Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

I hated when Patrick ruined things, but that night was different. He wasn’t the one who cheated or got an award because his dad was in charge. But he was still the one ostracized from the group. I felt sorry for him.

  Even though he was right, no one would listen to him.

  Especially me.

  Will I pass out if these pants cut off enough of my circulation? If I pass out today, there’s no way they could force me to do the speech.

  All right, that’s my plan. Hope for a small medical emergency and then I won’t have to give the —

  “Jimmy James,” someone calls out. A wave of relief wipes across my face. I know the voice, and for the first time since the wake started, it’s a voice I’m glad to hear.

  “Chang Gang,” I respond before even turning around. Every figure in the room goes dark as I see the light of a familiar face. “Hey! Wow . . . thanks for coming.”

  Victor Chang. He and I used to be pretty tight. In fourth grade, the two of us got into making our own comics. We even had a multi-issue series called Cuddles, the Killer Gerbil. They were always just inappropriate enough that we had to keep them hidden from Mrs. Horowitz. He had the art skills; I was the storyteller. We were a good team.

  I hadn’t hung out with him much since grade school, though. Partly because that’s what happens in junior high, partly because of Patrick. Mostly because of Patrick. We were still friends, but what I call school friends.

  “Yeah, the parental units said we should.” His thumb hitchhikes toward his parents, talking to Dad. “So here we are,” he says with one eyebrow up.

  Victor is a good guy: a better artist than anyone in school but he’d never flaunt it. His parents are tough on him, and it makes me appreciate that mine aren’t so bad. Even with perfect grades, he was always with some kind of tutor and usually had Chinese school on Saturdays. I think all that pushing is what made him have a bit of an edge. Maybe that’s why we clicked.

  “So this is . . . weird.” Most people can’t pull off calling something weird without sounding a little off themselves. Victor can.

  “Yeah, been a weird day.” I’m so glad he’s here.

  “So what do you do? Just stand around and talk to people?”

  “Pretty much. A lot of small talk and ‘I’m sorry’s.’”

  His cocked eyebrow returns to starting position.

  “And you’re here all day? Man, that sucks.”

  “Yup. Tell me about it. At least I get out of school for a couple of days.”

  “This actually got me out of my cello lesson, so I’m not complaining.” His neck cranes to look past my shoulder. I know what he sees before he even asks.

  “Is that him?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s really him?”

  “Yup. Want a closer look?”

  “Um.” Wrinkles form around his eyes as my question takes any lightheartedness out of his voice. “No. I’m good.” His gaze continues past me to the open casket. “That’s crazy. Wow. That’s really him.”

  “I know. It’s funny to watch people when they see him. Some go right up and kneel down in front of his face; others won’t leave the entrance once they see the body.”

  “It’s creepy, man. I mean, I don’t mean that disrespectfully. It’s just —”

  “It’s fine.” I hold one hand up. “It is creepy.”

  “It’s so crazy . . . what happened.” Victor is scanning the room, looking for something to focus on besides the body.

  “Yeah, I still can’t believe it.”

  “Was it really an hour before they found him?”

  “I guess so.” Why is my heart beating faster? It’s just Victor.

  “Was he even on a team?”

  “Not yet.” And why am I breathing funny? “His parents thought he should learn to skate a bit, then maybe join a team.”

  He glances to the side. It’s the same look he gets when he’s not sure how to draw something.

  “I thought, you know, team stuff wasn’t a good fit for him.” Victor doesn’t miss much.

  “It wasn’t. But my uncle thought a sport that encourages checking your opponent into a wall might be a good place for him.” Pretty sure I’m sweating now. And blinking more than I need to. “Guess we’ll never know.”

  The details of Patrick’s death are something almost every guest has skirted around. As Victor is bringing it up, I realize that I’m no different and wonder if my anxiety thinks that, too. I think he picks up that it isn’t the best topic.

  “So after tomorrow morning, you’re done, right? Just sit through the funeral?”

