by J. M. Snyder
I wait for him to tell me it doesn’t sound stupid but he says nothing. With a sigh, I rest my head on the backs of my hands and tell him, “It was like she wasn’t dead at all. She was sitting there staring at me but I don’t think she saw me. Or she didn’t recognize me. I was wearing your shirt.”
A gentle hand touches my hair, smoothes through the mousse and spray without disturbing a strand, he’s very good at that. I’m funny about my hair, I don’t like people touching it, I don’t like it to move much on its own if I can help it. When I bought my car, the salesman tried so hard to sell me a convertible. “Young guy like you needs to go topless,” he said with a wink—old enough to be my father and easily twice my weight, he kept his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants in an attempt to hide the erection he fingered every time I looked away. What a creep. “Go cruising downtown, hit the clubs, eh, eh?”
Not quite. A convertible would mean messy hair, and I don’t go for that wind-blown look. I don’t go for old fat guys, either, and when he accidentally brushed against my backside as I leaned over to look under the hood, I told him, “My boy’s in the Army.” I kept my voice amicable enough, didn’t look at him, didn’t have to—I felt him stiffen beside me, in fear or indignation or both. “Touch me again, fuckhead, and he’ll be the one to buy this car from you. I’m sure he’ll want to come down here personally once he hears just how attentive you are to me.” That made the bastard back up a bit.
As if he knows my mind is drifting, Dan asks, “Did she say anything to you?”
“My name,” I whisper. My voice is muffled against my hands like a secret. “Like she was looking for me. Michael? Michael? And I go, right here, I’m right here, Aunt Evie. That’s when she saw me, and she sort of sighed my name and disappeared.” Taking a shuddery breath that frightens me, I tell him, “When I was coming back in the room, I thought I heard her say I was right, she does like you. I was right.”
Dan doesn’t speak. I look up at him and see something I don’t recognize in his eyes, something sad, something old and distant like a memory. “You don’t believe me?” I ask quietly. Of course he doesn’t. Who would? “Maybe I was still half-asleep—”
He places his fingers against my lips to silence me. “Right after Ma died, I thought I’d see her again,” he says, his voice quiet in the gray sunlight. “I was just a kid, you know. I watched all those shows about life after death and people coming back from the grave, all that crap. I was into ghosts and flying saucers and ESP—I was so sure that she would come back one final time to say goodbye to me. Because I was her only grandkid, right? And I hadn’t had a chance to tell her how much I loved her before she was gone.”
I nod, encouraging him to continue. He grins as he says, “A friend of mine even had a Ouija board—you know, that game where you all put your hands on the triangle piece and call on the ghost of Elvis to appear, and try to pretend that you’re not the one making the thing move?” I laugh at that, imagining a much younger Daniel Biggs sitting in front of a Ouija board, knock if you can hear me…I played those slumber party games, too, right here in this house, Stephen on one side and Ray on the other, spooking ourselves for fun. But Dan’s smile fades with his memories. “Nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kissing the tips of his fingers. “Hon—”
He shakes his head, quieting me. “About a year after she passed away, I was sitting in the dining room at the house, thinking it was about when we normally took the trip out to see her, only there was no one to see out there anymore. Even Uncle Ernie had moved on. No reason to go any longer. And God, this sadness just descended on me, all of a sudden I wanted to break down and cry, I couldn’t seem to shake it off.” He takes my hands in his and presses them to his bare chest, where his skin is warm from the covers. “Then I felt someone come up behind me and hug me tight. I thought it was my mom but when I looked, no one was there. That’s when I heard Ma, after all that time. It’s okay, Danny, she told me.” Squeezing my fingers, he says again, “It’s okay.”
“That’s what Evie said,” I sigh, relieved. What happened last night was real, then, and he believes me. It’s okay, she said, so maybe it is, it really is. Or will soon be.
