Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  “I know, but —” My words can’t catch up with my tears. Anxiety about public speaking, a cousin dying, and no one listening all boils out of me.

  “Your aunt wants you to pay your respects to him tomorrow, and that is what you need to do. Your cousin died and it’s awful. He didn’t —”

  “I know, but, Mom —”

  “He made a poor choice and this is the result.”

  Why? Why won’t she listen to me?

  “But, Mom, I —”

  “He shouldn’t have gone out on the ice and —”

  “I know, but —”

  “He shouldn’t have been wearing hockey skates —”

  “But I —”

  “Not on the pond — he should have known better.”

  I’m sniffling in that uncontrollable way that makes it harder to talk.

  “Jimmy, your aunt has been through enough and we need to help her thro —”

  “I don’t care!”

  She stops. I have her attention, but now I don’t think I want it.

  “Jimmy, how could you say someth —?”

  “And why don’t you protect me like you protect her?” I’m louder now, maybe yelling. The words are just spilling out.

  “Enough. That is not true and not —”

  “It is true! You’re always worried about her and never me! You always pick her ov —”

  “Stop. Now.” Her hand grips my arm, the part everyone keeps rubbing. It momentarily stops my word flood. “None of us are happy to be here. None of us chose it. This is what we have to do for each other.”

  I do my best to find a breath before speaking. Her hand remains clamped on my arm. This is it. A last-ditch effort of appeal. No smart-mouthed comment, no banter — just a sincere plea for help.

  “Mom, please. I don’t want to talk about Patrick tomorrow.”

  Her grip only tightens.

  “We don’t always get to choose what we want to do and —”

  “But that’s just it, Mom!”

  “Just it what?”

  Here goes. . . .

  “What if Patrick . . . ?”

  “What?”

  “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

  No response.

  Not even a blink.

  The words are in control now. “What if he didn’t care if he —?”

  “What? If he what?”

  “If he drowned.”

  Only now do I realize that I haven’t once said the word drowned since Patrick died. Hearing myself say it brings the tears on full force.

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he not care?”

  “No . . . I’m not saying that. . . . I don’t mean that he . . .” I’m losing control.

  “Then what? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying what if he knew this would happen? What if he chose to go out on the ice and knew he wouldn’t come back?”

  So many firsts have come into my life during this week of Patrick’s death.

  I’ve never been to a wake before.

  I’ve never seen a dead body before.

  I’ve never been slapped by my mother before.

  I don’t even see her hand move, much less her arm. I certainly feel it, though. All five fingers and her grandma’s birthstone ring . . . I feel each one of them strike with force across my cheek. Dad spanked me more than once when I was little, but I’ve never been slapped. It doesn’t hurt as bad as getting spanked, but the shock of getting hit in the face serves its own purpose.

  Mom doesn’t say a word. She turns back to the pictures and finds a new one to focus on. I have no idea how getting a stinger like that didn’t make me cry more, but it smacked the tears right out of me. We stand there silently, not sure what else to do. Mom looks at the pictures; I look at anything but her. With my back to the door, I hear Dad return to the parlor as he’s putting on his coat.

  “Everything’s taken care of for tomorrow, so we can leave. All set?” His voice matches his eyes, showing the wear of all the interactions today brought.

  Mom barely looks at me as she turns toward him. “All set. Get your coat, Jimmy.” Her voice is as casual as if we were going to the movies.

  She didn’t want me to interfere. The family law.

  It’s settled.

  I’ll be speaking at my cousin’s funeral tomorrow.

  I don’t want to do it. I hate being forced to do things in front of people.

  That’s another thing I always had in common with Patrick.

  The summer before eighth grade was my introduction to marching-band culture. The high school offered a one-week camp that included the junior-high musicians. We learned the basics of marching band and worked on a halftime routine that would be performed at the football season opener. To the parents, it was sold as a “fantastic connection to high-school marching band.” To us, more like boot camp.

  We were informed within three minutes of the first day that we were probies (probationary members) and this was a tryout. We knew that wasn’t true, but it seemed to be a hazing tradition. Even though all of us had performed in parades in junior-high band, the high-school players let us know that we hadn’t even been born yet. The week was spent partly in the band room, learning the music, and partly on the field, learning formations for the halftime show. The last day included an evening dress rehearsal for all those performing, grades seven through twelve.

  If you weren’t in band, seeing the musicians get ready for a performance looked like some perverse group ritual that was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Getting dressed as a group is part of the culture. All fifty-seven of us in the band room, guys and girls alike, changed into our uniforms together for the dress rehearsal performance.

  I really didn’t understand why all band uniforms were ugly and uncomfortable. Modeling a horrific blend of dark orange and black, the Harper High School Marching Band attire was no exception to that rule. The tops were cardboard-like and almost unbendable. No part of them moved efficiently enough so that an instrument could be played well. Never in my life did I think I’d be changing clothes in front of this many people, wearing shoulder tassels, or slipping on polyester pants, yet there I was.