  “Not exactly. I have to give a speech.” Hearing the words only makes my stomach twist more.

  “You have to give a . . . ?” His eyes scan for the word.

  “A eulogy. Yup. That’s exactly what I have to do.”

  “Sucks to be you. What are you supposed to say?”

  “No idea. I’m supposed to tell a nice story about Patrick.”

  His eyes open slightly wider. “Well, good luck with that. Oh, hold on. My mom’s flagging me. I’ll be right back.” With one hand waving slightly toward us, Mrs. Chang is signaling him to join her. She’s nice enough but always intimidates me. I’m going to hang back and slow down my pulse and try to collect myself where the crowd isn’t as dense.

  Victor’s feet never rest when he reaches his mom. He turns sharply back around to find me again.

  “Hey, my mom wants you to come say hi.”

  Mrs. Chang was like that: very nice, very assertive.

  “She does? Uh . . .” I really don’t want to dive back into the sea of people.

  “You’re the reason we came, so, yeah, she wants to say hi.”

  “I am?” The thought of someone being here today for me never entered my mind. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  Victor and I make our way through the masses again, which have already increased in a short time. A large group arrives, dividing the room, preventing me from seeing Mrs. Chang.

  They walk through the entrance in a formation — has to be a dozen of them, all looking around the room. The way their eyes move through the guests, it doesn’t look like they see who it is they’re looking for.

  Ranging in age, the group is a mix of fancy suits and casual sweatshirts. The last one, a particularly older man in tattered sweatpants and a maroon sweater, looks like one of those old guys who spend their days wandering public libraries.

  The elderly woman leading them can’t be ninety pounds soaking wet, but she moves fast and carries herself like a lumberjack. She looks at the growing line of guests for a second, then makes her way to the center of the room. The group follows, pauses, and continues scanning the faces.

  They’re not family — I would have recognized them. Friends of my aunt’s? Can’t be — Aunt Rose’s friends are my mom’s friends. Maybe Uncle Mike’s coworkers? Whoever they are, they don’t seem at all interested in waiting in the guest line.

  Mom walks from the back entryway to greet them.

  “Hello, I’m Lily Fitzgerald,” she announces while approaching the front of the group.

  No response. Not one of them moves. The scanning continues. Who are they looking for? Mom stops where she is, waiting for them to acknowledge her. Nothing.

  Victor and I remain still and glance at each other as the caravan holds firm. His eyebrow is back up, a giveaway that he’s as interested as I am to see where this goes.

  Mom circles to the front, cutting them off from moving forward. I wonder if she’s worried they’re at the wrong wake and doesn’t want another Betsy incident. This time she’s in front of the leader, her hand outstretched to introduce herself. They can’t ignore her now.

  “Hello, I’m Lily Fitzgerald,” she announces again, with a bit less friendliness.

  The leader looks Mom in the eye while her index finger moves up, touching her own ear. She extends her other hand to meet Mom’s. The handshake lasts only a second, as the woman pulls her hand back and above her head, waving feverish
ly at someone.

  A tiny hand responds.

  Standing alongside her parents is Sofia, her eyes big enough to reach her curly brown hair. The group’s collective shoulders subtly drop a notch.

  That’s it. The group must be from Sofia’s school. That’s why they didn’t respond to Mom the first time. They’re deaf.

  Mom turns to Sofia. Before she can ask a follow-up question, all of them shift their focus to my little cousin making her way toward twelve smiles that came for her.

  The leader sidesteps Mom, and the group follows. Sofia hurriedly finds her way to the lumberjack in a navy-blue pantsuit, who is bending down just enough to gather my cousin in her arms. Each member of the group waits their turn for a hug from a beaming nine-year-old girl. Sofia now commands her own line in the center of the room.

  Seeing how excited she is for each one of them is really something. I would never look like that if a group of my teachers walked in. All these adults holding her up with their smiles — no wonder she loves going to school.