Chapter 47: Comfortable Together
By eight, the whole house is awake and emotions are running high. There’s a tension threaded through everyone, from Theresa’s little Crystal to Aunt Bobbie, strung so tight that the slightest remark plucks our nerves and the simplest gesture creates a domino effect of unbridled anger that threatens to topple us all. Each passing moment brings us closer to eleven o’clock…and closer to tearing each other apart. Even from the safe haven of the back room, I can hear the bickering—Ray hollers at someone for bumping into his chair, a child screams out mine! mine!, a door opens to angry shouts and then slams shut to trap them inside. God, I pray. I sit on our bed and watch Dan shovel oatmeal into his mouth. I’m too anxious to eat. He’s still naked, but the covers are pulled discreetly over his crossed legs and up to his waist. In one hand he holds the bowl of Quaker Oats I made for him—using water to mix the instant oatmeal, since my thick-headed brother drank the last of the milk. Any other normal person and Dan’s little talk last night would’ve been enough to frighten them off. Hell, anyone else would’ve gone out and bought milk just to make sure I had some in the fridge. Anyone but Ray. He probably thinks that being my brother makes him somehow immune to my lover’s veiled temper. I might let something like emptying the milk two days in a row slide, but that sort of petty meanness sticks with Dan. He might not mention it today, or tomorrow, or even next week, but it’s there just below the calm pool of his mind, taking on water, gathering weight, and heaven help you when it resurfaces.
If he notices that there isn’t any milk in the oatmeal now, though, he doesn’t mention it. He shouldn’t notice, as I dumped a good two tablespoons of sugar into the bowl and stirred it up real good, because he has one hell of a sweet tooth. The first morning he ever woke up beside me, I made oatmeal for breakfast and watched, fascinated, as he just about upended the sugar bowl into it. “You know how sweet I like it,” he said, giving me a saucy wink that made my cheeks flush. I feel my face heat up at the memory of that first night, still so bright after ten months together, and Dan nudges me with one foot. “You’re thinking something nasty,” he says. “It better be about me.”
“Who else?” I reply, picking at his toes through the blanket.
They wiggle in my palm and my lover holds his bowl out towards me as an offering. “Have some,” he says. When I shake my head, he admonishes, “You’ll be hungry later.”
“So I’ll eat later.” I’m just not hungry now. I don’t think I’d be able to keep anything down if I was.
Dan frowns but doesn’t answer. Instead, he finishes off the oatmeal himself, scraping the bowl to get every last drop. When he’s done, he sets the bowl aside and motions me closer. I lean towards him. He takes hold of my upper arms, kneading the muscles in his hands, warm through the sweater I wear. “Listen to me, hon,” he says. I nod, I’m listening. “Today is for you. Aunt Evie has passed on now—funerals are only for the living to say goodbye. I know it’s going to be hard but that’s what I’m here for, right?”
I cover one of his hands with my own. “Right.”
“Listen,” he says again, as if I might not be. I squeeze his hand to show that I’m hearing him. “You talk to me today, Michael, you hear me? Keep the channels open at all times—”
With a laugh, I tease, “I like it when you talk military to me.”
A faint smile flickers across his face and is gone. “All I’m trying to say,” he tells me, his voice gentle, “is keep me informed, Michael, please. If there’s something that makes you uncomfortable, let me know. If you suddenly have to get the hell out of there, tell me, I’ll lead the way. This won’t be pleasant, I know that, but you’re the only one I care about. If you need to leave, you say the words and I’m out the door with you. If you’re going to be sick or you
don’t think you can make it or you don’t want to do something, you don’t have to, no matter what the rest of your family says.”
I don’t want to think things like that—it’ll be fine. I assure him, “I’ll be okay.”
“If you aren’t,” he persists, “let me know, please.” His gaze bores into me, holds me steady, won’t let me look away. “I can’t read your mind, hon, much as I’d like to sometimes, and you know it. So just think of me today, okay? Lean on me if you need to. That’s why I’m here.”
