Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  Greg extends his hand. He’s one of the few people here who shakes my hand. “This was very sad news. I hope your family is getting through this all right.”

  “Yes, I mean, it’s been a tough week.” That’s become my standard response for several of the short conversations I’ve had today. Most people follow that up with something about how they understand or they’ve been thinking of us. Greg and his dad just stare at me. Both with this practiced, polite smile, just staring.

  “So . . . how’ve you been?” I ask.

  What else am I supposed to say? It’s bad enough I have to come up with a speech, but now I have to come up with talking points. I need to get away from this.

  Greg responds first. “We have been well. It was a tough winter, but now we are doing well.”

  The confusion must show on my face because his dad steps in. “We lost Greg’s grandfather just after Thanksgiving. You probably remember when he was absent from school for a week. Greg took it fairly hard and it made the holiday season a bit rough.”

  Great. I can’t just walk away after hearing that.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, looking at Greg. I had no idea he was gone for a week of school. I don’t think anyone other than the teachers noticed. “What did he die from . . . of?” I’m not sure what else to say. I immediately regret asking this.

  “He had a heart attack,” Mr. Karlov responds with his hand patting his son’s shoulder. “But he lived a full life with no regrets. It was very sad, but not like this. Not like your cousin, taken all too soon.” His head shakes. “So tragic.” The head shake stops. “And I understand he was all alone when it happened?”

  “Uh . . .” Guess I deserve that question since I asked first. “Yeah, he was alone. It’s very sad.” I want far away from this uncomfortable conversation. Mr. Karlov seems right at home.

  “This is my first wake since then. It looks different when you are just attending and not hosting.” He looks around the room with genuine interest in being a guest at a wake.

  “I bet.” Back to more staring at me. I want to be somewhere else. “I have to speak at the funeral tomorrow.”

  I don’t know why I share that with Mr. Karlov. He keeps staring, so I keep talking. “I have no idea what to say. I’ve never heard a speech at a funeral.”

  The eyebrows on Mr. Karlov’s face go up. Not in a concerned or empathetic way — just interested, like he’s curious about a science experiment I’m attempting.

  “A eulogy. Yes, I spoke at my father’s funeral. Have you got something prepared?” he asks as if he were a fellow scientist wanting to compare notes.

  “No. I . . . I just found out this morning. I haven’t had time to think about what to say.” Mr. Karlov cocks his head but still keeps that stare. “Any advice?” I ask.

  It’s weird that I’ve somehow ended up talking to Greg Karlov and his dad more than any of my family in the room.

  “How does one summarize an entire life in a few words? A difficult task for anyone. When I spoke of my father, I spoke of our time spent together, when he taught me my hobby of furniture making. I spoke of all I learned from him and how it impacted my life.” He remains behind his son, his hands resting on Greg’s shoulders. They both stare at me, waiting for my response.

  Furniture making. OK. Never mind. This isn’t helping. At all.

  “That’s good advice. Thank you.” I can’t do this anymore. I need space. “It was nice to see you both.” I manage a halfhearted smile. “I’m just going to get something from the other room.” I turn toward the hallway and begin to take a step when Mr. Karlov speaks up.

  “Simply be honest. Tell everyone something you have learned from the deceased.”

  I stop for a second before continuing my escape. “Sure, thank you. Thank you for coming,” I respond while walking away. Looking back, I catch Greg holding up one hand to give me a robotic wave good-bye.

  Through the crowd and into the hall — that’s where I can escape. Some kids are making their way in from the hall with the bathrooms. Maybe I can hide there for a bit and figure out a story to tell for tomorrow. I know Mr. Karlov was trying to help, but I don’t think I’ve learned anything from my cousin.

  I almost make it out of the crowd when I hear her voice.

  We all do.

  “All right. Who’s here?” bellows from the entrance.

  Mom’s head turns first. She shows her teeth the way I do before getting a shot. Even with the noise of the crowd and kids running around, the voice rises above the entrance of the parlor. The words “Excuse me” come from Mom as she turns the rest of herself toward the person demanding attention.

