Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  “Why is it canceled?”

  Patrick hadn’t even turned his head toward the office. He had that look I’d seen many times. I dreaded it and knew what was coming.

  Mr. Biner was twisting the lid on his coffee thermos and hadn’t looked up. “Told ya, man about a horse.” I couldn’t tell if he was trying to avoid the conflict or truly didn’t care.

  “What does that mean?” Patrick shifted his ear toward Mr. Biner.

  “It means my wife told me water is leaking into my basement, so I need to get home and see to it.” He put the thermos in a bag. “So get on the horn and call, because I can’t leave until all of you’ve been picked up.”

  Vivek Patel had just hung up and passed the phone to Peter Samington. I was third in line. Patrick hadn’t even stood up. He turned back around on the stool, put his elbows on the table, and looked at the rain.

  Within three minutes, all five of us had called home and Mr. Biner had his bag in hand. “Everyone got rides coming?” We all nodded and walked toward the door. “Patrick, you even call yet?”

  Patrick’s gaze didn’t leave the storm. He responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Hey! I’m not playing games here! Get in the office and call now!”

  The five of us stood back waiting for Patrick’s next move. This was always so much worse with an audience.

  Patrick responded quietly, talking to the window.

  “I don’t have a ride.”

  Mr. Biner dropped his bag and walked over to Patrick, who hadn’t moved from his stool. Whenever Patrick got into it with someone, he did it head-on and never hesitated. Not this time. Something was different.

  “What’s your problem?” Mr. Biner’s voice reminded me of the general in a war movie I’d seen Dad watch. “You think I’m playing games? Get up and make the call!”

  Patrick didn’t move.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be home until five o’clock. I don’t have a ride.”

  “Then get up and find one!” Mr. Biner was now clapping his hands in Patrick’s face as if he’d fallen unconscious. Patrick stood up but didn’t look at his opponent.

  “I’ll just wait in the hall. I don’t have a ride until five.” He grabbed his backpack and turned toward the door.

  I had to do something.

  “I can give him a ride.” Even though it was out of the way, I knew Mom wouldn’t mind. “Patrick, my mom can take you.”

  “There . . . finally, an Einstein idea. Just hitch a ride with Jimmy. Let’s go. Wait up front for your parents.” As Mr. Biner made for the light switch, Patrick chimed in.

  “Why can’t I just wait here?”

  Mr. Biner’s eyes grew; his head tilted toward his shoulder. He stared at Patrick for a second.

  “What is your problem? You dumb or something? There’s no one else in the building. No one will be here, and I can’t leave until you do. You’re going home with Jimmy and that’s that.” He reached for the light switch. Rain is so much louder when you’re hearing it in a silent, emotionally charged room.

  “I’ll just wait in the hall until five. I wasn’t supposed to be home until then.”

  Mr. Biner didn’t spend any energy to process Patrick’s words this time. He didn’t look confused or even like he were looking for a response. His hand grabbed Patrick’s arm and shoved him through the doorway and into the hall.

  My cousin didn’t like to be touched.

  Patrick instinctively yanked his arm upward to break Mr. Biner’s grip. He was finally looking at his teacher for the first time since this began. The carpentry teacher smiled coyly and, with a shake of his head, muttered, “You really are dumb.”

  Mr. Biner had thirty years and eighty pounds on him. That didn’t stop Patrick from using his palms like battering rams to shove his teacher up against the lockers.

  Patrick’s dominance lasted only a second as Mr. Biner righted himself — and Patrick along with him. In one swift motion, Patrick was spun around with his face shoved against the locker. His cheek began to merge with the three vents that stuck out as Mr. Biner pressed on the back of his head. He held my cousin hostage long enough for the five of us to see what it took to make a human being shrink.

