It's All Relative

by J. M. Snyder

  “I told you it’s fine,” she replies, though she said nothing of the sort. Perhaps she means Saturday night, when she said we could share my old room but imposed that no sex moratorium on us. Barking a short laugh, she mutters, “I guess it’ll have to be.”

  I sit back on my knees and nod, glad she sees that much, at least. She looks at the clock again, then picks up the eyeliner pencil where she set it by the mirror as if noticing it for the first time. I try to think of something else to talk about, something to tell her, something to say, but all that comes to mind is Ray and his little snit yesterday and I don’t want to bring that up now, not when we’re finally getting somewhere. She can’t help comparing him to me, it’s her way of motivating him to do something with his life, and the less he tries, the more she’s going to push him. He should know that by now. Once or twice when I fell short of her expectations, I got the same treatment. In fifth grade when I was sent to the principal’s office for sticking markers in my glue to color it, for example, or when I refused to go to the prom, because at that time I wasn’t comfortable enough with myself to ask out the one person I would have loved to go with, the captain of our soccer team, who was damn fine and straight as a ruler and didn’t even know I existed. Both times she compared me to Ray, and not favorably. “Do you want to end up like your brother?” she asked—in fifth grade, this meant being suspended so often that the principal’s secretary knew my mother by name; in high school, that I might remain dateless and alone and live above the garage simply because Ray didn’t go to his prom, either. I’m surprised she hasn’t remarked yet, “Look at your brother, he’s not gay,” it’s something she would do.

  But maybe she knows that my reply would be something along the lines of, “And he’s not happy, Mom. Barely employed, alone, still living at home. Do you honestly want me to be like that?” No, better not to bring Ray up at all. That’s an issue he has with her, I’m not going to allow myself to be dragged into the middle of it. I simply smile and ask, “So we’re okay?”

  That short laugh again, and a tight smile. “I’m okay, you’re okay,” she says, then pats my arm. “Go on, Mikey. Let me put my face on, will you?”

  With a final hug, I rise to my feet and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Caitlin looks pretty in that dress,” I tell her, for no reason at all.

  The sardonic look she gives me makes me grin. “She looks like she’s going to a damn cocktail party,” she mutters. “Wears black every day of the year except the one time she needs to. I swear that girl is so contrary.” When I laugh, she frowns at me. “Why are you laughing, mister? You’re just as bad.”

  And to be honest? That’s exactly the reason why.

  Chapter 49: My Sister

  From the way Mom turns to frown into her mirror, eyeliner now in a steadier hand, I know our little heart-to-heart is over. There’s no sense of resolution, no blinding flash of completeness, but I feel better anyway, and when I think of future visits home, I don’t cringe with fear at what might happen. She’s not about to rush out and start a local chapter of PFLAG by any stretch of the imagination, but maybe she’ll open up a little to Dan, get to know him and see why I love him, surprise herself into liking or even loving him too. He’s a good man, she has to see this. He’s wonderful to me. Without him here this weekend, I would probably be lying on the floor curled into myself, trying to dull the pain that even now threatens to crack through my heart. Can’t she see how well he’s holding me together? Like a glass trinket that’s been dropped to the floor and broken into several sharp, jagged pieces, I’ve picked them up and tried my best to glue them back together again, but Dan holds them while the glue sets, he holds me. Knowing my mother respects that I need someone like him in my life is enough for now. Acceptance will come later—it must.

  “You go talk to her,” my mom says suddenly, meaning Caitlin. “Let me get ready, Mikey. It’s almost quarter after nine.” She leans close to the mirror, eyes wide, and guides the pencil around the red rim of her eyelid effortlessly. Glancing sideways at me, she says, “We don’t have much time. Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I want to know. I look down at my dark sweater still bunched in memory of her fists, my dark khakis wrinkled where I knelt on the floor. “It’s all I brought with me. I didn’t pack for a funeral when we came down to visit you guys, you know.”

