Changing Stiles

by Elaine Allen

  “We both did a lot of apologizing. I’ve been preparing for it a while.” Gray clears his throat. “I don't think you’re ever ready for death, but he damn sure lived. Pops was that man.”

  “We were making small talk for a moment,” Ty says. “I was in my feelings, so I thanked him for raising me when he didn’t have to. Treating me the same way he did Gray. He was like, you're my son.”

  His chest puffs up a little as he sucks in a breath. “Not ‘like a son’. But, you’re my son. Like, it didn’t matter that we aren’t blood-related. Y’all wouldn't understand ‘cause he's actually y’all dad. To have him say that broke me a lil’ bit. He put his hand over mine and said, ‘I’m proud of you. Of the man you've become.’ I was balling by the time he got done talking about responsibility, forgiveness, family, and love. About living with decisions you've made and in the end realize that it may not have been the right course of action. About the importance of truth and trust. You know his shit, your word is your bond, and he apologized for not always living up to that but expecting us to. I remember thinking, Damn, Unc. Death is real.” He pushes at what I suspect is the same ache in his heart as mine.

  Thirty-Six

  Saturday

  Alieas

  I’m dreaming. It must be a dream. I’m at a poetry reading. On the stage reciting a piece that I wrote.

  The lights are bright... Correction, the spotlight is...

  Bright. Shining. Blinding. Radiating.

  Hot!!!

  Maybe I'm not being selective enough in my choice of words.

  This shit is Exposing. Illuminating. Magnifying

  Things better left hidden in the dark.

  The Truth.

  Oooh, how we claim we want it. Ready for it. Built for it.

  Bound by it. Enslaved to it. That is… Until truth

  Shows up and shows the fuck out

  Demanding more, not accepting less

  Taking the option to readily dismiss away

  Forcing you to address what's what, today...

  I open my eyes to look out at the crowd, and the only people there are my dad, Tyree, and my Aunt Layla.

  Startled awake, I gasp and clutch my chest. Wide-eyed and thoroughly confused, I stare up at the ceiling.

  What in the entire fuck?

  Strong arms surround me, pulling me to him. “Babe,” Carter comforts. “It’s okay. It was just a dream,” he soothes, kissing my forehead.

  It feels so real. I felt the heat of the spotlight just as much as I feel Cart stroking my back.

  I shake my head, still unable to make sense of it. “It wasn't a nightmare.” Mental flashes of my dad and Ty together play out. Tears easily slip from my eyes. My throat hurts. “It was weird. I was performing at a poetry reading. My dad was there. He was holding hands with my aunt Layla. And Ty was sitting beside them,” I explain.

  No way is what I’m automatically thinking but I’m imagining shit.

  The dream. It was so vivid, so clear in my mind. It can’t fucking be the start of a déjà vu moment as both my father and aunt are dead, so it ain't no way either of them showing up anywhere other than my dreams. Incensed, I get up from the bed, send a wary look over my shoulder to Carter, and begin pacing the floor.

  I even nibble on my freshly painted fingernail a lil’ bit as I analyze the complexity of what my dream insinuates. Impulsively, I grab my phone but put it back down. Then I just stare off into space.

  I hadn't seen him move or hear any sounds, but Carter comes to me, held me still. “Lieas, you could just be nervous about today,” he offers.

  That’s not it. Of course, I’m nervous about seeing my dad in a casket, but there’s more to it.

  There’s a clawing fear in the pit of my stomach, threatening to make me sick. The moment I say the words, I fear speaking it into existence.

  Truth.

  “My dad. He… He always made sure that Ty was right. That he had never gone without. He raised him alongside us. ”

  Carter shakes me. “Lieas, what are you saying? You’re rambling.”

  Images collide, mesh. Tyree’s face. My father’s. The likeliness that I’ve never noticed. Tyree looks like a darker version of my father.

  “I think— I think my dad is my Tyree’s dad.”

  I can see in his reaction that this makes absolutely no sense to him. He can't even fathom where this idea originated from. “Alieas, that doesn't make any sense.”

  “Before my mom.” I start revealing even as my mind stitches the story together. “My dad used to date my Aunt Layla.”

  He shrugged. “Ooh k.”

  I step back. I’m frustrated. He’s not understanding what I’m saying. “That’s Ty’s mom.”

  “Well, what do you think that means?”

  Irked at his condescending tone and his usage of the word “think”, I frown and narrow my eyes at him. He sighs and throws his head back and then stares blankly waiting for me to spell it out for him.

