Patrick always chose his selection by looks and not taste. If the Superman flavor was available (which had nothing to do with Superman), he picked it because it had blue in it. If it wasn’t, he went with strawberry. If you asked him what his favorite flavor was, he would tell you butter pecan without hesitation. I never saw him pick butter pecan. That was Patrick. You never knew what he was going to do.
We walked out of Gerald’s, working on our ice cream with drinks in hand. Our frozen treats began to lose shape as soon as we crossed the threshold back into the sun. Some days we walked to our next destination while enjoying our dessert, but today we decided to sit on the curb so we didn’t lose any of our ice cream to the pavement. We sat down, bearing the punishment of the heat, knowing that in three minutes our cones would be devoured anyway.
“Let’s go to the creek. I bet I can skip one over it today,” Patrick said with excitement. The creek isn’t big, but it feeds into a small retention pond. Once we learned how to skip rocks, it’s given us many lazy afternoons of entertainment. Patrick was determined to skip one clear across the pond and was getting close to that goal.
“It’s more about the rock you pick than how you throw it,” Victor replied, welcoming a friendly discussion.
While Patrick was going on about his perfected throwing style, Sofia plopped next to me, very focused on her mint chocolate chip. She always stayed close to us in public. She wasn’t fully aware of her surroundings and avoided interacting with people who didn’t realize she was deaf. If she ever walked away from us, it was for an animal.
About three car lengths away, I saw a chocolate Lab leashed to the parking sign, waiting patiently for its owner to return. I knew Sofia couldn’t resist.
My little cousin shares a bond with animals I’ve never seen in others. I like dogs, but with the exception of puppies, they scare me. Sofia could look a snarling Rottweiler in the eye with no fear and help the animal find inner peace. She’s a magnet for all kinds of creatures, but dogs especially love her.
Patrick was now talking about pelicans and how they’d be pretty easy to hunt, while I watched Sofia connect with the animal that easily outweighed her. It was an impressive exchange. The dog immediately recognized that a friend was approaching but didn’t get overly excited. Its ears moved back, as if it were preparing for a race. As Sofia got closer, the dog’s tail wagged harder in anticipation of meeting this kind face. She stood in front of the beast with her fingers extended for the dog to sniff. You could almost see imaginary hands shaking between them.
It was ninety degrees in the shade and even hotter on that sun-drenched curb. I knew that when Sofia met this animal, in its fur coat, she thought of nothing else but to share her ice cream to help it cool off. Most people would fear their hand would be taken by an eighty-pound dog when waving ice cream in its face, but Sofia knew her friend wouldn’t do that. The dog looked at Sofia as if to ask permission. It calmly turned its head, and in one bite the ice cream disappeared off the cone. When she talks to animals, they listen. It’s when Sofia shines brightest.
Behind me, simultaneous and aggressive voices shouted, “Hey!”
Patrick, Victor, and I turned to see two girls walking toward Sofia. “That’s our dog! She’s not supposed to have ice cream!”
I recognized them from school. The Striker sisters.
They were a year ahead of me and lived a few blocks away. Not sure they would recognize me, but I certainly knew them. No one ever called them by their names (Megan and Mary, I think). They were just known as the Strikers. They were pretty, well liked by boys, and always together.
A memory of them walking behind Curtis Frey, the biggest kid in my class, while waddling with their arms and cheeks expanded, popped into my head.
“That’s our dog! Who said you could give her ice cream?” The Strikers were on either side of Sofia now. She was still kneeling at the same level as her new friend.
“Who?” they demanded.
Sofia looked up at them, uncertainty in her face. The Strikers each took a step to complete their circle around Sofia and now stood between her and the dog. The connection was broken.
Sofia’s hands fluttered. One hand still held the cone, while the other attempted to sign. There was no chance they could understand signing, and she could only mimic something that looked like an apology.
I set the bottle of root beer down to stand up and help. Immediately, Patrick gripped my forearm. He stopped talking. He didn’t look at me, only at Sofia. She looked back at him, her eyes begging for help, with a newly formed tear.