  With a curt nod, she tells me, “It’s fine.” Then she starts around her other eye, pressing so hard that the soft pencil crumbles, leaving tiny little nuggets of brown eyeliner behind. These she wipes with one quick finger wrapped in a tissue, which comes away smeared with lines like tilled soil. “See if you can talk your sister into something else, will you? That dress…”

  I laugh at the thought of me talking Caitlin into anything she doesn’t want to wear. “What makes you think she’ll listen to me?” I ask. “You already tried—”

  Mom holds her hand up, silencing me. “Michael, please,” she warns. “I’m running a little behind here so work with me, will you?” I nod, chastised. “We’re leaving in an hour or so. At least make an attempt, could you do that for me?”

  “Sure.” An attempt. That’s all it will be, I already know.

  But I go in search of my sister. On my way down the hall, I peer into every open door, smile at my relatives still getting dressed or ready to go. In one room Uncle Doug stands at attention while Kenny’s girlfriend Neeshi ties a necktie on him like a hangman’s noose, Kenny next in line, his own tie in hand. In another room, my cousin Emily jerks a comb through her blonde locks, tears on her face—from working through the tangles or the impending funeral, I’m not sure which. When she sees me, she shrieks in anger and tries to throw the comb, but it sticks in her hair so she chucks a shoe at me instead. It hits the door as I hurry down the hall.

  Caitlin’s obviously not still up here. I take the stairs two at a time, passing my dad on my way down. He looks stiff and uncomfortable in the freshly ironed shirt he wears, and the look he gives me discourages conversation. Don’t say a word, his eyes caution. But I’ve never been one to heed such warnings, so as I stand aside to let him by, I wave. “Hey.”

  He grunts in reply, typical Dad. “Where’s your mother?” he demands.

  Pointing upstairs, I start, “In the room—”

  “Is she ready yet?” Before I can answer, he’s trooping the rest of the way up the steps, muttering to himself. “Rush to get me out of the damn house, will you.”

  I don’t pursue that. Instead I turn away, let them argue it out, I’ve had enough confrontations for today. And I’m heading right into another one, I think ironically, but with any luck maybe I won’t find Caitlin before we go. Then I won’t have to fall victim to her biting anger. If she wants to wear teal, that’s fine with me. It’s not my funeral.

  At the bottom of the steps, the front door stands open. Cold wind skitters through the screen door into the house, bringing with it the rustle of leaves raking over the yard and the distant smell of burning wood. In front of the door, tiny hands clutching the screen as if the spaces in the mesh were as big as links in a chain fence, stands little Trevor, dressed in a maroon V-neck sweater, ready to go. His face is pressed to the screen and when I come up behind him, I can see the front yard in miniscule through his large glasses. Hunkering down to his level, I rest my chin on the top of his head and ask, “What ‘cha looking at, buckaroo?”

  With a childish giggle, he squirms away from me and turns, smiling. “I’m not a buckaroo,” he tells me.

  I ruffle his hair. “Have you seen Cat?” If anyone knows where my sister is, it’s Trevor, who has eagerly taken on the role of her unofficial sidekick since we arrived. But he just shakes his head and looks back out the door as if afraid he’ll miss something. Smoothing down the short, thick hair I mussed, I ask, “What are you looking at out there?”

  “I’m waiting for the car,” he says.

  The car. The front yard is filled with them, pickup trucks and SUVs and
sedans—everyone staying in this house has a vehicle parked down by the street. My own Lumina is on the outside of the impromptu car lot, I can barely see the roof and part of the rear bumper from here. “Which car?” I want to know.

  He probably means he’s waiting to get into the car, he’s ready to saddle up and ride into town, and I don’t want to have to be the one to break it to him that we’re not going to be leaving for another hour or so. I’m just about to ask if he still uses a car seat—if not, maybe he can ride with us, he’s a good kid—when he hushes me and points outside. “Here it comes again,” he whispers dramatically. In the distance I can hear the low purr of an engine coming closer. “This one.”

