Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  “I’m sure it’s great, Millie, but Christ, we didn’t need to see it get shot in the face before Roy slit its throat,” Uncle Mike said, cutting her off and forgetting I was behind him.

  And Patrick behind me.

  “We thought lamb would be a nice treat for Easter Sunday dinner. I know it’s not the same as picking something up at the store, but wh —?”

  Patrick bolted at “lamb.”

  We all turned as he darted behind the building where the shot came from. Uncle Mike followed as best he could. We all knew he couldn’t catch Patrick. That switch inside my cousin had been flipped.

  Aunt Rose let out a sigh that indicated what all of us were thinking. Sofia’s face channeled our concern as she watched her father sprint after her brother.

  A few seconds later, Uncle Mike came from behind the building with my cousin in his arms. His limbs were flailing and he struggled to break his father’s grip while he screamed, “It’s not fair! Slipper was part of the safari!”

  Uncle Mike had almost made it to the porch before Patrick found a way to squirm out of his hands. Red-faced and breathing heavily, Patrick plowed through us and raced upstairs, where we heard a door slam.

  Aunt Rose stood in the doorway before any of us could follow Patrick into the house. “I’ll deal with it.” She looked at her husband, who blew out a harsh breath and nodded. The seesaw was on its way down. They’d been here before.

  We all waited on the porch, but we could hear everything. My cousin’s words echoing through the farm could not be contained. Layered between Aunt Rose’s “Come out from there” and “It’s all right” came Patrick’s fury-laced shouting we’d all heard before.

  “Why did they kill it?”

  Something was thrown against the wall. A book?

  “Why did they name it and then kill it?”

  Something was knocked over.

  “Why did they name something they were going to kill?”

  Something was punched.

  “The other sheep are going to die!”

  A lightbulb burst. He’d knocked over the lamp.

  “Why do they eat animals they take care of?”

  Something different hit the wall.

  “How many animals have been killed?”

  Stomping feet.

  “Why are all the animals going to die?”

  Quiet. He must be under the bed again.

  This went on for another twenty minutes until Uncle Mike went inside. He didn’t go in to help, but to pack their things and load up the car. Mom and Dad stayed outside. Dad took a step toward the door, but Mom held his arm. He didn’t say a word; he knew. She didn’t want him to interfere. I pictured an imaginary Grandma Mutz standing over her, reminding her of the family rule.

  Uncle Roy came back to the house a few minutes later and did his best to explain how good the fresh lamb would be, insisting that if they left, they’d be missing out.

  That’s the way Roy and Millie operated. They lived in their own happy place and chose to not acknowledge anything bad around them. Whether it was a slaughtered lamb or a screaming eleven-year-old boy who wouldn’t come out from under a bed, they just forged ahead. I was piecing together why we didn’t see them very much.

  Aunt Rose eventually came downstairs with heavy eyes. Patrick was out from under the bed but still not leaving the room. I knew my aunt and uncle just wanted to leave, but they were worried about Patrick having another episode. About an hour later, he did come downstairs, led by his mom. They didn’t say good-bye or even stop walking until he was in the car. Uncle Mike already had the engine running and Sofia buckled in the back.

  My parents followed their lead and insisted we leave as well. There was no point in pretending to enjoy Easter now. I could tell everyone wanted to go back home. Roy had already called some friends over “so the lamb wouldn’t go to waste,” and Mom and Dad said we needed to beat the traffic. We thanked them for letting us stay the night and climbed into the car. We were about to leave when Aunt Millie stopped us.

  “I almost forgot! You won! You’re the last one here, Jimmy, so looks like you get the egg hunt prize. Hold on . . .” she said while running back into the house. Dad gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned over the top. She came back with a paper bag.

  “Here you go, Jimmy. I know you don’t need it now, but it might come in handy next year. Made it myself.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Millie,” I said as politely as possible.