  Mom takes assertive steps to greet her mother, Grandma Mutz.

  Mutz Lehmann isn’t someone who walks over to people to say hello. People come to her, and they do so with purpose. Every time we see Grandma Mutz, there’s an order to saying hello.

  Mom’s the first to greet her, followed by Dad or me, then whoever else happens to be closest. Family is always first, with friends and other acquaintances last. It’s her law. No one ever saw this in writing, yet it’s followed by everyone. Today is no different, as Grandma Mutz’s Kleinsher loafers are pointed toward my mother.

  As a newlywed in her twenties, Mutz worked a nine-hour shift six days a week at the Kleinsher Shoe Factory. For thirty-one years, she stitched leather on everything from men’s work boots to formal wedding heels. To hear her tell it, she hated every minute in that factory. She also hated anyone who didn’t despise their job as much as she did. When we went to Great-Uncle Bert’s for Easter last year, we took the long way around the factory just so she wouldn’t have to see it. Despite that hatred of Kleinsher Shoes, she wears nothing else. I’ve never understood that.

  Mom approaches and hugs her tightly, her fist clenched on Grandma Mutz’s back. It isn’t because she’s emotional; she’s hiding her nails. Grandma Mutz doesn’t tolerate unkempt nails. Mom gave up on doing her nails before seeing Mutz years ago. She had tried doing them herself, having friends do them, even went to a salon — didn’t matter. Mutz has an idea in her head of what a married woman’s nails should look like, and Mom has never gotten it right. Appearances are very important to Grandma Mutz.

  Mom takes a step back so I can say hello.

  “Hi, Grandma. Nice to see you,” I politely say while giving her a hug. As I break away, she puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down. I hate this part. I always feel so much smaller under her scrutiny.

  While awaiting her verdict, I overhear “Mutz” and “Look, Mutz is here” from behind me. For a surly woman, she does have a fan base. I think people like to say her name out loud. Everyone in my grandma’s generation seems to have a name that isn’t the one given to them at birth. Her real name is Ethel, and how that became Mutz is still a mystery to me. I often want to ask the story behind it, but something always tells me not to.

  “Very handsome, Jimmy.”

  That’s it? That’s not so bad. I’m used to hearing how badly I need a haircut or some other instruction on how to improve my appearan —

  “But you should wear a belt with a suit.”

  And there it is.

  “I know. I only have one and I couldn’t find it.” My belt would actually be pretty useful now. I could have the button undone and no one would know.

  “Never mind the belt. So glad you’re all right, Jimmy. To think you could have been out there with him when it happened. Can’t even stomach it.” She puts her hand on my hair, strokes it down once.

  “Um . . .” What do I say? I wasn’t with Patrick when it happened. Is she saying that’s good?

  “Hi, Mutz.”

  I step aside to let Dad in.

  “Art,” she says to Dad in a tone that could be either “Thanks for inviting me to Christmas dinner” or “I’m sorry your nephew is dead.” Dad musters up a hello and digs in for the opening ceremony of criticism.

  “Place is kind of small. You think it will hold everyone? When Shirle
y Bennington passed, they held services at McKenzie Brothers. Much bigger. And how’s tomorrow going to work with it being so cold out?”

  She’ll give Dad at least two more points of criticism. Now’s my chance to get away, undo the pants, and try to write something for tomorrow. I avoid eye contact and try to make a break for the guest book.

  No one is signing in. Is it stealing if I rip a page out of the back of the guest book? Is this like church, where it’s totally a sin? I don’t have a choice. This is my only option for paper.

  No one’s looking at me. Pretending to examine the book, I clear my throat abnormally loud as the blank page rips clear. I probably just drew more attention to myself than if I had stolen the entire book. I’d make a terrible criminal. I grab one of the extra pens and hurry to the bathroom.

  Finally, some quiet. The bathroom is all mine. I sit in the only stall, lock it, and soak in the ambiance of my tiny new home with no people.

  “OK. Patrick.”

  “Patrick was . . .”

  Nothing. I got nothing.

  “Patrick was . . .”

  Silence. Sucks.