  The pants were actually kind of amazing, though. Each pair was created to fit every person in the room, no matter their size. The material was cheap and itchy and reminded me of old curtains, but the design was genius. Inside the waist was a series of intricate buckles and bands of elastic. All you needed to do was pull them up, tighten the bands, then fasten the buckles. Presto! Pants that fit.

  I learned quickly that despite being one band, specific instrument players stuck together and embraced how different they were from every other member of the band. The individual groups had one thing in common, though: they each felt they were the most vital piece of the band. They had their own personality, and nothing brought that out more than how each dressed before performing.

  The flutes — an all-female section that smiled politely and followed directions better than anyone — took the far corner. The other groups liked to tease them for it, but the flutes seemed to almost like it. They all wore T-shirts, so nothing was exposed, but shorts that showed off enough leg to garner attention from the males.

  Next to them was the other all-girl section: the clarinets. Another group of rule-followers, but they weren’t really teased, more ignored. Two of them had messy hair, one had glasses bigger than her face, and a fourth never looked anyone in the eye. No one in the room seemed more uncomfortable with this “group dressing room” concept than the clarinets.

  The trombones took over the far side of the room. An all-male section with their own code. No group seemed to enjoy band more than the trombones. A day of rehearsal did not happen without the word “tromboner” blurted out at least four times. When the baton went up, though, these guys were all business. They wore the uniform with pride.

  The trumpet section was another male-heavy group, but one that felt they were legends in all aspects of band. An
d life in general. The group was weirdly confident and obnoxiously loud. They made every effort for the flutes to see them change clothes.

  My section was in the back corner. We were a mixed breed: six guys and two girls. Each of us changed with the full support of concealing clothing already in place as we slipped into our polyester wardrobe. Our section looked out for one another, knowing the rest of the band saw us as harmony rather than melody. We were the reliable bandmates, the shoulders to cry on, the moral compass of the group; we were the saxophones.

  On the top riser, a step above all others, was the loudest group — the percussion section. The drums felt they were above everyone else and frequently reminded others that they determined the tempo of a performance. During parades, games, and pep rallies, the percussion section was the only group that played alone while the rest of the band waited patiently.

  The crowd always responded to the drumline, and the percussionists knew it. That’s where they came alive, banging away with passion and purpose. Sometimes they went off script and did their own little number that none of us knew was coming. Sometimes they changed the tempo just because they could.

  It was one of the few places Patrick fit right in.

  Unlike me, Patrick had no issue with getting dressed in front of others. Anytime we went to the pool, I turned around to take off my shirt and raced to immerse myself in the water. I was always envious of Patrick’s confidence. He didn’t care what others thought and had no fear how he looked with his shirt off. Maybe it was more ignorance than confidence, but I was jealous either way. As I looked toward the drums, I saw my cousin: bare-chested and sitting down, taking his sweet time to get his top organized before putting it on.

  “Warm-ups! Two minutes!” came the warning bellow from the senior drum major, Jack Rossi.

  This dress rehearsal, these performances, this moment — this was what Jack Rossi lived for. Not a big guy for a senior, nor did he have a commanding presence as a leader. As drum major, though, he was in charge for the evening. In the junior-high band, the teacher led the class (like any other class). In this high-school mini-camp, the drum major led almost everything. The junior-high members were given that directive during the welcome comments of day one.

  The orders came the way a drill sergeant would give them to new recruits. The high-school players always referred to him by his full name, never just “Jack” or “Rossi.” He seemed to embrace this and grinned at the music that was the sound of his own name.

  “Anyone not set in two minutes —” he echoed from the door, making sure to pause for effect. I learned quickly that he liked to stay by the door as long as possible. Jack Rossi liked to make an entrance. When he wasn’t around, we referred to him as Jack Russell for his similarities to the terrier breed. But no one called him that to his face. His temper was the major reason he earned that nickname.

  “Gets wall sits.”

  Jack Rossi loved giving out his wall sits, and somehow they were enforced by the rest of the band. An acceptable form of corporal punishment, a wall sit meant putting your back against the wall, dropping your knees to ninety degrees, and holding that pose for a designated amount of time. It doesn’t sound bad, but it’s excruciating. Jack Rossi had a creepy half smile whenever he dished them out, particularly when he saw fear in the junior-high musicians. He was one of those guys who make you wonder how he’s gotten this far in life without someone giving him a severe beating.

  The shuffling in the room picked up, and within two minutes, we’d somehow all be prepared for warm-ups. I raced to tie my shoes and straighten my jacket. When I opened my case, I noticed him.

  Patrick.

  He hadn’t moved. He was still sitting hunched over with his shirt off. The room was peppered with orange-and-black formalwear, and here was this shirtless kid staring at the kettledrum before him.

  “Patrick. Patrick! Hey!” I whisper-shouted to get his attention.

  Nothing.

  Oh, no. I knew where this was going. The other percussionists saw him but were ignoring the problem in their section. I hopped over to his riser.

  “Patrick, get ready! You’re going to have to do wall sits!”

  He pulled in a labored breath. He didn’t look up, but he did move and start to put his shirt and jacket on.