  I didn’t know what to think of two people who would introduce a sweet animal to a group of kids, then expect them to eat it the next day. I wanted nothing to do with whatever was in the bag.

  “You’re welcome. Come back soon!” Aunt Millie said as she and Uncle Roy waved good-bye. As soon as we turned out of the driveway, Mom’s curiosity got the best of her.

  “OK, what is it? Open it,” she said reluctantly.

  I peered in the bag to see what my hippie-dippy aunt who loves wakes and slaughtering animals made for the winner of the egg hunt. It was a fitting prize to end a memorable Easter weekend.

  The weather was too warm for it now, but maybe next year a wool scarf would come in handy.

  Aunt Rose and Uncle Mike have been standing and smiling for three hours. It’s so strange how many people smile at funerals. I don’t know what I expected. Smiling for so many hours seems like it takes it out of you more than standing, though.

  Everyone who walks through the door is here to see my aunt and uncle. I feel bad for them. That’s a lot of polite conversations about their son’s death. Aunt Rose is swaying a bit, not standing firm like before. Mix in the crying with standing/smiling, and she may collapse soon.

  The greeting line is still wrapped around the room. Most people who have gone through it are just hanging around in the middle now. It reminds me of a wedding we went to last summer. A huge line of friends and relatives, a quick hello and thanks for coming, then just hanging around, having awkward conversations with people you kind of knew and kind of wanted to see.

  I notice something different in the far corner of the room. Something I haven’t seen for hours.

  Open space. A narrow gap between the end of the reception line and an older couple I don’t know. It has to be a five-foot circle of daylight uncluttered by people and their voices. If I move now, I can make it. I just need a few minutes to try to think of a story to tell tomorrow.

  Who was the god of moving unseen? Leto? Lelantos? Doesn’t matter. That’s what I have to do. The entire building is too full of people for me to find an empty room, so I need to be motionless among the crowd until they don’t see me. That’s it. Just make it to that small space of freedom, remain still, and avoid eye contact. Like a hunter in the wild, I’ll become one with my surroundings.

  I stealthily inch toward my prize until my feet are centered in the middle of the open space.

  Did it work? At least thirty seconds have gone by, and no one has noticed me. I did it. My strategy is working. I’m hiding in plain sight.

  I have some time. It won’t last, so I have to take advantage. The crumpled paper with my partially written speech finds its way out of my pocket. The movement and noise of the crowd is still in range, but this will have to do. I have to write something down.

  OK, Patrick.

  Patrick, when I think of you . . .

  Draft 2 of Speech

  I didn’t know if there was something wrong with him.

  I tried to spend time with him. It wasn’t always easy.

  The truth is . . .

  Two men walk in my direction.

  No, not now. I need more time. I crumple my speech and stuff it into my sport-coat pocket.

  Maybe they won’t notice me. Remain still. Look through them. Be the wallpaper. They stop short of me, continuing their conversation.

  It’s working.

  “See, that’s the key to it all. A little more in the fall goes far enough in the spring to keep it green,” the older of the two is saying with h
is hands in front of his chest.

  I know him. It’s our neighbor Chucky from down the street. He loves talking lawns. He could go on for hours about which spring months are best for grass phosphates or how clipping disposal is the true sign of a green thumb. He and the other man stop close to me but haven’t noticed my presence. I remain still, knowing any movement could trigger another awkward exchange.

  “And some of these people, it’s like they don’t care if their lawn makes the rest of the street look bad! I remember when we had a —”

  I don’t consider myself claustrophobic when the walls are closing in, but people closing in, I can’t handle that. These two are now blocking my only exit. I don’t see a way out of this space if I need to move. I’m trapped.

  “— committee that would make sure everyone kept their lawns proper. Not anymore,” he says, shaking his head and looking scornfully at the floor as if that’s the most tragic realization while standing twenty feet from the body of a thirteen-year-old boy.

  It’s getting harder to breathe. These pants aren’t helping. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of sweats right now.

