Near the sign-in book is a narrow table with the room’s only decoration: a pyramid of plastic fruit, painted gold, stacked in a matching bowl. At the top of the pyramid rests a perfectly shaped golden apple.
This is a bad omen. This is how the Trojan War started. The goddess Eris tossed a golden apple through Zeus’s gates and said it was “for the fairest.” Then the female gods started arguing, turning on one another. Things escalated quickly and didn’t stop until the Trojan War. All because of an apple.
Is that where I’m headed? Some big ugly mess because of a little thing like a speech? It already feels like everyone has turned on me.
“Hey, pal, you doing all right?”
Dad. I knew he would check on me.
“Fine.” He hates one-word responses, but I want him to know I’m mad.
“Look, don’t worry about this speech. It’s . . .” He lets out a breath as though it’s a lot of work to find the right word. “It’s just part of the service.” Guess he didn’t find that word.
“K.” Down to one letter.
“It’s just something you need to do. All right? I spoke at Grandpa’s funeral. I talked about how we went fishing. I didn’t want to talk in front of everyone, but I did it for Grandpa.”
“So I’m doing this for Patrick?” I’m breaking my one-word rule for this opportunity to corner him. He’s trying to make me feel better, but he knows just as well as me this isn’t fair.
“Well, yes”— he knows Patrick’s benefit is not a selling point with me — “but also for your aunt and uncle.”
“If you spoke at your father’s funeral, why don’t they speak at their son’s?” I’m pushing. I know it.
“Because it’s going to be hard enough for them tomorrow. It’s going to be hard on everyone. You were his best friend and —”
“Art?” Mom sticks her head out from the hall. “Could you come to the office? We need to sign some papers.”
I stop staring at the floor and look him in the eye. He knows I would never call my cousin a friend.
“Look, Jimmy. To him, you were his best friend. I know you don’t see that, but you were.” His shoulders turn toward the hall.
“Can you ask Mom if someone else can do it?” This won’t go anywhere, but I want to at least hear the truth. I want someone to admit that no one wants to do it.
“Art?” Mom’s voice commands again.
“Jimmy, please, we need you to do this. I can help you with it later.”
“K.” Back to one-letter responses.
Dad always takes the path of least resistance with Mom, especially when it comes to anything with her sister. I wish he stood up to her more. As he walks down the hall toward her voice, I am confident it won’t happen today. At least he tries to help. A for effort; not so much for results, though.
Just me and the quiet again.
All I can think about is this horrific speech that no one else will do. What am I going to talk about? My speech on The Iliad was different. I like talking about Greek mythology. I pick that topic every time we’re given a choice. Something about the all-powerful gods behaving like spoiled children has always appealed to me. But this isn’t the same as talking about a book. How long do I have to talk for? Will everyone notice I’m wearing the same suit?
Back to just me and the room — this intentionally plain room. If a furniture store and a dentist’s office had a baby, this would be it. Open enough to accommodate a fair number of people, but without rows and structure — and a sense of anxiousness in the air.
The quiet is pierced when the metal handle of the entrance door springs back into position. I’m surprised a place like this has such a loud door. A woman’s gruff voice cuts into the silence, followed by the clamor of the door closing itself.
“Good Lord, that’s heavy.”
She pauses at the entrance as if she’s waiting for someone to greet her. She looks to be my grandma’s age and about as pleasant. No clue who she is or whom she’s talking to.
I turn back to the walls. She’s Marty’s problem. Being social and polite isn’t in me right now.
All right, time to take advantage of the quiet. Patrick, let’s see, what to talk about . . . I could talk about the time we played hide-and-seek in the basement and he got stuck in —
“Well, this is certainly nicer than I expected,” she says, this time directly to me while hovering behind the couch. “No need to get startled — just need my coat hung up.” She lays her coat over the back of the couch, just enough in my personal space to make me uncomfortable.