  “Patrick was my cousin.” It’s at least something.

  What did Mr. Karlov say? Tell what I’ve learned? Or something like that — without the furniture making. Try to breathe. Just write what I’ve learned and be honest. Just put some words on the page and clean it up later. Just write.

  Draft 1 of Speech

  I learned early on that Patrick liked doing things outside. He was very energetic.

  No matter what, I always tried to spend time with him. It wasn’t always easy, since we had different interests, but we still found things to do together.

  We always had fun, whatever we did.

  The truth is he wasn’t just my cousin — he was also my friend.

  This is a horrific lie.

  I can’t do this.

  The paper easily crumples in my hand, and I stuff it into my pocket. The stall suddenly feels much smaller, making my breathing much bigger.

  I abandon my newfound escape and plow back into the crowd.

  Grandma Mutz is still talking to Dad, pointing out things she dislikes about the room. I don’t think Dad would miss these moments if given the choice. Probably one of the reasons we don’t see her very often.

  We usually see Grandma Mutz on all the major holidays, but the Fourth of July is the only get-together she’ll host. That’s her day to shine.

  Lots of people. Lots of food. Lots of explosions.

  If you’re invited to Grandma Mutz’s on the Fourth of July, you’re on her exclusive list of people she doesn’t hate.

  All of her neighbors come (I think they’re afraid to tell her no) and bring a side dish that’s always scoopable, in a bowl, and frequently involves some form of marshmallow. Very few of them have kids. Only people like Grandma Mutz live on her street. They’ve lived there for forty years, are bitter toward the world, and have every intention of dying in their home.

  We’ve never seen other kids there, just our parents and Grandma’s friends, who’ve always loved seeing the three grandkids, particularly Sofia. She can do no wrong there. Most adult parties are awful for me, but I’ve never minded this one. I could always eat as much as I wanted and my hands got to touch more fireworks each passing year.

  The driveway is always laid out like a Thanksgiving dinner, just not a fancy one. Three tables form an arc in front of the garage. On the left is the snack table full of chips, vegetables, and crackers. It’s an unspoken rule that something has to be dipped to earn property at the snack table. The dessert table is on the opposite side of the driveway: Mom’s cookies, Aunt Rose’s German chocolate cake, and Grandma Mutz’s rhubarb pie. No one likes her pie. Grandma Mutz sees an empty pie pan as a great compliment, and uneaten pie is hugely offensive. There is no middle ground, and everyone always takes a slice knowing this.

  The middle table remains empty until it’s time to eat. An impressive display of meat prepared by Uncle Mike appears, to complete the triad of food tables. He always takes a moment to admire it before telling everyone it’s ready. A sense of pride seems to register as he gazes upon the variety of pork links piled on a platter that requires two hands to carry. He has a tried-and-true method for grilling bratwurst. Turn them only once after finishing a beer. They’re ready to serve when the second beer is gone.

  The centerpiece of the driveway is a powder-blue wading pool with smiling red crabs on the side. It would be a great place for the kids to play, but there’s no room for lounging or splashing on the Fourth. You can’t see the bottom of the pool through the layers of Pabst Blue Ribbon, ice, and more PBR. Everything about Grandma Mutz’s party is excessive, down to the beer, and the red-white-and-blue cans are a staple of the event. None of the adults ever grab one without tossing at least three to anyone who raises their hand. That year, when I was nine, there were plenty of cans flying around.

  “Hey! There he is! Mr. Show!” Uncle Mike shouted while catching a PBR tossed in his general direction. He was skilled enough to do it without even looking. “Now the party can officially begin!”

  Woody. Everybody loves Woody. The bachelor of the street, who always brings something extra to a party.

  Woody was a pipe fitter with my grandpa for years. Even though my grandpa died a long time ago, Woody still checked in on Grandma Mutz. Anything that needs to be moved, fixed, or taken away, Woody has been there for her. This year, as usual, he walked up the driveway with a paper grocery bag in each arm. The bags were almost as big as he was. He looks like he’s my grandma’s age, but he’s half her size.