  “I hear ya,” responds the other man. I recognize him, too. He’s one of the insurance adjusters at Dad’s office. I’ve known Tom Carlson for all thirteen years of my life, but I’ve only ever seen him at the agency’s annual Christmas party. He’s always jovial and typically full of beer and toffee. “Would certainly help property values.”

  Breathing is tough again. I need to move. No choice. Either of these men could grab me for another “How are you holding up?” talk, which I can’t do right now.

  I need to think.

  I need to unbutton my pants.

  I need space.

  The men keep talking while my feet begin to carry me past them. Slow, steady, like a trained killer. Sip of breath, not too much, then slowly turn. Right foot, left, right again, no sudden movements. That’s it. The two men are still engaged and I’m undetected. A few more steps and I’ll be able to break for the bathroom. Three paces away, two —

  “So . . .” A hand grabs me from the side.

  Why is everyone working against me to write this speech? Wait. This hand feels smaller than the others.

  “He ever find a picture for that frame?”

  “What?” I’m lost. I want to physically hurt the next person who starts a conversation with a question that throws me off.

  “The frame he made. From carpentry club. Remember?”

  Micah Carendini from school. Another person on the growing list of guests who skip formal introductions or hellos. Also, the only person who ever called Patrick a friend.

  Micah moved here at two years old from Georgia (the one in Europe, not the South). He loved telling people he was from Georgia, only to correct them when they assumed it was the U.S. state. It was never a good first impression.

  Micah is kind of a gangly kid, one whose bones have far outgrown the rest of his being. He has a demeanor where he looks at you a little too long and asks questions that are a little too personal. It makes people pretty uncomfortable, and it’s likely why he is avoided by most other kids. I always saw a unique bond between my cousin and him.

  “Carpentry club? Yes. Yes, I remember now. Um, no. I don’t think that frame ever made it home,” I say politely while wondering if he really forgot why Patrick and I stopped coming to carpentry club.

  “Mine did. So did the birdfeeder I made when we got to pick our project. My mom keeps it inside, though. So the rain doesn’t ruin it.” His chest puffs slightly with confidence.

  Micah has a quality about him that sets him apart from other socially awkward kids. His perception of himself and the reality of himself are completely disjointed. He loves to draw, specifically birds, yet has refused any kind of training or advice. He feels his natural gift is so refined that any feedback is scoffed at and usually followed by a personal assault. This went over horribly in art class last year. Miss Bickenstein told him he needed to follow the proper shading techniques they were using in class. He replied by reminding her of the lonely, unmarried life she was living.

  He and Patrick did kind of click.

  “Yeah, I wish we could have made it to the birdfeeder part.” I don’t know what else to say to him. I want to walk away.

  “Once we were allowed to use the miter saw, it was a lot more fun. Some people were afraid of it. I don’t know why. You just hang on to the board and it won’t fly up. It’s easy.”

  “Yeah, I’d forgotten about that,” I say, trying to look as if I weren’t lying. “I guess we left the club too early.”

  The after-school carpentry club Patrick and I joined — and abruptly quit — last spring is not a memory I want to revisit now.

  “I have Mr. Biner again this year. I told him about Patrick. He said he was sorry and that Patrick was a funny guy.”

  One of the first things I’ve learned about wakes is everyone speaks highly of the deceased. I’m amazed by how many people have commented on what a great kid Patrick was. He wasn’t. His teachers especially hated him. To hear Mr. Biner say, “He was a funny guy,” was his teacher way of saying he was a jerk. I doubt Mr. Biner thought he was a funny guy when Patrick assaulted him.

  “Yeah, that’s nice of him.”

  “I’ll probably be president of carpentry club this year. You should try it again.”

  I don’t have the energy to tell Micah that no such position exists. It wouldn’t matter if I did. He would proclaim himself president at the first meeting and no one would bother arguing.