  “One minute! The wall is lonely!” Jack Rossi shouted again.

  “Patrick, come on! Get your shoes on. You still need to button up, get the sti —”

  He stood up, straight up. Right in my face. He didn’t look mad, though. More . . . tired. He also didn’t look eager for help. I backed away and returned to my seat.

  Patrick buttoned his coat and slipped the shoes on his feet without tying them. He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and gripped his mallets. A little disheveled, but at a glance, he’d pass inspection.

  “Warm-ups!” bellowed Jack Rossi from the side entrance.

  While the word we heard was “warm-ups,” the words Jack Rossi heard in his head were “This is my moment, people!” It was time. His time.

  The room fell silent and the terrier approached his musicians. Jack Rossi stepped with a casual stride, taking in the quiet power he commanded over the room. He ascended his podium and surveyed his subordinates. Even on the podium, he was still a small guy. Satisfied with what he saw, he raised the baton.

  “Exercise three. Hold the long notes. Wait for my cue.”

  Jack Rossi raised the baton and the band followed orders by setting reeds to lips and sticks to rims. He moved his hand, ever so slightly, and the music happened. Jack Rossi seemed to conserve the amount of movement he used in each of these starting motions, almost as if he were seeing how much he could control the band with so little effort.

  Every section did its part to sound as one unit, while Jack Rossi eyeballed each of us to let us know he was there.

  The baton swung sideways. We stopped as commanded.

  Jack Rossi ceased scanning the room and focused on someone.

  “Probie. Shoelaces. Two shoes equals two minutes on the wall.”

  Oh, no, no, no . . .

  Patrick was standing far enough away from the kettledrum that it wasn’t hiding his feet. He stood with his shoulders slumped and eyes glazed. He didn’t respond. I didn’t know if he was aware the entire band had stopped playing because of him.

  “Probie! I’m talking to you! We perform in thirty minutes, and you just wasted two by not being ready. Get to the wall.”

  Oh, I hoped and wished and prayed that Patrick would just get in position on the wall before this got worse.

  “The entire band is waiting for you to find the wall. Move it!”

  A frustrated groan and head shake came from the musicians, none more profound than those from Patrick’s own section. He looked to the wall by the side entrance.

  And stared.

  I had no idea what he was thinking or what decision he was processing, but this was new. This was typically where Patrick lost control verbally. And emotionally. And physically. He kept staring. He was winding up for something much worse.

  “Make that three minutes for still wasting our time! Move it!”

  I wished this short excuse of a leader would stop barking. He has no idea how my cousin will haul off on the world if he keeps pushing. He raised the baton again, daring any of us to be out of line.

  “Anyone else not ready?”

  Jack Rossi wanted another target. The band focused on the baton, careful not to look directly at the mad dog. Patrick still hadn’t moved.

  “B-flat scale, staccato, legato, then hold two —”

  That son of a bi —

  “— and separate two continually.”

  He threw out an advanced jazz band warm-up. We didn’t know it. He wanted to make an example of someone else. The baton scooped, and again, the music happened.

  Patrick moved.

  His hand relaxed first. The mallets fell to the floor. It reminded me of a movie I’d seen where a lady shot a guy and her hand just
let the gun fall. He took another breath, just like the one I saw before. Labored and difficult. He stepped off the riser and plowed into the horns section.

  This was it. Jack Rossi had no idea the public display of anger he was about to be dragged into.

  The baton stopped. So did the music.

  “What is your problem? You ever want to play in my band again, you’ll get on the wall!”

  Patrick was going to assault the small senior at the front of the room. I knew in two seconds that this tiny man of a drum major would be thrown against the floor and his punishment would only have begun. I didn’t know if anyone would stop it, either. I didn’t think I could do it myself.

  Patrick was off the risers now, a few feet in front of the podium.

  Here comes the hurt. . . .

  But it didn’t come.

  Patrick walked to the wall. We all watched in horrified silence as my cousin took weighted step after step toward it. I’d seen Patrick in numerous conflicts, but never like this. Never so . . . tired.

  “Make that four minutes now, probie!”

  His eyes looked different. Not full of rage, not teary, not anything. The light was gone out of them. He stepped forward until his back was to me.

  Patrick wasn’t walking to the wall for his consequence.

  He was leaving.

  Ignoring the condescending voice screaming commands at him, he walked straight to the exit and through the doors.

  They shut loudly behind him, like a downbeat. We all looked back at Jack Rossi, now swollen and red. His shoulders moved hurriedly up and down with his breath. We could have kept time off them. He was embarrassed in front of his own band.

  During his moment.

  By a probie.

  “We don’t need him. We don’t need him for tonight, anyway,” he said to himself, but looked at us. “Again.” He raised the baton and we followed orders. That’s what we were trained to do.

  Patrick never returned to band. Not just that night but for the year. Depending on who you asked, the reason varied. Jack Rossi’s version was that he threw Patrick out of band permanently. Uncle Mike and Aunt Rose said it was interfering with his grades and he had to quit.