  “He dated my aunt. My mom said he was in love with her.”

  “Hold… hold up. Your dad dated your aunt and he married ya moms? Damn, Mr. Stiles was pimping,” he chuckles as he put it together. “Sisters, though?”

  I push his arm and send a seething glare, but he shrugs again and shakes his head. “That still don’t mean anything,” he concludes. “Gray is like two years older than Ty.”

  Arms folded, I witness him mentally unpacking what I'm saying. His mouth opens inla little “O”, and he mouths the word “shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a silent pause. “If it’s true, do you think your mom knows? Ty?”

  There is no way this side of hell that Nicole would have kept this from me. From Tyree. “I don’t know. I doubt it. Maybe none of them knew.”

  “Don’t get mad. But maybe there's nothing to know.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “Carter, weren’t you just listening to me?”

  “I was listening. And,” he coughs in his hand and clears his throat, “umm, for the sake letting everything go over smoothly today, I think you should just wait until after your dad’s funeral to start with changes to the family tree.”

  “I'm serious,” I insist.

  “Look,” he takes hold of my chin and tilts my face up so that we’re looking into each other's eyes, “I know that you loved your dad. I know that you also feel some type of way about the years you two were estranged. Today is the day to celebrate his life. Mourn his passing. And honestly, they can do it without you dropping any bombs.” Then, he kisses my cheek. “I’ll make you some breakfast,” he solemnly adds and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

  *****

  My father wasn’t overly religious in life, so having the funeral at a church was not at all him. We held the service at the funeral home instead. And because he wasn't a complete atheist, void of all thoughts of a monotheistic power, he did have scripture and surah readings.

  I sat in a daze, too afraid to look at the body of my father resting eternally in his handpicked deluxe silver-lined casket. At the urging of my uncle, they’d closed the casket during Gray and my Uncle Melvin’s eulogies. I kept imagining him sitting up and stepping over the edge to get out.

  And me hightailing my ass up outta here.

  I hate funerals. I hate death…

  My mom would periodically squeeze my shoulder in support. She is sitting in the row behind me. I had begged her to sit beside me, but out of respect for their ten years of divorce, her husband, and Ms. Shelia, she elected to settle for background support.

  A huge picture of him stood prominently at the head of the casket. It was fairly recent, showing his graying hair and wrinkles at the eyes. His dazzling smile was still ever present. As a girl, that smile had melted my heart. I remember him emailing me one day asking if I’d approved if it. Of course, I had never even responded. I had looked and admired how handsome he was, and then it dawned on me that was the reason for his unfaithfulness. So, he wouldn’t get any passes or approvals fro
m me. Now, I wish I’d indulged at least once. The picture was an exact portrait of how he looked resting. During the entire service, my eyes stayed fixed on the podium or the picture, too afraid to even glance at him once they opened the casket for the final viewing.

  Tears mix with anxiety as they lower him into the ground, into the small space where he'd spend forever waiting…

  For the trumpets and horns to blow with the return of the King.

  For whatever is after death…

  “Babe?” Carter leans close to my ear. “You ready?” he hesitatingly inquires.

  “You can go ahead to the car. I need a minute,” I tell him.

  Suppressing the urge to jump into the ground, I back away. I stay here well after everyone starts to depart for their cars.

  I had missed out on spending time with my father, not willing to accept all his faults. Now, I would mourn him for all the days that I had left. I would be horrified if the people who were supposed to love me the most turned and hightailed it if I’d shown them the real me.

  How perfect had I been in life? Nowhere near perfection.

  How many mistakes had I made? Too many to count.

  Once in the car, I put on my seatbelt, and Carter lifts my hand to his lips. He kisses it, then leans in to kiss my cheek. “You did good, babe.”

  I guess. Knowing my brother and cousin, they had me on, jump-in-after-the-casket watch with Carter on, Save her, duty.

  I fall asleep and am counting sheep by the time we reach the highway. I slept the entire ride from the cemetery to the banquet hall and I wake up to Carter's deep voice telling me it is time to go in. He squeezes my hand in support.

  Yawning, I pull down the passenger side visor and flip open the lid to show the mirror. My face looks how it feels, swollen, tired, tear-streaked, weather-battered, and sad. Smoothing out the puffs beneath my eyes, I yawn again. “I look horrible,” I let out.

  Carter was about to refute it but stopped in his tracks when I gave him the, ‘I dare you’ look.

  I quickly look through my purse to find my sunglasses. I put them on and slap Carter's thigh. “I'm liable to cuss one of my relatives out,” I mumble. “They’ll all be talking shit.”