He didn’t move, just stared at his sister.
He was talking to her. He was telling her to not be afraid and to deal with this herself.
Victor looked at me, waiting to follow my lead as I followed Patrick’s. I remembered overhearing my parents fighting once about our neighbors and the way Mr. Hendrix treated his wife. My mom just kept repeating, “You never get involved with someone else’s family.” Just like Grandma Mutz said: Never interfere. That rang in my head as I watched Patrick forcing Sofia to help herself out of this problem. I wouldn’t interfere.
“Didn’t you hear me? Answer me!”
Sofia didn’t whimper, but the tear streamed down one side of her face. She was trying to be strong.
“Who said you could feed our dog ice cream?”
Sofia looked at the ground and then back at the accusers. I saw her chin rise first, then the rest of her. The Strikers were still two heads taller. She looked between them, at Patrick. The Strikers still hadn’t put it together that we were with her.
Patrick let go of my arm, but his gaze was still locked on his sister. In the slightest of gestures, he nodded. Just once. Sofia took a breath, the kind that requires great effort. It was clear to me now that Patrick and Sofia had been in this situation before and had some kind of arrangement — one where Sofia wasn’t getting an equal vote.
I knew what was coming and my stomach hurt. Patrick wanted Sofia to talk. He wanted her to use what language ability she had to stand up for herself. I could understand his intentions, but I also trusted my aching gut that this would end badly.
She picked a Striker to look in the eye. The one on the left. Sofia exhaled the breath and released it with the words “I’m sorry.”
Since losing her hearing, Sofia speaks only when necessary and only around those she feels comfortable with (a total of five people). I don’t fully understand how being deaf affects someone’s speech. I just know what it’s like when she tries to talk. It sounds like she has a full glass of lemonade in her mouth and the sugar and lemon are at war. The words want to get through without being garbled but just can’t.
I’ve been around Sofia my whole life, before and since she went deaf. Even though she rarely uses her voice, when she does, I can understand what she’s saying. I can do it with patience and understanding. The Strikers had neither.
I can’t remember what the Strikers said in response to Sofia’s apology, but both turned on her at the same time with a flurry of insults. At her left and right she was blasted with a variety of phrases mocking her speech. Deaf or not, Sofia heard the attack loud and clear.
Patrick got up, as quiet as his sister. He didn’t run toward them. There was no need to hurry because what he had planned was going to happen no matter what. I stood up to follow, unsure of how Patrick was going to intervene but certain the results would be ugly.
The Strikers had been so caught up in the barrage of name-calling that they still hadn’t pieced together that Patrick was connected to this girl with slurred words. Even as he approached them, they continued to blast Sofia, who’d given up on the life lesson her brother was trying to teach her.
Patrick moved like he was on rails that ended at the twins. The Striker on the right was closest to the curb, closest to us. It was unlucky placement for her. She was the one to get hit.
It wasn’t that I never noticed Patrick still had his bottle of Dr Pepper in his hand; it’s that I never no
ticed he walked toward them carrying it like a Louisville Slugger. It was at his side the whole time, but the unopened narrow part was gripped in his palm, while the wide bottom hugged his shorts like an extension of his arm.
Without breaking stride, he took a mighty swing of his right arm and landed the bottle on the Striker girl’s jaw. She didn’t cry or fight back, just hit the pavement like — like she’d been hit in the face with a glass bottle. The other Striker sprinted away, leaving her sister and dog on their own. She hit flight mode and was gone.
My feet wouldn’t move at first. I didn’t know where to go. Sofia was sobbing, the dog was jumping in place, and the Striker was lying facedown on the sidewalk. I put one foot in front of the other and made it to the girl bleeding on the pavement. She rolled over, sobbing in pain.
Sofia tried to walk away, but Patrick grabbed her forearm, the same way he had mine earlier. He stared at her until she stopped crying and then let go.
He wasn’t finished with the Striker on the ground.
