me know.” He looks younger than Dad and smiles with a mix of confidence and caring. I always pictured a funeral home employee like Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant or someone old with wavy hair and a lazy eye, not this guy. I didn’t expect Mr. Softball Superfan either, though.

  “Good morning,” Dad replies kindly. “We’re the boy’s aunt and uncle,” he adds while tilting his head at Mom. “My wife, Lily,” he says with his far hand on her shoulder to guide her toward the introduction. It reminds me of when we were taught how to lead our partner in the ballroom dancing unit of PE. Mom shakes his hand before it’s my turn. “And his cousin, Jimmy.”

  “Hello, Jimmy. So nice to meet you,” he expresses with concern while shaking my hand.

  “Mortician Marty . . . great to meet you.”

  For someone not at all athletic, Mom puts a stranglehold on my arm ninja-quick. Message received. Two words come through her lips that are meant for me alone, but everyone gets to be part of hearing: “Not. Now.”

  Dad quickly intervenes before I get the chance to respond. He focuses back on Marty before giving me another chance to test him. “Is it all right if we set these up before everyone arrives?”

  Mom put together two poster boards of pictures. She spent most of yesterday afternoon looking through our photos, letting out subtle bursts of profanity along the way. It isn’t hard to find pictures of my cousin, but those when he smiled? That’s a different story.

  “Of course, of course. Let me gather a couple of easels for your display, and we can set them up next to the guest book.” Marty opens his hand, gesturing toward a podium in the corner where a white book lies open with a silk
ribbon down the middle. I envy his calmness.

  We follow him through the entryway to a large, open room. It reminds me of an art gallery we saw on a field trip last year, only missing all the art. Patrick’s body is on display at the far end. The room is just dim enough that the light above him acts as a spotlight. I would have done the opposite, but it’s my first wake, so maybe the dead bodies are supposed to be showcased. I quickly look away once I realize it’s my cousin. And I’m not ready to see a dead body.

  Dad, carrying the poster boards, continues to follow the mortician to the corner. I’m following behind him, but Mom grabs my arm with the same firmness she uses when we walk through the glassware section of Elliot’s. I didn’t even say anything this time.

  “Jimmy?”

  Mom has her serious eyes on.

  “Tomorrow you get to do something for Aunt Rose and Uncle Mike.”

  I hate when I get to do things.

  “What? Be a pallbearer?” I halfway want Mom to be impressed that I know this term.

  “At the funeral tomorrow, you’re going to say a few words about your cousin.”

  My eyebrows creep down.

  “The priest asked for a family member to speak about him,” she says with authority. “And we all thought you would be best.” The you stands out, getting extra emphasis among the rest of the request.

  Images of a large audience, silence, and an oversized microphone flood my mind. I’m able to formulate one word.

  “What?”

  That’s all I get out. Too many other words, like public speaking, crowd, and speech are warring for room in my head.

  “It’s not a big deal. Just say a few nice things about your cousin is all.”

  “A speech?” My voice. It’s getting loud. “In front of everyone?” It’s doing that high-pitched thing I can’t control.

  Her voice softens when she detects the anxiety in my response. “Just think of it like the presentation you did in English. Your teacher said you did a great job on it. You’ll do fine on this, too.”

  My big presentation last week on The Iliad. . . . I did do fine on it. I actually think I gave one of the better speeches in my Honors English class. Even got bonus points for choosing a classic instead of a modern book. Still, just because I’m good at public speaking doesn’t mean I hate it any less. It terrifies me. I peed three times before second period that day. I didn’t tell Mom that part.

  “Why me? I mean, why not —?”

  “Obviously, his sister can’t do it, so that means you need to.”

  Well, yes, we all know Sofia can’t give a speech.

  “Why not Uncle Mike?” I won’t even ask about Aunt Rose. She couldn’t problem-solve her way out of a locked car without her twin or husband by her side.

  Mom steps toward the poster boards Dad is setting up. She tilts her head from one side to the other to see if his placement is straight. I haven’t seen the pictures she chose to display until now, and I’m not happy that one is of a six-year-old me crying at Thanksgiving. I don’t want that picture up, but that battle is small in comparison with the current one and not worth fighting.

  “It’s going to be hard enough for your aunt and uncle as it is. You can’t expect them to stand up in front of everyone and talk after what they’ve been through,” Mom says as if it were common knowledge. I still don’t get it. I’m not trying to be a jerk; I just don’t know why it has to be me.

  I respond using the kindest voice I can muster. “Why don’t you do it, then?”

  That isn’t well received. I have her full attention now as her face inches closer to mine. Marty politely exits. I bet he can tell this is getting awkward.

  “Your aunt asked if you would do this for your cousin, and you are going to do this for your cousin and that’s that,” she responds with her words firmly gripping me. She does her patented “turn before I can respond” move and focuses back on the pictures.

  And she wonders why the two of us don’t get along.

  “I know, but —”

  Her attention is back on me. Not sure that’s what I wanted.

  “But what?”

  I make a sound as if the word “I” had more syllables, but only the first one gets out and it just sounds like a weird breath.