  “I’ll need a good vice president — not sure who is ready, though.”

  I don’t know if there’s a Greek god of misguided self-perception, but Micah would certainly have a temple for him.

  “That’s great.”

  I got nothing else. I need space.

  “The seventh-graders won’t know enough about what we do. They can’t even use the machines at first. I need someone with experience.” His face creeps slightly more toward me, into my precious breathing space.

  “Yeah, good luck with that. Listen, I think my mom wants me to —”

  “That’s why I’m glad I ran into you today.”

  What? Ran into me? I don’t care where this is going. I’m walking away before he asks me something really awkwa —

  “I’d like you to be my vice president of carpentry club.”

  My face warms as blood finds its way up my neck. Everything that’s happened since I stepped out of the car in my tight pants suddenly finds its way into my brain.

  All. At. Once.

  1. Be in a room with a dead body.

  2. Give a speech tomorrow.

  3. Make up nice things about your cousin.

  4. Pretend you aren’t scared of public speaking.

  5. Talk to everyone when you don’t want to.

  6. Get cornered by everyone.

  7. Accept a made-up second-in-command position and take orders from Micah Carendini?

  That’s it. Enough. No more.

  “Are you serious? You’re seriously asking me at my cousin’s wake to be the vice president of a worthless after-school club?”

  Micah’s mouth is open, but nothing comes out.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I’m a little busy right now! Is that what you came here for? Your stupid club?”

  I wasn’t aware my voice raised, but when the feet around me begin shuffling, I realize I’ve made a scene.

  Micah stares at me.

  “I . . . no.” He takes a step back. “I came for Patrick.”

  Oh, no.

  What did I just do? Those words just came out of me. My face is going from angry to embarrassed red.

  “I . . .” is all that musters out. I just hauled off on Patrick’s only friend, for no reason. Micah’s eyes seem much clearer than a few seconds ago. They are seeing the shame forming inside me. I can’t do this.

  “I need to go.”

  I hurry past him, away from what was briefly a
safe space, and back into the crowd. Being still didn’t work; now I will just keep moving. At least until Micah leaves.

  Vice president of carpentry club? Seriously? Why did that stupid request hit me so hard?

  I’m walking from my own guilt. Micah wasn’t trying to push me. It’s just how he is. It wasn’t his fault. I just . . . I can’t be asked to do any more for anyone right now.

  Still, I feel awful.

  He came for Patrick. I know that. He was trying to be nice, in his own weird way. I didn’t think that little request would have set me off like that, but I just lost it.

  I snapped on someone who never saw it coming.

  Maybe I have more in common with Patrick than I realized.

  We spent the first week of carpentry club deciding on something to make. We had to plan it, get it approved, and set up materials. For a group of seventh-graders, it was a horrible tease to not let us touch any power tools until week two. When that meeting happened, we wanted nothing more than to hear steel blades cutting solid wood.

  There were only six of us in the club, and we were waiting for Mr. Biner to arrive. We knew if we touched any of the tools before he entered the room, we were immediately kicked out. Mr. Biner walked in a few minutes late, looking a little flustered.

  “Change of plan, boys. Gotta see a man about a horse. No carpentry club today,” Mr. Biner said while jingling a large ring of keys. “It’s storming bad out there, so if you don’t have a phone, use the one in my office to get your ride here pronto.” He was locking the drill cabinet with one hand while pointing to the phone with his other.

  “Can we just build on our own?” Micah asked, seeing absolutely nothing wrong with a group of twelve-year-olds by themselves with a pile of circular saws.

  “Nope, phone. Now,” Mr. Biner replied, still pointing at his office.

  “We know how to use the saws. We’ll be fine.” Micah picked up on social hints as well as Patrick did.

  “That’s twice I told you no. Not going to be a third. Get to those calls.”

  None of us felt like testing this man’s temper, so we all moved toward the office phone without argument. At least, five of us did.