  The sound slowly grows louder—the car must be cruising at a good ten, fifteen miles an hour, tops. Someone out for a morning drive, or someone lost, though how anyone could get lost in Sugar Creek is beyond me. The town is little more than three miles in any direction. Only one street leads straight through and that’s State Route 17. West leads to Franklin and east is Union City, just past the turnoff for 322, the highway we took coming up here. All the residential streets that wind through Sugar Creek circle back to the main strip because the creek runs on one side and there are woods all around. It’s damn near impossible to get lost here, and it’s not exactly a place teeming with tourists. Before the car comes into view, I think I know who it will be. “How many times has it driven by?” I ask Trevor.

  The little boy holds up two fingers, then changes his mind and goes for three. “This makes three?” I clarify.

  He nods. “Three now,” he says, leaning into the screen to try and see as far as he possibly can down the road. “Here it is. This is three times.”

  My stomach roils beneath sudden anxiety and when the car coasts into view, I’m right, God, I hate it when I’m right. It’s the same mauve Saturn I saw parked outside of Grosso’s yesterday—Aunt Jessie. So she hasn’t left town yet. As she drives in front of the house, she slows down to almost a crawl, her engine growling like an animal held in check. I can see her clearly enough, though her window is rolled up and the morning sun winks off the glass like a spotlight—her face is pinched with sadness, her eyes haunting, her mouth drawn down in an exaggerated frown. “It’s Aunt Evie,” Trevor whispers in awe.

  “No, it’s not.” It’s Jessie, I correct silently, but I don’t tell him that. He’s heard the speculation, even at his age—what he knows of our curiously absent aunt is incongruous with this silent, heartbroken woman inside that car. He’s too young to understand what really happened to keep her away from us all these years. Hell, I’ve just barely begun to understand it myself. There’s no way I could possibly explain it in terms that he could swallow.

  “It looks like her,” he says with child-like aplomb. Together we watch the car pass out of sight and then I stand. Taking his hand, I lead him away from the screen and start to close the door. “No!” he cries. He catches the door in his small hands and tries to hold it open, but I’m stronger than he is and it’s a battle he doesn’t win. As I lock the door to keep it shut, he punches me in the thigh. “I was standing there, horny butt.”

  With a hand on the top of his head, I tilt his face up and tell him, “Watch it, kid.” I stare at him, hard and long, until finally he drops his gaze. He punches me again but it’s weak and unpersuasive. Turning him away from the door, I give him a gentle push down the hall, towards the kitchen where everyone who has already dressed has gathered, from the sound of it. “Go on,” I say, guiding him. “Finish getting ready.”

  “I am ready,” he pouts. When he tries to skirt around me, I hold onto his shoulders and steer him down the hall. “Let me go. I’m ready.”

  As we pass the first of the two French doors that lead into the living room, he tries to duck inside but I won’t let him. “Maybe she’s just lost, Trevor,” I reason. “Leave her alone, will you? She’s not bothering anyone. She’s probably not even coming back.”

  But he’s five years old, there’s no reasoning here. “You don’t know that.”

  I don’t reply. What happened to my not going to argue resolution, hmm? He lets me lead him down the hall, past the telephone table, past the bathroom, and we’re just a few steps from the kitchen when he twists out of grip. For a moment he stares up at me, shocked that he’s free. Then he punches me once in the groin, dangerously close to my crotch—another five inches and he’d see just how fast my reflexes work, and we’d both be in a world of hurt. But he settles for that final jab before he takes off, through the second French door and into the living room, out of reach. Laughter bubbles out to me, my name giggled in a little boy voice that expects me to give chase. He’s heading for the windows, I know it, or the door once I’m gone, though I don’t think he’ll be able to open it alone. Clomp clomp clomp, his shoes over the hard carpet, and then, when I don’t follow, a few steps head back in my direction. “Michael?” he calls out, breathless.

  Raising my voice, I tell him, “I’m not running after you. I have to find Caitlin. Come on, Trev—”

  He peeks around the corner of the doorway. “Catch me,” he laughs, and he’s off again. If he’s like this at the funeral, I think, but I don’t finish that thought. Maybe I should slip the Valium I’m carrying to him. Here, Trevor, have some candy…“Michael, you can’t catch me.”