  He yanked Patrick’s face away from the locker vents and pointed him toward the exit. Patrick ground his teeth and scowled through the three red marks on the side of his face. The rest of us exchanged looks of self-preservation, terrified we would be next. We obediently followed them to the exit, where Mr. Biner paused momentarily to mutter, “You’re toast,” with his hand squeezing the back of Patrick’s neck.

  In case Patrick didn’t understand who’d won this fight, Mr. Biner gave one last reminder of his authority by using Patrick’s body to open the door. The five of us helplessly followed until Mr. Biner slammed the door behind me and walked back inside.

  There was just enough room under the overhang for us to stay dry while we waited for our parents. Everyone was picked up except for my cousin and me. Patrick wouldn’t look at anything but the ground, his jaw still grinding. His eyes held tears, refusing to release them. I didn’t know what to say, or who was really at fault here. Thankfully Mom’s car turned the corner and this moment would be over soon.

  “I see Mom. Let’s go,” I said, giving him a quiet tap with my elbow.

  He didn’t budge, didn’t respond at all. Then he turned and walked directly into the rain. He moved quickly enough to be around the corner of the building before Mom saw him. I never called out for him. I knew he’d made up his mind and one conflict was enough for him today.

  Mom pulled up to the curb and I rushed to the car before getting soaked. By the time I shut the door, Patrick was out of sight.

  I never said anything to her about what happened. Patrick’s side of the story would never be taken over a teacher’s. I figured he’d been punished enough.

  Patrick was suspended ten days for assaulting a teacher. The principal said they considered expulsion, but they decided to be lenient. I’d seen countless times where Patrick sought to make someone miserable. That day was different.

  I knew he hated school, and most of the teachers, but I saw something new in his reaction that afternoon. It wasn’t that Mr. Biner antagonized him. It was something else.

  It was the way he reacted when he had to go home early.

  He hated school and made no secret of it. But did he despise being home just as much?

  I don’t know. I have no idea where he felt like he belonged. That afternoon proved one thing, though.

  He was more comfortable walking into a thunderstorm than being in either one of those places.

  I’ve been holding the same cup of water for twenty minutes. I’m afraid to put it down. It’s been my excuse. When the disposable cup with pink flowers around the middle hits the trash can, I’ll be out of distractions from what I’ve put off all day.

  It’s time. No one is standing near the casket.

  I need to say good-bye to my cousin.

  Throughout the wake, I’ve heard the phrase “Pay my respects” uttered numerous times. No one ever respected Patrick, so I don’t get why they’re saying they do now.

  I’ve paid attention to exactly what this “paying respects” looks like. Everyone seems to be in on some secret at this wake that I don’t know about. People in the procession line have enacted the same ritual over and over.

  1. Stand at the coffin.

  2. Bow your head.

  3. Kneel.

  4. Wait ten seconds.

  5. Rise and walk toward the back (some do the sign of the cross at this point, but I’m not sure what determines who gets to do that).

  I’m good through number three. The rest is still fuzzy to me. I saw a few people talking to themselves while they were kneeling. I think they were saying the Lord’s Prayer. Malcolm Somner told me once that being Catholic basically means you memorize two prayers that fit any circumstance. “You need help, want out of trouble, or are thanking God for something? . . . Both wo
rk and they are always in a Catholic’s back pocket,” he would say. Our Easter/Christmas visits to church weren’t enough for me to know any prayers. Wish I knew one now, because I have no idea what it means to pay my respects.

  I drop the cup into the tiny trash can and head toward Patrick, keeping my eyes locked on his picture instead of him. The lights above the casket seem so much brighter than when we first walked in.

  I arrive at the kneeling board (I’m sure there’s a fancy religious name for it) and lower myself carefully to not pop the button on my pants. My elbows rest on the dark wooden frame. I try to not look at him, but Patrick’s expressionless profile is now directly in front of me.

  I hate praying. I feel awkward every time I have to do it. Doesn’t matter if it’s at church or when Uncle Mike says grace, I never feel right doing it. Almost like God knows I don’t feel comfortable praying, and pretending is just lying, and that’s even worse.