“You owe my sister an apology.” He wasn’t out of breath and didn’t raise his voice, just spoke as though he were collecting on a bet between friends.
The girl held her hand to her cheek, wincing with pain. Her cries were muffled, scattered. I realized it was more than just the pain.
Patrick had broken her jaw. She cried hard and begged me with her eyes to stop this. I guess she recognized me after all.
“Apologize. Now,” Patrick said again, still clutching the bottle.
I got it then. His goal wasn’t to hurt her. It was to make her speak when she physically couldn’t, just as she had done to Sofia. I had no idea if he was going to hit her again. I was certain that between the tears, pain, and shock, this girl wouldn’t be able to form words.
Patrick’s eyes never left the Striker girl’s face.
“You owe my sister an apol —”
Patrick paused, turned to his side. Sofia took his weaponized hand in hers. Without words, she told him enough was enough and led him away from the mess of a girl he’d created.
He didn’t get more than a few feet before one of the workers from Gerald’s came out with the other Striker. He grabbed Patrick by the back of the neck and dragged him inside, yelling something about the police and his parents.
I checked on Sofia while she wiped a tear away. We walked back to our spot on the curb before I remembered Victor. He just got a front-row seat to my family and hadn’t said a thing yet. He was still staring at where my cousin beat a girl in the face with a bottle. It took him a second to find words.
“What do we do?” he asked.
An hour earlier, I’d been in comfortable air-conditioning, playing with my friend and thinking he was going to sleep over. Now I was dripping with sweat between my crying cousin and a shell-shocked artist trying to figure out how to handle Patrick’s assault charges. That’s what happens when you add Patrick to a recipe. Things blow up.
“We’re leaving. We need to get Sofia home.” I didn’t know if this was the best thing to do, but I had to be the one to make a decision. And I didn’t want to be around if Patrick’s behavior escalated even more.
By the time we got back to the house, Aunt Rose had already gone to pick up her son and deal with the aftermath. Being a paramedic, Uncle Mike knew a lot of the police in town and had been able to get Patrick out of trouble more than once. I had no idea if this would be one of those times.
Victor never came over again. We still talked at school, but nothing outside of it. It was kind of awkward between us. I didn’t want to ever ask him about it. Partly because I didn’t have any answers for my cousin, partly because I didn’t want to hear my friend say he wouldn’t hang out with me because of Patrick. I didn’t blame him, though.
It was a few weeks before we saw Patrick again. Mom and Dad wouldn’t tell me all that happened. I heard them talking about it a few times but only caught phrases like “uncontrollable behavior,” and “his ups and downs aren’t normal.” Dad said something about Patrick needing help, the kind his parents couldn’t give him.
Mom reminded him, with anger, that it wasn’t our place to interfere.
All the guests are dressed in uniform: black suits for the men, black dresses for the women. I doubt anyone has pants two sizes too small, like me, though. Standing in groups of three or four, the visitors have conversations that vary from tears to laughter. They somehow look both sad and festive. I still have no idea how to act.
Everyone seems to have a different emotion. Some ladies in the corner from Mom’s cards club are laughing hysterically. Not politely chuckling, but shoulder-shaking laughter with their whole bodies. One of them is trying to get out what few words she can between laughs — sounds like a story about one of her kids making a mess. Maybe you’re supposed to laugh at wakes and be happy for what you have.
Across the room, there’s a lady looking over the pictures. She fixates briefly on each image, mumbling something to herself while nodding. I can’t tell what she’s saying, but she seems to remember every event. Her eyes are watery, her lower lip curled, and she’s gripping a tissue in one hand. She reminds me of how Sofia looks when she scrapes her knee. I have no idea who she is.
“What a moron, right?”
This is new.
“I’m sorry?” I respond, getting my bearings on exactly who this is. And who is a moron?
“To do this . . . cause all this commotion,” he continues.
Why don’t people here say hi before starting a conversation?
“And for what?” he adds, blowing out a breath of annoyance. And whiskey.