Tears choke my throat but I swallow them down, blink them away when they rise unbidden in my eyes. Sure, I think flippantly, I can do that, I can let you be strong for me, no problem, but when I try to speak, the words won’t come and I don’t like the tiny croak that is my voice. “Come here,” Dan murmurs, pulling me to him. It’s an awkward position, me lying across his lap, but we make it work. My arms wrap around his waist and he hugs me close, his hands smoothing down my sweater where it’s bunched at my back. “It’s going to be okay, Michael,” he whispers. “We’re going to get through this. Trust me.”
I do.
We lie together for long minutes that turn into half an hour or more. Finally Dan sighs, a signal that he’s grown uncomfortable in this position, and I shift out of his arms to stretch beside him on the bed. “I should start getting ready,” he tells me. He brushes a strand of wayward hair from my face and smiles sadly. “Are you going to be okay for a while?”
I roll onto my side and prop my head up with one hand. “While you’re in the shower?” I pretend to think it over, savoring the look of consternation that crosses my lover’s face. “Gee, I really don’t know.”
Punching my arm, he growls, “Just for that, you’re not invited.”
“I’ve already had my shower,” I remind him. As he climbs out of bed, though, the covers fall away to reveal his smooth, naked flesh, and suddenly a second shower doesn’t seem like a bad idea. He turns, allowing me a glimpse of his half-erect cock before he bends to pick up the shorts I wore earlier and left on the floor when I dressed. “Hey now,” I tease, “I didn’t say we couldn’t negotiate…”
“Too late,” he laughs. The shorts come up his muscled legs and over his taut buttocks to snap around his lean waist. “You missed your chance, babe. I’m going to have to take care of this—” he cups his sheathed crotch, the front of his shorts bulging in his hand—“by myself.”
“Or I could do it right here,” I say, reaching for him.
My fingers graze his ass before he moves away. “It’s less messy in the tub,” Dan tells me with another laugh. Slipping a t-shirt on over his head, he adds, “I’ll think of you.”
I lie back on the bed and pout, a trait I’ve picked up from my sister this past weekend. “You do that,” I grumble. I hope he sees the wounded expression on my face. I hope it looks convincing enough.
Dan manages to look suitably sympathetic. “Aww, poor baby,” he cajoles and I pout harder, until my lips hurt. He laughs as he scoops up his toiletries—toothbrush, razor, the soap and toothpaste we both share. Heading for the door, he throws a glance over his shoulder and says, “You’ll get over it.”
That surprises me. “Ha!” I cry, struggling to sit up amid the blankets. He stops in the open doorway and I can see that the kitchen is filled with children, little girls in black dresses, little boys in small suits that hurt the heart to see. They crowd around Aunt Sarah, who wears a very somber, very dark velvet pants suit that seems to absorb the light when she moves. She’s dishing out frozen waffles as fast as the toaster can pop them up, and already her hair has started to curl in frazzled little ringlets that frame her face. On the cusp of that disorder, Dan stares at me, waiting, the ghost of a smile on his lips because he’s sure whatever I have to say will amuse him to no end. “I’m going to keep that in mind the next time you want some loving,” I threaten. “I won’t put out, you’ll see, and when you start to whine and cry and beg, I’ll just be like you’ll get over it.”
His smile bursts forth in full bloom. “Yeah, right,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Like you can hold out on me, Mike.”
Sad thing is, he’s right, I’m weak against him, and I laugh at the empty room, I know he’s right. Our silly banter has me aroused now—I toy with the idea of following him to the bathroom anyway, what would he say? Nothing, really. We’d end up in the shower together, naked and wet and soapy…and the whole house will hear us, I think. That puts a damper on my lust real quick. All those kids in the kitchen, countless relatives in the living room and hall? The last thing I need is someone picking on me at the funeral home because Dan and I got frisky in the shower. We’ll wait until later, tonight maybe, or tomorrow after we’re home and have the whole place to ourselves. It’ll be so good to get our privacy back after this trip, to regain some semblance of normalcy and get our lives back. This weekend I’ve fallen into the image of who my parents think I am—like a spider spinning her web, my mother effectively trapped me into the middle child mold she has fashioned in her mind. It was a role I took on willingly enough the moment I stepped into her house, sleeping in my old bedroom, striving hard to be the boy she wanted me to be and not the man I’ve since become.