  I can’t pretend now. I raise my head and look at Patrick’s picture sitting next to the coffin.

  That kid despised having his picture taken. Hate isn’t a strong enough word. It was more like a staged, aggressive protest anytime he knew someone wanted his picture. He would do anything to ruin it. A common scene at family gatherings was my aunt scolding Patrick about his hair/shirt/smile or any other way he was attempting to sabotage the shot. It wasn’t like he got a thrill out of it. He truly hated his picture being taken. Maybe there weren’t many moments he wanted captured. I’m not sure, but I am a thousand percent positive that having his school picture placed next to his casket wouldn’t have been his choice.

  I’m not going to speak out loud. I’m just going to say something nice in my head and hope he hears it. I can’t kid myself. I’m not kneeling here for him; it’s for me. I’ll swim with guilt if I don’t do this now. There. That’s honest, at least.

  Patrick, I wish . . . I wish you didn’t die. I’m sorry you did. I wish you could see how many people are here right now. And they’re really sad. People you thought didn’t like you — all here for you. There were times when I wasn’t —

  I hate this. Is everyone watching me? Feels like everyone has stopped talking and is waiting to see what I do now.

  My neck crooks slightly to glance around the room. Not one person is even facing my direction.

  Times when I wasn’t a good friend to you. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that . . . that you died.

  That was horrible.

  Oh, wow, that was bad.

  I need to move.

  I stand up trying to remember the last steps of this process and decide to just walk away before anyone sees me. I did it, though. I said good-bye to my dead cousin, who was inches from my face.

  No one is looking at me like I thought. Maybe no one even noticed I was kneeling in front of Patrick. Maybe tomorrow will be the same and no one will notice my speech, either.

  The crowd is finally winding down. The room has cleared out to where you can see more of the walls. Just random clusters of people now, instead of the line that took over the room. No one is crying anymore, just talking.

  Aunt Millie has someone else’s hand. I bet she’s held thirty by now. My parents are with a man and woman in the corner and have their concerned faces on while nodding politely. The woman is pointing to her knee and making a face like she stepped on a Lego.

  Wait . . .

  Legos. Patrick loved Legos! That’s actually not a horrible memory!

  I could totally make that into a kind-of sort-of nice speech about Patrick. In grade school, he loved getting new sets and building things in his room. I could easily talk about that for two minutes. I need to write this down. I’ll start with —

  Wait. Where is it?

  My paper. Where did it go? It was just in my pocket a minute ago and —

  My sport coat. I must have left it in my sport-coat pocket. My sport coat that is staring at me from across the room, underneath Sofia’s sleeping head. That’s what I get for not telling Aunt Rose where her bracelet was.

  All right. Not a massive emergency. I still have the pen, just need another piece of paper. I’ll rip another one from the book and start writing again. It’s not like I have a ton written down anyway. I’ll make my way to the guest book, do another fake cough, and sneak another page out.

  A man and woman I don’t recognize are at the guest book. But . . . they aren’t signing it. They’re reading it? Can you do that? I’m not close enough to hear them, but I can tell they are going through each name, as if they are checking a team roster. I thought the book was just for the family to see who came, not for the nosy guests.

  I need a piece of paper. I have to write this down. I haven’t had a single idea today and I’m not about to lose this one before someone grabs me and makes me talk to them. Where can I find some paper?

  The guest book is a lost cause. Those people are locked into their judging of who came and who didn’t. I don’t see them walking away from their job anytime soon.

  All right. No paper lying around, and the book is not an option. Why is a simple thing like a piece of paper so hard to find when you need it? There has to be one piece somewhere tha —

  The scrapbook. The one Aunt Rose brought.

  Patrick’s collection of schoolwork, letters to Santa, and various other memories. All on paper.