Wait, I got it now — it’s my dad’s cousin, Phil. I don’t know him well, but enough to know that my parents don’t like him. I’ve only met him once before this. It was at a wedding a few years ago. He was drunk before the reception started. Mom and Dad don’t see him often, but that’s what happens when your license gets taken away three times. I’m completely lost. What is he asking me? Who is the mor —?
“Look at his mother. Awful. To put her through this . . . just shameful.” He isn’t even looking at me. Even though he’s twelve inches from my face, I’m not one hundred percent sure he’s talking to me.
“Yeah, poor Aunt Rose.” What do I say? I debate walking away, but he starts getting louder.
“I mean . . . who does that? By himself? What did he think would happen?”
As if his volume isn’t enough, heads turning toward us let me know he’s getting louder.
“I mean . . . seriously? It’s cold out, but it’s freakin’ March. Some kind of idiot, right?”
“Um . . .” I can’t do this. I need an exit.
“Now everyone is here”— he pauses while scanning the room — “for him.” His tone is switching from loud to angry. “For being a moron.”
Is this guy for real? Is he seriously mad at the kid who died?
“I . . . I don’t really know what happened.” How do I get away from this man?
He wipes the corners of his mouth where spittle has formed.
“Where were you when it happened, anyway?”
“I . . . I wasn’t . . . uh . . .”
What am I supposed to say? I don’t know why I wasn’t with him!
“Not fair to his family. Not one bit.” The angry tone meets the loud volume. “Here they are! All sad for him.”
Should I just walk away? What if I do and he gets louder?
“And was he seriously out there wearing s —”
“Hey, Phil!”
Dad.
Thank God he heard his drunk cousin.
“How are you? You get to see Helen yet? She’s just over there and wants to say hi.” Dad puts his hand on Phil’s back to firmly guide him away from me. He must have taken notes when Marty took Betsy away. I don’t know who Helen is, and I don’t care. Cousin Phil and his whiskey-fueled words are someone else’s problem now.
I can’t keep guessing what people are thinking and how to respond to them.
I head toward the back, where it’s less crowded. I get a couple of breaths in, then it hits me — more color than I’ve seen all day. Only one person in our family would dress for a funeral as if it were a picnic.
The room is about to change.
A lavender hat bobs through the threshold of the parlor. I can’t see the face, but I know immediately who that hat belongs to.
She pauses at the entrance with my uncle Roy, soaking in what’s about to be her moment. We don’t see Dad’s sister often, but there’s no mistaking when Aunt Millie arrives.
It’s well known in the family that Aunt Millie loves wakes. She loves the crowds, the emotions, and, most of all, being the person who can always bring out the waterworks in anyone. I’ve heard Dad make fun of his sister for a lot of things, like being a hippie or out of touch with reality, but he takes true joy in ridiculing her passion for the deceased.
Aunt Millie looks forward to reading the obituaries, a ritual I witnessed myself during her last visit. She scans for a recognizable name, and if she doesn’t spot one, she puckers her lips inward and tilts her head slightly. It’s the same look Mom would give me when I struck out in Little League — a “Better luck next time” glance. When she was visiting us, Millie usually didn’t find a name she knew. But then came those bittersweet days when she did recognize a name, whether an old school friend or her hairdresser’s mother’s plumber, and she would scrunch up her eyes and let her lower lip protrude in a sad pout. That face didn’t last long, though. She soon made the mental checklist of what she needed to rearrange in her schedule to ensure she could be at that wake.
The sun doesn’t miss rising; Aunt Millie doesn’t miss wakes. If there was a job she could create and do better than anyone, this was it: Professional Mourner.
She usually gets under my skin. Nothing ever bothers her and she lives stress free, regardless of whatever disaster is happening nearby. She has her own little bubble and never leaves that happy place. But for some reason, I’m oddly comforted to see her today.
One big room packed with people, and no bride or second-grader getting First Communion to steal the spotlight — this is where Aunt Millie hangs her hat. In a sea of awkward faces and hand-wringing, she’s the one person who looks right at home.
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