  After everyone has their turn, the group breaks formation and huddles around Sofia with her wide eyes and unstoppable grin. The leader and Sofia connect with a flurry of words exchanged with hands and expressions, while the rest of the group absorbs Sofia into their mix until she can’t be seen at all.

  A few more words are exchanged, and one by one, the group peels away to reveal my cousin in the center. She points to my aunt and uncle by the casket. Guiding the leader, Sofia brings the group to her parents.

  The family who was next in line waits in their place. I’m not sure anyone is going to object to Sofia bringing her friends to the front after what everyone saw.

  Aunt Rose says hello first. The leader turns, giving my aunt her full attention while swiftly bringing a thumb to her chest, making a circle, then a series of other motions with both hands. I recognize “sorry” but don’t get anything else. I suddenly feel a little ashamed for not spending more time learning ASL for Sofia.

  Aunt Rose very promptly responds with her hand coming down from her chin. Thank you. I know that one, too.

  The leader signs to Aunt Rose again but is saying more. A lot more. Whatever she’s saying is well beyond my level of ASL, but her expression says enough. She looks very concerned, very sorry for them. Her chin tucks slightly down while her hands rest to wait for my aunt’s reply.

  Aunt Rose does a side-eye for a second, then signs “Thank you” again.

  The leader’s head is tilted to one side, her eyes still fixed on my aunt. They don’t look as empathetic now, more like teacher eyes. Each member of the group is locked in on my aunt. They’re seeing something the rest of us don’t yet.

  Sofia, still next to her teacher, is biting her lip. Whatever it is, she sees it, too.

  The leader takes a deep breath, readjusts her head, and the hands go to work again. A much shorter message is conveyed to my aunt and uncle, this time at a slower pace. She finishes signing and waits for a response.

  My aunt and uncle stand frozen.

  I look at the rest of the group, at Victor, and at the line of guests behind them. Without saying a word, the skinny elderly leader has commanded the attention of the entire room. All eyes are on my aunt and uncle, waiting for a response.

  Aunt Rose turns to my uncle for a translation, but his open jaw and blank stare say enough.

  She signs “Thank you” again, with quiet panic in her eyes. They match Sofia’s.

  The leader shifts back to Sofia and says something, at the faster pace, and ends with her index finger in a hook. I know that one, too. She just asked Sofia a question.

  Sofia’s hands don’t budge. She keeps her sight connected with the leader’s, but she is not answering whatever question the teacher just asked her.

  The leader purses her lips. I think she got her answer.

  My aunt and uncle’s lack of effort to master ASL with their daughter is brought to light as the stranger in navy blue glares at them as if they were misbehaving children in her class. They know some basics, enough to tell Sofia it’s time for church or to brush her teeth, but a detailed conversation is clearly not happening at the dinner table.

  Despite being much shorter, the leader looks down on both my aunt and uncle; anger is finding its way into her expression. Her breathing starts to pick up as her hands come up again. Even though I wouldn’t be able to understand her, I would not want to be on the receiving end of what she’s about to say.

  She starts in again, her hands not slowing down this time. No more than a few words are signed before she stops. Her hands freeze, as if something is keeping her arm from moving.

  Something is.

  Sofia has her hand on the leader’s sleeve.

  The anger in her eyes starts to dim as she looks down.

  My cousin looks to the entire group of twelve and her hands start again. As Sofia is speaking to her friends, I try my hardest to understand what she is telling them. I only catch the last word, the one where each hand makes an L and comes together.

  Brother.

  The leader exhales a large breath.

  The tight-knit group keeps their attention on the person they came for, each of them nodding once. Sofia moves between her friends and her brother, the way someone stands when they make an introduction. She leads them a few steps to the left, where Patrick’s picture rests next to the casket. The leader turns toward the picture and bows her head. The rest follow, bowing their heads in unison, praying louder than anyone in the room.

  Each of the twelve makes the sign of the cross at their own pace and waits for the others. They form a half circle, taking turns hugging Sofia to say good-bye. Her friends move toward the exit and follow their leader in navy blue out of the room.