  “Really? Now is the time you choose to not have something to say?”

  How do I respond to that?

  “I . . . I don’t —”

  “Your aunt needs us.” Her teeth grind together; only her lips are moving.

  I hate it when she does her “I am the law” thing. There’s no coming out ahead when it happens.

  “Aunt Rose can’t do it?” I’m reaching now; I know that. She would never put her sister in a bad spot.

  “And we are going to do everything we can for her,” she responds, ignoring my suggestion.

  She’s angry. Dad can tell. He steps in before it gets worse. He knows that Mom and me in a conflict can get explosive.

  “Jimmy, you don’t have to say a lot. Just a few nice things about your cousin.” Everyone has stopped calling Patrick by name and simply refers to him as your cousin. “Just think of a story about you guys playing when you were younger, something like that. Something simple.”

  Mom walks toward the entryway of the funeral home as Dad tries calming me. She’s done with me. I shouldn’t have asked if Aunt Rose could speak. Mom always gets so defensive about her twin. She acts like vulnerable Aunt Rose is standing beside her and I’m slinging insults that only she can deflect.

  “But why me?” I ask with all the sincerity I can find. None of this makes sense.

  “It’s the right thing to do.” He looks toward Mom while she puts another pen out for the guest book. His expression doesn’t exude confidence that the only possible solution is for me to be the speaker tomorrow.

  “But what do I say? I don’t even know what to make up.” The Trojan War wasn’t the most engaging topic to talk about for fifteen minutes to my Honors English class, but at least I didn’t have to invent anything.

  “You don’t have to make anything up. Just tell a story about you guys playing when you were little. Say something nice, or mention something you’ll miss about him . . . maybe a game you played together.” Dad’s selling comfort, but he knows I’m not buying it.

  “Like what?” My voice always cracks when I’m frustrated, and though it’s not there yet, I can hear that crack only an octave away. My anxiety over public speaking is fighting with my anxiety over what I’ll say. Either way, my anxiety wins.

  I try to speak with confidence: shoulders back, chin up.

  “I don’t want to give a speech tomorrow.” Fake confidence is better than no confidence, right?

  “It’s not a speech. You’re just telling a story about your cousin at church tomorrow.”

  “In front of everyone? That’s a speech.”

  There’s that octave.

  “I don’t know, Jimmy. Just . . . just don’t worry about it.”

  I hate hearing that phrase. People only say that when something isn’t their problem. Frustration is in his voice now, too.

  “Your aunt and uncle will be here any minute and they don’t need to hear this. You’re talking about your cousin tomorrow and it’ll be fine.” He clears his throat the way he does when he’s finished talking about something. I sense he’s as outvoted as I am. “Come on. We’re here to say good-bye.”

  I start breathing a little heavier. This happens when something overwhelms me. Mom and Dad don’t like that I self-diagnosed myself with anxiety, but they don’t know how it feels. It feels like . . . like public speaking in a room full of people staring at you.

  I don’t move. I stay in the corner of the large seashell-colored room and watch my parents walk to the front. They stop in front of my cousin.

  He’s so quiet. Patrick typically wasn’t quiet. That’s how I know he’s really dead.

  He doesn’t look like himself. I know it’s him, but he looks different. Almost as if someone mad
e a stunt double of Patrick for this. I keep my distance. The thought of a kid’s corpse is still unsettling to me. My parents kneel in front of the casket and bow their heads. Thankfully they leave me alone for the moment and don’t force me to get close.

  The speech.

  No way out of it now. I’m going to speak at the funeral tomorrow. I have to come up with something during the wake today.

  My first wake.

  I have no idea how they work or how people act at them.

  What am I supposed to say tomorrow? Dad said to just tell a funny story or talk about something we did when we were younger, but he doesn’t get it.

  There are no funny stories about Patrick.

  He always ruined everything.

  I hated the kid.

  Patrick was the kind of guy who would kick your dog. And not to see what the dog would do but what you would do. I’ve actually seen him kick a dog. Maybe I should tell that story.

  I want to ask Dad again, but seeing Patrick’s body lying motionless in front of my kneeling parents stops me. No one else is here in the funeral home yet. Just us, Patrick’s body, and deafening silence. I so want a natural disaster to strike, anything to change the reality of this moment.

  There’s no use trying to argue anymore. This speech is going to happen.

  What could I even say about Patrick? I always called him “When, Not If” in my head. It was always “When will Patrick Feeny ruin/break/hurt something? . . . Not if.” There has to be some story I can tell from the time when we were really little.

  My childhood memories of my cousin typically involve tears from someone other than Patrick. We didn’t play many games together as kids. He didn’t do well playing with others.

  OK, there has to be something I can remember. Playing as kids, fun stuff . . . When was a time I played a game with Patrick?

  I actually do remember one game from when we were pretty young.

  Near-death experiences are hard to forget.

  Junior Explorers. Not just the name of the class, but what the instructors called us each morning in the week-long nature exploration summer class for kids going into second grade. Mom read me the blurb from the park district catalog. All I heard was “animals” and “dangerous”— two words any seven-year-old boy would take for bait.