  It’s still closed. I bet no one even looked in it today. I’m sure I could “borrow” one page from it and he wouldn’t care. He probably was forced to write everything in there anyway. He won’t miss it if I take just one piece. Besides, I can return it. I’m just going to use the back of something anyway.

  I can do this. The key is to appear very interested in looking at Patrick’s scrapbook, and not like I’m about to steal something from him at his own wake. I’ll flip it open, skim a few pages, and very quietly remove something from the plastic liner.

  So far, so good. No one has approached me; no one has noticed me. I’m one with my surroundings. I’ll flip through the book a little more until I find anything that has blank space.

  Pictures he drew in kindergarten?

  No.

  Old birthday party invitation?

  No.

  Patrick’s “Letter to the President” assignment from civics last year? Hold on — this may do.

  I remember this. We each had to pick a topic that was important to us and write to the president. Mr. Hernandez made copies of all our letters and mailed them himself. I remember Patrick was pretty excited at the thought of the president reading his letter on child soldiers in Africa. I was more realistic and figured they were never even sent.

  The front of the letter was perfectly typed in 12-point font, contained no mistakes, and had an Outstanding job! scribbled in red pen at the top. His letter was three paragraphs long and signed at the bottom.

  Which meant the back would be a gloriously blank slate for me to write my speech on.

  Don’t even look to see if anyone is watching. Commit to getting this piece of paper and get to the bathroom. Move away from everyone and get this speech down.

  I fold the paper twice, stuff it into my pocket, and make my way to the bathroom. Once in the locked stall, I’ll have at least ten minutes alone to finally get this speech written.

  I’m on a mission. If anyone talks to me, I’ll ignore them and keep moving. I can’t handle thinking about this speech any longer and need to get this written down before I forget it.

  The bathroom is empty. The stall is mine. The door lock clicks.

  All right, where to start? Patrick and his Legos. He could build anything out of them. That’s a good start, nice, not made up, no horrible episodes.

  The pen finds its way out of my pocket as I unfold his civics assignment. Patrick never got a lot of positive feedback from teachers. I can see why Aunt Rose picked this for the scrapbook. When he was excited about an assignment, he could actually knock it out of the park. Then there was the other ninety-nine percent of assignments that he struck out on.
>
  Time to hammer this thing out. I could talk about the space station he spent a week making and wouldn’t let anyone come near. And the city he built that was supposed to be from the last empir —

  Wait.

  What’s this?

  The paper rests unfolded between my hands. Patrick’s A+ letter to the president on one side, but the back is anything but blank.

  It’s Patrick’s handwriting. Only much, much sloppier. Penmanship was never a strength of his, but this looks like he wrote it in a hurry. On a moving train. During a hurricane. I can barely make out what it says.

  It’s Patrick. He must have written this after he got the assignment back. I flip to the front side: the typed, articulate, organized side with a compliment in red ink. And back again to Patrick’s scattered, jumbled voice.

  It doesn’t make any sense. It’s all over the place. I know his brain worked fast at times, but I’ve never seen it in writing like this. Is this how he always thought about stuff? All . . . whatever this is? I don’t know how his hands kept up with his thoughts, or if they did at all.

  I read it again, looking for some sense in it. I’m only more lost.

  I don’t get it. How can these be written by the same person? How can I have known Patrick all of my life and still be so confused about who he was?

  I don’t know if I can make sense of this note. I don’t even know who it was written for or why. The more I think about him, the less I understand. Patrick never said anything was wrong, though. He never said anything about why he acted the way he did.

  But things like this note . . .

  Was Patrick trying to say something?

  “Why don’t you and Patrick go play outside?”

  That was one of my least favorite questions from Mom because it was a command in disguise. My face always reflected my feelings about that idea no matter how hard I tried to hide it.

  “How ‘bout we just stay in?”

  I knew Mom wanted an escape from him as much as I did. Usually we had Sofia as a buffer, but she was at her school for a fund-raiser. I feared Patrick would be my responsibility for the afternoon.