Then came my revelation at dinner Saturday night, and I tore away her dreams as easily as dusty gossamer threads wisp to nothingness when you knock down a cobweb. She hasn’t had one civil word for me since. Is this the way it’s going to be from now on? My father’s silent acceptance, my sister’s so what? attitude, my brother’s grudging tolerance…and her. I’m not asking for open arms here, I realize that would be pushing it, but it’s almost like she’s avoiding me, like I’ve done something so heinous and so deliberate to her that she might never, ever find it in herself to forgive me. Then what? That’s one question I don’t really know how to answer—and then what?
It occurs to me that maybe I should find out.
Getting out of the bed, I smooth the wrinkles out of my pants, tuck in my undershirt, pull my sweater down so I look alright. I slip into my loafers, dark enough to wear with this outfit, and run a nervous hand through my hair to make sure it’s not sticking up at any odd angles. Then I yank the blankets up to the pillows, hastily making the bed, before I head out into the kitchen and allow myself to get sucked into the noisy morning chaos that is my family.
I get a few mumbled hellos but for the most part, the kids ignore me. They’re too busy eating or shouting or kicking each other under the table, opening their mouths to display tongues full of half-chewed food, yelling “I’m gonna tell!” and “Stop touching me! Aunt Sarah, make him stop it now!” It’s worse than a preschool in here, and right in the center of it all, Ray and Kenny sit at the table punching each other and whoever gets in their way. I don’t even want to know what that’s all about, I don’t have the energy to get caught up in this shit today, so I hurry through the kitchen and down the hall, past the bathroom where the sound of the shower through the closed door makes me picture Dan beneath the hot spray, what an image.
Up the stairs two at a time before my resolve crumbles and down the hall in search of the bedroom my parents are sharing. I’m not sure which one it is, but most of the doors are open, my aunts and uncles dodging around each other as they rush to the bathrooms or into other rooms, calling for their scarves or their ties or “Has anybody seen my shoes? The black wingtips, does anyone know where I put them? Anyone?”
I keep against one wall, out of the way. At one point Ginger comes up to me and grabs my elbow, pinching me with blood-red fingernails, a dazed look on her face like that you’d see on someone who just walked away from a plane crash. “Mike?” she asks, unsure. One eye is made up perfectly, dusky blue eyeshadow above long lashes, eyeliner dark and unsmudged, but the other eye is wide and pale, as if she did one and forgot about the other. Self-consciously, she picks at the mascara clumped on the lashes of her good eye and sighs. Tiny flecks of black make-up fall to her cheek like soot. “Does this look alright?” she asks
me, motioning at her navy dress. “It’s not black, though. Do you think that’s going to be a problem? I should’ve brought black. Closets full of black dresses back home. I thought this was darker.”
“You look fine,” I tell her, prying her fingers off my arm as I pat her hand. “I’m not wearing black, either.”
“Closet full of black dresses,” she says again, softly this time, like she’s speaking to herself. Before I can point out that I’m in brown, she wanders away, picking at her lashes the way a small child would a healing scab.
I bump into the wall and hurry on, staring into the faces of the people that I pass in the hopes that one of them will look back at me. None of them do. We’re all inside our own private pain, none of us want to open up and let another in. To do that would be to admit the hurt and it’s still too tender to touch, we haven’t healed yet, there’s no closure. Somewhere someone cries quietly, someone else murmurs low, comforting words. I don’t want to stop anyone and ask which room my mom is in. If I can’t find her myself, I can always talk to her later. My sudden courage to face her and demand an answer to my questions, to find out why and what now, has faded like the washed out paint on the walls, and all I want to do is sneak back downstairs to my room before she knows I’ve been here. I can talk to her after the funeral. It doesn’t have to be right this second.