Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  The priest. He looks toward the altar at the front of the church while the two men direct us where to go. I’m not sure he noticed we were there.

  A pipe organ echoes through the walls. I don’t know the song, but it makes me think of Halloween. The men in suits whisper something to Dad as he grabs my arm.

  Oh, no. Are we going to be the first ones to walk in?

  No? Oh, much worse. Everyone else is already here, seated, and waiting for us.

  Dad leads me by the arm as we walk through the inner doors into a sea of eyes. Not one of them is looking to my much taller father, only at me. Some faces stream with tears, others just stare quizzically, but all of them are zeroed in on me.

  They know.

  They know I’m giving a speech and it’s going to be awful.

  We take step after step, splitting the church in half with every eye upon us. After passing each row, I pray our seat will be the next, so I can just sit down and not feel nine feet tall. Then I see the empty row we’ll be claiming and I’m surprised again at what it means to be involved in a funeral.

  I hate sitting near the front at church. I always feel like the priest is staring at me or thinking I did something bad. Or he’s going to call on me to answer some question about John or Matthew or Michelangelo from the Old Testament to see if I know the Bible. No barrier between you and the man of the cloth means at any time he could take three steps and put you on the spot. I knew I was going to be on the spot today, and it makes me want to throw up even more.

  Only when I turn to sit down am I aware that the rest of our group is right behind me.

  Mom has her arm around her sister, shielding her from this quiet storm. Uncle Mike looks somber as ever as he leads his daughter and Norman to our row.

  Each of us stands patiently in our place, looking back for the priest to make his entrance. He proceeds slowly toward the altar and stops at the casket.

  Patrick. I’ve been so crazed about speaking that I didn’t even notice he was here. In the center of the aisle, with a massive arrangement of flowers and ribbons hanging down from the top, is the casket housing my cousin.

  The priest makes the sign of the cross in front of the casket. After walking to the side and up the two steps to the altar, he stands over the audience and pauses before moving again. He has some kind of cloth he begins folding. But he does it slowly. Like he knows everyone’s watching and he doesn’t care how much time he takes. He places both of his palms on the altar. I look at my hands as they tremble, clasping together. His hands lie perfectly still while he stares at something on the altar that none of us is seeing. The priest straightens up, takes a breath, and begins to speak.

  This is it. The moment I truly fear. Hearing the priest’s voice means at some point in the next hour he’ll say “And now Patrick’s cousin will give a speech” or something like that. Then it’s over for me.

  He gives an opening prayer of some kind. Everyone here seems to know what to do except me. With the sign of the cross again, his hand gestures for the audience to be seated. OK, at least I’m not starting this. And at least everyone is going to sit down first, and hopefully he’ll talk longer. I reach for the wooden bench and gladly take my sea —

  What was that?

  My pants.

  NO. Not now.

  The button.

  It popped.

  Not now! Not now in front of everyone. Not now when I’m going to have to walk in front of everyone!

  I’ve never been this nervous in my life. I’m aware of every detail around me and also completely unable to process anything. I know the priest is talking, but I’m only hearing disconnected words. I’m a mess. A train wreck. At any moment, I’ll be called up to give a speech about Patrick and I have no —

  What?

  The priest is looking at me. Focus. Memories . . . Why we’re here . . . Oh, no. This is it? Can’t be. It just started. Isn’t he going to bless us first or say some kind of prayer?

  “And we have young James, who is going to share a memory of Patrick, whom we are here to celebrate today.”

  I only hear “James” and know I’m done for.

  He turns to sit in a large wooden chair at the back of the platform.

  Does that mean come up? Celebrate? Why would anyone use the word “celebrate” at a funeral? I can’t move. Completely frozen from my neck down, I pray that the priest was just talking about me and not telling me to come up to “celebrate” yet. Dad squeezes my arm and whispers, “Go on, you’ll do fine.”

  It’s time.

  I stand. Too terrified to look back at the masses behind me, I focus on the bottom step leading to the podium before moving on.

  My pants . . . Why now? How did I wear these all day yesterday and not break them?

  My jacket . . . That’s it! I can button my jacket and hold my hand where the button was and no one will notice. I just have to make it to the podium and it will conceal my zipper coming undone.

  I button my jacket with one hand while clasping my pants with the other.

  This can’t be happening! I can’t have my pants fall off in front of everyone.

  Almost there. Up two steps and don’t turn around until you’re directly behind the podium. At the top. Almost.

  The pants will stay if I’m only standing and not moving. Three more steps and I’m there. Now turn, and I’m safe.

  I make it. I can keep still while I talk and no one will know.

  The mic is way too high. I pull it down carefully so as not to dislodge it from the silver neck. I succeed in keeping the mic in one piece, but it was not worth the cringe-inducing sound of a car accident in slow motion that came over the speakers. I can’t think of a worse way to start a speech than to fill the room with high-decibel bending of metal.

  I look over the crowd from the front of the church and two steps higher than everyone, and it’s a completely different room. And bigger. Somehow the laws of physics are bent when you give a speech, and the room lengthens by twice as much. And the people, at least four times as many as it looked like from the back.