Her feet remain planted behind the couch and her head swivels around. Even though Mom and Dad aren’t my favorite people right now, I desperately hope they’ll appear.
“I always get to these early. Best to beat the crowd. I can’t stand for very long, so I’ll pay my respects now.” She squints at the casket until her eyes disappear.
“Yeah . . . I — I guess that’s tough,” I stammer back. Her arm extends toward me, her hat in hand, as if to display it.
“Where does this go?”
“Typically on your head,” I respond without even thinking. She pauses long enough to look me up and down, then glares sternly, making no secret of her quiet judgment.
“I see. Wise aleck, huh?” she retorts with ice in her voice. I immediately regret saying anything.
“Uh . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I do that sometimes. I think your hat can —”
“Do what sometimes? Act like a jerk?”
I can’t move. She has me locked down. I can’t think of any way to respond to that. Who is this lady? I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. I don’t think I’m a —
“Well?”
“Um . . .” is all I can get out before she starts up again. Oh, how I wish someone else were in the room.
“Same for my coat. Too warm to wear it in here. Just need it hung up somewhere for now.”
I stand up, complacently getting her hat to hang it with her coat, a submissive act of kindness that will bother me later. I hate doing things just because I’m told to. I hang them on the rack that couldn’t have been six feet from her still-planted feet. I’m already thinking about the ten different things I should have said to this strange woman giving me orders.
“And who are you?” she asks, this time as if I just walked through the front door of her home.
“I’m Jimmy,” I respond politely. “I’m his cousin.” I figure that’s what you say at wakes: how you know the person who died.
“Betsy.”
That’s all I get. So apparently not. She clutches her purse with both hands in case I am about to steal it.
“My, you’re young. Didn’t know he had a cousin your age. Maybe you were a secret or something. These things bring out all kinds of skeletons.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Uh . . . I guess.” Please, let someone else show up.
“An awful shame nonetheless. Such a nice man and so young still.”
Still? Not sure why that word sounds funny, even coming from my socially awkward acquaintance. Betsy is the first person I’ve met at the wake. I’m already clueless how these things work, and so far she is my role model for etiquette.
“Yeah . . . he was very young.” I decide to just repeat the last thing she says until someone else comes.
“You greeting people at the door? You should be standing if that’s your job.”
“Um, no. I was just —”
“Then someone should be greeting people at the door.” That callous tone and quick delivery to tell others what they should be doing reminds me so much of my grandma, and in no way does that comfort me. She turns her attention back to the casket.
“I remember seeing him at Grace’s service last year. Looked healthy as a horse. Shame.”
Grace? Who was —?
“Still had that limp, but you could hardly tell unless he was —”
The door. The metal-on-metal clamor I previously found unnerving is a welcome s
ound. Someone else is here. I don’t care if I know them; any interruption from this woman would be better than being alone with her. My smile grows on its own when Uncle Mike steps through the entrance.
“Hi, Uncle Mike!” comes out of me excitedly. I’m so relieved to see him.
“Hey, Jimmy,” he replies with a forced quarter smile and tired eyes.
I’m an awful human being. I’m so happy to see him that I forgot why we’re here — to bury his son. I so badly want to go back in time ten seconds and not sound happy.
He holds the door for Aunt Rose. She takes a large breath when crossing the threshold while tightly clutching what looks like a photo album. Uncle Mike keeps the door open long enough for Sofia to walk in under his arm.
“Hi, Aunt Rose.” This time I got it right and didn’t smile.
“Hi, Jimmy. You look so handsome.” The tears are coming. I have a feeling there’s nothing I can say that won’t bring on tears. She’s a crier, but today is going to be especially bad. “All dressed up . . .”
She doesn’t finish that sentence and instead strokes my arm.
I turn my attention to my little cousin.
“Hi, Sofia,” I say, waving my hand, knowing her little arm will reply in the same manner. Sofia waves back with one hand while clinging to her stuffed walrus in the other. When we’d go to their house, I hardly ever saw Norman the Walrus. When they’d visit us, he was an extension of Sofia. Norman won’t be leaving her grasp today.