  The last of the twelve is the old man wearing tattered sweatpants and a maroon sweater. He pauses for a moment and turns back toward Sofia. Her hand comes up to her chest, fingers outstretched while waving in a more subtle way than before. Her hand says good-bye, but her smile and grateful eyes say so much more to her friend. The old man in the maroon sweater smiles back, waves, and follows his group out the door.

  Sofia is like that. She has a way about her that brings out a person’s gentle side, even when they’re angry.

  She could do that with her brother.

  Usually.

  A few summers ago, it was the hottest I can remember. Victor was at our house for the afternoon, and Mom was almost ready to agree to him sleeping over. My parents love Victor. He’s that friend who whenever his name is mentioned, it’s always followed by “What a nice boy” or “Such nice manners for a ten-year-old.”

  She kept suggesting we play outside, but we found the calm of air-conditioning and video games too enticing. That changed when she told us company was coming.

  “Your aunt will be here in a few minutes. Are you sure you don’t want a Popsicle outside?”

  Oh, no. Just because you packaged bad news in a Popsicle doesn’t mean I didn’t hear it.

  “Is she coming alone?” I knew the answer, but I hoped.

  Mom was helping Aunt Rose choose paint colors for their bathroom. So that meant Victor and I had to entertain my cousins.

  “Patrick and Sofia will be here, too.” My face did not hide my feelings. Patrick loved coming over. I’m not sure if it was because of us, though. I think he liked any reason to not be in his own house.

  “Tell you what, why don’t you all take Victor to Gerald’s for a treat. How does that sound, Victor?”

  Smart move. Asking polite Victor if the plan is OK with him, knowing he’ll agree. Fine. A trip to Gerald’s wasn’t a bad compromise for the company we had to bring along.

  “That sounds great. Thank you so much,” Victor responded. He was abnormally polite with adults, and they loved him for it.

  Ten dollars was the usual bribe for me to run to Gerald’s Drugs for a treat with my cousins. Patrick liked it best when it was just the two of us, but he knew this was a package deal. Sofia usually came wi
th us, and for the price of ten dollars, we got to pick out whatever we wanted.

  Since Victor was joining the group, Mom upped it to twenty dollars. She expected us to take our time and didn’t hold back reminding me of it. Sometimes we would go to the creek and look for bullfrogs; other times we would walk to the park on Edison Street to see if the metal slides were too hot to touch.

  Once they arrived, Aunt Rose wasted no time scurrying us out. She wasn’t good at hiding it when her limit was reached with Patrick. So the group made its way to Gerald’s with the promise of sugar and freedom ahead.

  Walking to Gerald’s was routine to us. Patrick usually talked the whole trip while I pretended to listen as best I could. His rants usually began with an “If I only had a __________” statement and went in any direction from there. The blank was typically filled in with some fantasy item, like a pet shark or a Civil War cannon.

  Even though Victor was polite, that didn’t mean he was shy. He had no problem squelching Patrick’s ideas. Patrick started talking about the possibility of silver in the ground, and if he mined the right places, he would be rich. Victor informed him of the costs, dangers, and low success rate of mining. Patrick could spout back just enough information to keep the debate alive. The two of them were full of random facts and had a mutual respect for each other’s brains.

  They carried on while I just listened. Sofia was content to take her place two strides behind us. She looked as if she were on a tiny carriage with us as horses pulling her toward a destination.

  On a day like this we all knew the money would be spent on two things — ice cream and soda. We walked into the store and immediately made for the cooler. Gerald’s was one of the last locally owned stores in town. The servers made small talk with whomever they wanted, scooped ice cream without wearing hairnets, and, best of all, sold soda in glass bottles.

  Victor and I pulled out root beers, and Patrick grabbed his Dr Pepper. Sofia waited patiently at the ice-cream counter, peering into the frosted glass to scan the offerings. She knew there wasn’t a decision — it would be mint chocolate chip like every time. Still, she liked to make the other flavors think they had a chance.