  I take a long, exaggerated breath and realize something. For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I have space.

  No one is near me. No one is talking to me. No one is even at my level as I look out above everyone else.

  It feels . . . good. I take another breath. The button popping off my pants may have actually been the miracle I prayed for.

  I can breathe.

  Never mind the awkward silence; I need this. No one is shaking my hand, no one is talking to me, and no one is asking me where I was when Patrick died.

  I stand with as much phony confidence a thirteen-year-old boy about to speak publicly at his dead cousin’s funeral can muster, and manage to get the first word out.

  “Patrick . . .”

  One word.

  Staring down at the wooden podium, I begin the task that has dominated my thoughts through all the chaos. Another breath, this one bigger than the last, and my chest is full for what feels like the first time in days. One more and I’ll let the words go with it.

  Don’t make anything up. . . .

  A string of syllables comes out. I don’t even realize what I said until the church collectively gasps.

  By then it’s too late.

  “Patrick was kind of an asshole.”

  Holy balls. I said it. Did I actually say out loud what I’d thought about Patrick since preschool? When I see Grandma Mutz’s eyes get big enough to pop in the second row, I know the words escaped. No manners, no filter, no holding back — just my actual thoughts.

  I take another breath. And it feels amazing.

  “Ever since I’ve known him, I’ve never understood him. I’ve never understood why he did the things he did or why he acted the way he did.”

  I look to my family. Dad is leaning forward a bit but hasn’t committed to taking me offstage yet. I can tell he’s just as curious as he is worried about where I’m going with this. Thing is . . . I
don’t know. I have no idea what the next sentence is going to be.

  I’m . . . I’m being heard.

  I’ve never been here before.

  It feels good.

  “So I thought . . . I thought he was doing it on purpose.”

  The words begin to flow into the mic as I keep breathing and talking. I’m not yelling. I’m not angry, or even frustrated. I’m just telling everyone what I’ve learned.

  “I remember things about Patrick from when we were younger. I remember that if I ever got a new toy, I needed to hide it because Patrick would break it. And if I ever got ice cream in the summer, Patrick would find a way to make me drop it.”

  I scan the crowd. Most of the mouths have closed at this point, but everyone is sitting straighter. A woman from the neighborhood is gripping her husband’s arm, whispering what I’m sure is concern. I take an odd pleasure in seeing her six rows back, and her husband is totally focused on me. I have the mic, and no one is listening to her.

  “Once he got mad at me for choosing Rocky Road. He didn’t know what Rocky Road was and got strawberry. He was furious when he saw mine had marshmallows. He tripped me and made it look like an accident. Then he said he fell, too, and was hurt so he wouldn’t get in trouble. That’s the Patrick I knew. That’s the Patrick I remember.” I feel myself stand taller. I’m pretty sure no one’s ever heard a funeral speech like mine.

  I inhale again.

  “When we were in kindergarten, he told me that hot salsa was just fancy ketchup and I should put a lot of it on my hot dog. I did, and cried for an hour because my tongue wouldn’t stop burning. I still haven’t eaten it since then. He ruined salsa for me.”

  It’s spilling out of me.

  “He ruined a lot of things for me.”

  I know it’s wrong and I know I’m here to be respectful, but it feels so good to exhale with what I was never allowed to say. I keep going and feel my eyes well up.

  “I tried so hard to be nice to him . . .”

  It’s starting to feel different now. My breathing is too deep. My chest is starting to hurt the way it did when I was cornered at the wake. I realize something new. I’m stuck up here, with nowhere to go.

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  For the first time since standing behind the podium, I look at Patrick’s family. I didn’t want to see them at first. I’m not sure why; I just know I didn’t. Aunt Rose has a tissue wadded in her free hand, but she stopped crying. Her face has an expression as if she’s hearing about her son for the first time. Uncle Mike looks like I’ve never seen him before. He looks scared.

  But Sofia . . .

  “That’s what I remember about Patrick.” The words are coming again. “I remember knowing that if he was around, something bad was going to happen.”

  Oh, no, please don’t start crying. . . .

  “Many of you thought we were friends. We were never really friends.”

  Getting harder to breathe . . .

  “I don’t think he even liked me.”

  Oh, no. The tears.

  “He . . . I . . .”

  The words stop coming. What do I do? I try my best to fight back the tears, but they begin to squeak out. The podium suddenly feels like a very lonely place, a place I no longer want to be.

  I need an exit. I need to end this speech. I’m pretty sure I’ve already lost my audience. They’re no longer listening to me.

  No one is even looking at me.

  Their eyes are on Sofia.

  I don’t know how much of what I said Sofia understood. She didn’t need to hear any of it, though. She saw I was losing it.

  Her footsteps fall silent as she makes her way to the podium with Norman in tow. The eyes of the church follow, and my sweet little cousin now stands next to me and takes my hand. Her focused gaze to the seated spectators tells them what I’d been trying to say for the last two days; I needed help.

  Sofia heard me.

  Norman, Sofia, and me. I bet no one in this room ever thought the three of us would be standing behind a microphone silencing an audience. My chest eases up; my breathing slows a bit. I look down at my protector, standing guard to my right. She never looks at me. Instead, her gaze is now locked on the casket with her brother inside.