“Well, I’m going to pay my respects,” a voice interjects.
Betsy. Forgot about her.
As I was greeting my aunt and uncle before they say good-bye to their son, I forgot about this troll standing an arm’s length from me. She might be sensing a line is about to form and makes her way toward the casket. Until now she stood with us like she were part of the family.
Mom and Dad must have heard the voices and make their way from the hall. Not sure why they didn’t come when they heard Betsy’s voice. Mom walks in first with a hug for her sister. Dad follows, looking like he’s ready to move heavy furniture.
“You look so handsome, Jimmy,” Aunt Rose says again, staring at me for a few more seconds as if there’s something else she wants to say. “So handsome,” she repeats, this time more to herself than me. She stops crying long enough to get the words out. Then the tears come again. For her, seeing me in my suit only makes it worse for some reason. I have no idea how to respond and hope one of my parents will step in. Thankfully, Mom hugs her again.
“Thanks, Aunt Rose.” Should I say something else? I suddenly realize I never even told my aunt and uncle that I’m sorry about Patrick. I don’t want to now. It would feel awkward in front of my parents.
“Morning, Art,” Uncle Mike says to my dad as if it’s any other morning. I don’t know what I expected. Uncle Mike isn’t exactly a crier. My aunt does that enough for both of them.
“Hey, Mike,” Dad responds in a similar tone. The two of them always use as few words as possible. He crouches down to the side of my uncle where Sofia’s head is resting against her dad.
“And good morning to you, Sofia.” Dad gives his greeting in a louder voice while waving an exaggerated gesture of hello. Mom and Aunt Rose are still hugging, gaining strength from each other.
Then a voice.
A voice yelling.
Betsy.
Betsy is yelling.
Betsy is yelling at Patrick’s body.
“This isn’t Frank!”
Mom and Aunt Rose break their embrace and stare at the woman. We all do.
“Who is this?” Betsy exclaims with the same social tact I imagine is used for kids playing on her lawn.
Uncle Mike opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he won’t look at her. He stands frozen, at a loss for words. He breathes fast, deeply, and stares at the floor. He won’t even look in the direction of Betsy, who’s standing right in front of Patrick. I don’t know if he’s ready to see his son.
Betsy scans our family and homes in on the only person she knows.
“Jimmy, who is this?”
Why did she have to remember my name?
I try to speak but nothing comes out. Dad takes a step toward her to take control.
“That. That’s . . .” is all Dad clumsily gets out before she cuts him off again.
“Where is Frank? I came for Frank Riley’s services,” she tells the group like we got her deli order wrong. “Who is this?”
“H-h-he’s . . .” Dad stammers out.
Aunt Rose, Uncle Mike, Mom, and Dad . . . none of them wants to address her. They all stop short of saying “Patrick.”
“Well?”
“Pardon me, ma’am.” Marty’s calm voice breaks the room while he darts toward her. He moves with swiftness and is by her side instantly. “Mr. Riley’s services are in the parlor down the hall. If you’ll allow me to escort you to his area, I assure you the room will be yours to pay your respects in peace.”
He’s good, very good. It’s clear he’s been in this situation before.
“I wondered who this kid was,” she retorts while walking away with Marty. “You should have a greeter to tell people where to go. I asked Jimmy here, but he had nothing to say.”
Marty now has his arm around Betsy as they leave. I’ll bet to her, his response sounds sympathetic. To me it seems as though he’s moving her away as quickly as possible, without letting her even turn around. He’s a pro.
We stand for a moment until we’re certain she’s gone. Her voice carries but sounds more distant by the second.
“Rose, is that the scrapbook? Would you like me to put it by the pictures?” Dad pipes in, trying very hard to sound as if the last two minutes never happened.
Aunt Rose hands over the large book, her eyes still focused on her son.