  That trick was old when I was a kid. “I can’t play right now,” I tell him, hating the way that sounds, like I’m too grown up to fool around. Different games, I muse, thinking of Dan, and I can’t keep the smile from my face. I don’t hear anyone in the bathroom, maybe he’s back in the room by now. If I can just get that far without running into Caitlin, I can tell my mom I at least tried to look for her. I saw Jessie, though, does that count? Somehow I don’t think so.

  In the kitchen, I’m just as invisible as I was the first time I passed through. Ray’s gone, and Kenny’s upstairs, but Aunt Sarah’s still here, at the sink rinsing dishes. A boy around eight or nine years old stands to her left, scrubbing the plates before handing them over, and a girl around the same age dries the dishes as Sarah finishes each one. Those are my Uncle Tommy’s children, I think, or maybe Lenore’s, I’ve forgotten how they’re related to me. Cousins, that’s all I know. Younger than me, so I didn’t play with them when I used to come here for the summer. They look at me as I go by but don’t say anything, as if I’m a ghost here, not Evie but me, someone they can’t see or touch but whose presence they feel all the same, like a sudden chill on a warm day, a cloud over the sun. “Any of you guys seen Caitlin?” I ask no one in particular.

  I’m not surprised when no one answers.

  The door to the back room is closed, just as I left it. Thinking Dan’s inside, probably getting dressed, I knock as I turn the knob and step inside. “Hey, babe—”

  My sister replies, “Hey.”

  I look up and see her sitting at the foot of the bed, back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest and her skirt pulled down to cover her legs. Only the toes of her shoes can be seen beneath the billows of that dress. Closing the door behind me, I tell her, “Get your shoes off my bed.”

  She does so without a word. I look around the room as if Dan could possibly be hiding somewhere, but he’s not. It’s just me and Caitlin. “If you’re looking for lover boy,” she says, “he’s back in the bathroom. Came in wearing nothing but a grin—”

  “Cat,” I warn, jealousy rising in me at the thought of my sister checking out my man.

  With a wave of her hand, she brushes it away. “And a towel,” she amends. “You didn’t let me finish. He was wearing a towel. Calm the fuck down already, I didn’t see his balls, or anything like that. Unfortunately.”

  Cautiously I sit on the edge of the bed, far enough away from her that if she gets it in her head to start a fight, I’ll be out of hitting distance, at least. “He just left,” she says, kicking out one foot. When it swings back, her heel rings off the post beneath the bed and she does this over and over again—I’m not sure i
f it’s to annoy me or because she likes the sound it makes. “I told him I’d go but he said no, don’t bother, he’d dress in the bathroom and be right back. You know he’s sweet as hell, right?”

  “I know,” I assure her. Smoothing down the quilt I’m sitting on just for something to do, I ask, “So you chased him away?”

  “I didn’t chase him,” she sighs. “Jesus, Mike. He could’ve kicked me out, it’s his room, too.” At the word kick, her shoe hits the bedpost so hard that I can feel the frame vibrate under me.

  She resumes her previous rhythm, her shoe scraping across the hardwood floor as she swings her foot back and forth. I open my mouth to say something—ask her why she’s in here, for starters, or what’s up with the party dress for Evie’s burial—when she cuts me off. “Do I really look pretty in this?” she asks.

  There’s an uncertainty in her voice that sounds so unlike my self-assured sister that I’m taken aback. “Very pretty,” I tell her, my hand reaching out to touch the hem of the skirt. It’s made of a rayon blend, so soft it almost feels like satin beneath my fingers. Tenderly, I stroke the material one way, then switch directions—there’s a very faint nap that makes the fabric look darker if I brush it upwards. Maybe if she rubbed it all the wrong way, the dress would be dark enough for our mother. Has Caitlin worn anything dressy this weekend she could change into? All that I’ve seen her in are black t-shirts, black jeans. Choosing my words carefully, I point out, “It’s very…teal. Very pretty. But don’t you have anything…hmm, in black? Maybe?”

  Caitlin looks at me and I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes. She bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling, blinks rapidly to keep the eyeliner circled around her eyes from smearing, and I’m struck with a feeling of déjà vu so poignant, I almost choke. She looks like my mother, the same sadness in her eyes, the same struggle not to cry, years younger but identical in her grief. “Cat, what—”