  She knew. She knew what we were all afraid to see.

  I regain my voice as much as possible.

  “I know why, though.” One more controlled breath. “I know why Patrick never liked me.”

  Just like before, the words are out before my thought is complete. This breath I don’t so much enjoy but, rather, need.

  “I never listened to him.”

  My eyes find Patrick’s casket as a sniffle comes from the back of the church.

  “Ever.”

  A whimper comes from the front. When I glance at my family, they no longer look worried about what I’ll say.

  “Patrick talked a lot. He always had something to say. But I never listened to him.”

  Small breath.

  “I could have —”

  Inhale.

  “But I didn’t.”

  That is the first time I’ve seen my father cry.

  “I could’ve offered to help him, but I didn’t. I wasn’t listening.” I look at the casket again. The rest of the church is erased from my vision. I only see the shining beige box with the body of my cousin, and a wave of reality sets in.

  I’ll never see Patrick again.

  “I wasn’t listening to you.”

  Even with Sofia holding me up with her tiny hand, I can’t do this much longer.

  “I know you were telling me something was wrong. And I didn’t listen.”

  I take one more breath to make the words resonate. These words are going to be heard.

  “Patrick, I’m sorry.”

  Sofia grips my hand tighter. She doesn’t know what I’m saying, but something’s caused her to want to hold on to someone. I see her parents and it makes sense. It wasn’t my aunt wiping tears off her cheeks. It was my uncle. His face is covered by his hands.

  “I’m sorry.” The high pitch that only heightened emotion brings out of my voice finds its way again. I’m focusing, more than I thought possible, on getting complete sentences out. “I didn’t hear you.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen my uncle cry.

  “Patrick, you taught me . . .”

  This is it. I don’t have much left in me.

  “You taught me to listen.”

  I look to my family and see Mom’s face, completely focused on me.

  Her eyes aren’t wet. She doesn’t look sad.

  She looks proud.

  “I promise from now on, I will.”

  Sofia looks at me. She’s seen my lips and heard me talk to her brother. I squeeze her hand to say thank you. She knows I mean it. I hold the top of my buttonless pants and we step away from the podium. She guides me as we walk hand in hand down the steps to rejoin the rest of the family.

  It’s over. My speech is finished, my Odyssey complete. I was so overwhelmed by it, though, I forgot something. Everyone in the room forgot something.

  Sofia hasn’t said good-bye to her brother yet.

  Before we reach our families, Sofia stops and lets go of my hand. My feet stay in place. I won’t sit down without her. The entire church watches, waiting to see what this silent little girl will do.

  With her back to the crowd, Sofia stands tall in front of the long casket, the top of her head lined up with the white flowers resting on the lid. She puts her hand on the side of her brother’s coffin, only her fingertips touching. She doesn’t move, doesn’t cry, and doesn’t make a sound. What she’s saying to her brother in this moment only Patrick and Sofia know.

  In the crook of her other arm, locked tight against her chest, is Norman. She lets him out of the hold and stands on her highest toes to reach the top of the casket, while raising the walrus over her head. With an extra-effort bounce, Norman is placed on the casket over Patrick’s heart. Sh
e returns to her heels for one last look at her walrus.

  She’s giving Norman to her brother. Norman, who always made her feel safer, is now going to look out for Patrick.

  Sofia turns to me. Her eyes are so tired. She walks through her new, glistening tears until her hand finds mine.

  In all the awful small talk I had to endure over the last twenty-four hours, it never once occurred to me to ask Patrick’s sister if she was OK. I grip her delicate hand tightly, letting her know I am listening now. Neither of us has been here before, but we’re here together.

  Sofia and I take our seats as the priest stands back at the podium. He continues with the rest of the funeral as scheduled. Other than a few words about Patrick, the service is basically sitting through normal church. Had it not been for the casket in the front, someone walking in would’ve never known it was a funeral. I thought it would be different. I don’t know how, just different.

  My speech is over, though. I have no idea how it was received. I just know I never could’ve said it without my cousin Sofia.

  The only one who ever listened to Patrick.

  Sofia always wanted a kitten. She loved cats. They fit her personality well: quiet, caring, and mildly passive-aggressive. She asked for one every Christmas and never had that wish fulfilled. I always suspected my aunt and uncle were too worried about the life span of an animal with Patrick in the house.

  When it was Sofia’s turn to open her birthday gift from Patrick, her wish was granted. Kind of.

  Patrick swore he would get her a pet (a bold promise for a nine-year-old), and she was certain a kitten awaited her. Still on her knees, she peered into the box and her expression changed. Her eyes were alive as she ripped the paper off. When she opened the box, she looked more like she was doing long division in her head.

  It wasn’t a kitten.

  She reached in to pull out a portly long-toothed walrus. It wasn’t very fluffy for a stuffed animal, or even very cute. Patrick excitedly waited for her response, as if an ugly walrus were at the top of her wish list. Sofia smiled at this and hugged her new seaworthy friend. She named him Norman and she rarely left the house without him.

  After that birthday, Patrick developed this skit he always did with Norman.