  All the neighbors sent up a little cheer for Woody’s arrival, as did the three of us. We knew what he had in those bags. Grandma actually walked over to greet him, which she didn’t even do for her own kids.

  “Didn’t know if you’d forgotten or blown your hand off.” This was “Hello. Nice to see you” for Grandma Mutz.

  “Oh, no. Tried a new place today. Was a bit farther past the state line, but they had Dragon’s Tears. I wanted those for the finale.”

  “Oh, Lord, Woody. You and Albert could never get fireworks without spending a day on it. Like when you drove to Cedarbrook, telling me it was the only place you could get whatever it was you were looking for, when you just wanted burgers from Manny’s.” Grandma Mutz cracked a smile, as she always did when speaking of her husband. “You two looked for trouble anywhere you could find it.”

  “Hey, wasn’t our fault we needed some burgers to wash down the beers!” he cheerfully responded. “Albert was the instigator; I was just the driver. You know that, Mutz.”

  “Likely story . . . as always.”

  Woody is one of the few people who could make her smile. This was also one of the rare times I heard about my grandpa. Mom never talks about him, even if I ask. As Woody and Grandma shared stories about her husband, Mom busied herself setting up a vegetable tray.

  Woody hadn’t even set the bags down before Patrick shoved his head into one like a horse with a feed bag. Woody didn’t seem to mind. Anyone excited about fireworks was fine by him.

  “Got something for you young fellers, too,” he said with a wink. Patrick’s head was still in the bag.

  “Patrick! Get back and let Woody get a beer before you bug him!” Uncle Mike knew what would happen and probably wanted to delay it. Patrick and fireworks was not a combination anyone imagined would lead to a happy ending. Patrick stepped away from the bag, never taking his eyes off it. This was too much for him. It was almost unfair to tell him he was about to play with fireworks but that he had to wait. You don’t put a steak in front of a lion and say, “Now, sit like a good boy.” Woody knew this.

  “It’s all right, Mikey,” Woody reassured him. “They can get a look.”

  No one calls my uncle “Mikey.” Woody is allowed to because he’s Woody.

  “I got something that’ll keep these boys busy for a while.”

  I was done with being polite, too. I was
right there with Patrick. I had to know what was in that bag. I did my best to contain my curiosity, but I found my eyes drawn to the packages of gunpowder and light displays.

  Woody looked at Sofia, who was in her usual place, standing quietly behind Patrick. “Over here, honey.” He motioned for her to stand in front of his chair, with the two bags at his feet. He pulled out a package that resembled a shrunken tissue box with a picture of a mushroom cloud on it. He opened the top and gently pulled out a white ball no bigger than her thumbnail.

  “Now, these are for you.” He spoke slowly and gestured his hands. Sofia grinned while studying the tiny object.

  “Just throw it on the ground. Throw it hard, and watch.” He mimicked the motion before handing it to Sofia. She cocked her hand back and hurled the small explosive to the ground to see it ignite into a spark. A few of the women jumped a bit in their seat, not expecting the pop when it hit the ground. Sofia smiled at the sparks she created. She signed “Thank you” and ran to Aunt Rose to show her the gift.

  “She sure is getting big, Mikey! Say, how’s the . . . ?” He tapped his ear without finishing the question.

  “Trying out a new hearing aid next month. Hopefully she’ll be good as new once that happens.” Uncle Mike and Aunt Rose were always more hopeful than realistic when dealing with Sofia’s hearing loss. They never put much effort into learning sign language, and a “hearing aid that should do the trick” was always coming soon.

  “Where’s mine?” Patrick yelled. He was used to Sofia being served first, but the wait was killing him. Woody sat in the lawn chair and reached into the bag again. He was our patriotic Santa Claus.

  “All right . . . got something for you gents, too.”

  Using both hands, he pulled out two cheap-looking aprons with the top part missing. One was blue, the other green. He held them up, paused, and looked at us with a serious face.

  “Now, boys, in each of these is one hundred of the Chief’s finest Tiger Tamers.” He put the aprons on his lap and pulled something out of the blue one. It looked like a tiny stick of dynamite.