“I just spoke to the director. He said we have some time with him before anyone else arrives.” He’s speaking mostly to my uncle. My aunt is sniffling while Mom caresses her hand. “If you like, we can go to the other room so you can have time alone with him.”
“No,” Aunt Rose replies firmly, still gripping my mother’s hand. “It’s important to have family here.”
Mom nods at her sister, then looks at me. “Jimmy, why don’t you set the scrapbook by the pictures and show Sofia the other room. There should be some cookies in there.”
I don’t know if Mom did this for my aunt’s benefit or mine, but relief floods over me. I knew all of us were meeting at the funeral home early to say good-bye to Patrick, but I wasn’t sure what that meant or how it worked. I absolutely knew I did not want to do it in front of people.
Sofia is looking at the poster board of pictures, focusing on one in the center. It’s a shot of my eighth birthday dinner, cut short because of Patrick. I don’t think my birthday being ruined is why the picture stands out to her. It’s what happened afterward, and how it changed her life.
I set the book down and hold out my hand for Sofia. She takes it with gratitude in her eyes. I step toward the hall when Dad puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“Just give us a few minutes, OK?” Maybe he senses how unsure I am about how to respond to all of this. I nod in acceptance and watch Mom walk my aunt down the center of the room toward Patrick’s body with Uncle Mike a step behind.
I smile at Sofia and nod toward the hall. I haven’t said anything to her yet, but I will when we have a cookie with Norman.
As we walk to the cookie room, Betsy’s voice carries into the hall telling Marty about Frank’s limp. I had no idea that funeral homes had more than one wake at the same time. I wonder how many others have accidentally mourned the wrong person. She was right about the funeral home, just not the wake.
She was also right about me.
I had nothing to say.
“How many in your party?” the hostess asked, her head half-cocked, a welcoming smile on her face. She looked to be in high school and loving her job.
“Three tonight, please,”
I responded with my chest slightly puffed out. All day I had rehearsed telling the hostess how many of us there were. I pictured it in my head and made sure I walked in first and spoke loudly. I turned to my parents, expecting them to be surprised. Their newly crowned eight-year-old taking control like this had to be impressive. I got a different response when Mom corrected me.
“No, seven.”
“What?” comes through my teeth as I exhale.
Seven. Four more than three. That meant my aunt, uncle, Sofia . . . and Patrick. This was not how I’d pictured it in my head.
“Who else is coming?”
I knew but wanted to make Mom say it.
“We always celebrate birthdays together — you know that. Aunt Rose wants to see you, and you know how much Patrick likes eating here,” she said in her “Everyone knows this” tone when clearly everyone didn’t know this. I think she held back on purpose. She knew I would have been mad.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” I tried not to sound whiny, but it was tough. This was like having — exactly like having — your birthday ruined.
The hostess’s bright-blue eyes shone with confusion. She still kept her smile. Dad chimed in, trying to smooth it over.
“Yes, seven tonight. And we have a birthday!”
“Ooooh,” she replied while bending at the knees to come down to my height. “You must be the birthday boy. I have a special surprise for you. Birthday boys get to have the Super Sundae Bowl after dinner.” I think she was more excited about the break in mood than my birthday.
OK, so this was pretty cool. The highlight of each Renaldo’s dinner is the dessert. Not the dessert table or selection of pastries, but the soft-serve ice-cream station with two flavors. Each flavor dispenser is controlled by an ivory lever that requires the strength of both hands to operate. You can do vanilla, chocolate, or get fancy and swirl both flavors into your bowl.
To the left of the station is your choice of a cone or bowl. Kids always pick cones. It’s common at Renaldo’s to see kids cautiously carrying their way-too-high stack of vanilla back to their table. Sometimes they make it; other times they fly too close to the sun and their ice cream splatters on the floor. I was eight now, and done with cones. A bowl would give me the ability to manipulate my pour for maximum ice cream.
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