  “Behave. We can leave whenever you're ready,” he assures me.

  Behave? I'm not a damn pet. But for him, I say, “Yes, sir,” playfully puckering my lips in air kisses.

  So, I had survived Act one: The Service, Act two: The Cemetery and was heading into Act Three: The Repast.

  Thirty-Seven

  Alieas

  The Stiles know how to throw a party. My father was definitely a partier. Not like the dainty dinner parties my mom gave while they were together. He enjoyed gritty, lights down low, disco ball turning, smoke-tinged, music-filled dance floors. The more the merrier. His specific instructions indicated that he wanted it to be a celebration of his life, not some stuffy memorial service with tears everywhere. My uncle Melvin joked that my dad wanted a stripper to jump out of a cake.

  I BET. They both two nasty old niggas.

  We walk into the hall hand-in-hand. It is decorated in black and gold; I’m guessing that he is paying homage to the bruhs. There are balloons and streamers and pictures. There is even music. I shake my head, unsure if I feel comfortable in the “party" that my father had put together.

  I spot Lon and Bri talking, smiling, and huddled close. I suspect they're talking about her splendid news. My mom and Mitchell are seated at the same table. My mom has the same look on her face as me, and I imagine we share the same sentiments regarding the “party”. All of my loves are seated at these two tables, I observe, taking in the sight of my girls, their husbands, and children.

  That’s me. I take them all in. All of my family. And Carter is here with me. I’m still adjusting to the belief that I deserve this smidgen of hope that I feel budding in my heart. That I deserve a second chance with him even though I'm mourning that I didn’t get one with my dad.

  “Go ahead and sit down,” I murmur to Carter. “I have to go to the bathroom.” Overwhelmed and emotional, I excuse myself and escape.

  After five minutes in the last stall, I feel that I can deal with people and just as I touch the latch, I hear voices.

  “She crying now, but she damn sure wasn't when she wouldn't talk to him,” a voice that I can't place says.

  “Yea, and poor Uncle Darien. He loved her,” Janelle seconds.

  “She's probably just back looking for money. I heard he split it between the three of them.”

  “Three? You mean he had a baby on Aunt Nic?”

  I have no idea who the other voice belongs to and as I open the door, the voice huffs and says, “The nerve of her. I mean really. Aliie-as,” the rest of my name ended in a stutter as I opened the door and came out.

  “I should be what?” I inquire of my older cousin's wife, Ebony. I've only met this woman like three times at family events when she and my cousin Jerimiah were dating back in the late nineties. “Janelle,” I greet.

  Her mouth drops wide open. “I didn't say anything,” she quickly defends.

  I'm just as quick with my response. “And you shouldn't. You should mind your business,” I scold Janelle and then turn my attention to the light-skinned hussy standing beside her. “And I don't even fucking know you like that. So, you definitely should keep my name and business from between them lips.”

  She rolls a set of slanted brown eyes and her neck. “Everyone in the family knows you weren’t speaking to your daddy and now here you go acting like you all hurt,” Ebony attempts to read me.

  I yawn. I'm tired but not tired enough for pettiness. Stepping up to the sink to wash my hands, I glance back their way. “You better get your sister-in-law,” I warn Janelle, “before I show her something else everyone knows about me.”

  “Alieas,” Janelle touches my arm. “I'm so sorry about your daddy.” She squeezes it before turning to leave.

  There are no words between them, but Janelle shoots Ebony the evil eye on the way out. Ebony follows her out, leaving me thinking that other funeral attendees were basically thinking the same thing.

  That I only came for the money.

  It couldn't be further from the truth. Money is the last thing I'm worried about. I had kind of already convinced myself that he'd cut me out of the will about five years ago.

  Shaking my head and yawning again, I dry my hands and leave the bathroom. I can feel several pairs of eyes staring at me as mine instantly scan the room for Carter.

  Distracted, they stumble over Tyree and my uncle James in what seems to be a deep discussion. My uncle looks a little intoxicated. Tyree’s brows are drawn close together, accompanied by a speculative scowl as he listens. With the intention to save him, I walk over in his direction only to be pulled into a hug by Justin.

  “Hey, Lieas. I ain't think I was gonna make it. Dej was gonna meet me, but Aubrey has a fever so she sends her regards,” he explains. He and his wife of four years just had a baby this year.

  Smiling, I hug him close. Over the years, he has become something like a brother to me but also a good friend, a male friend I cherish and whom I’ve technically never had intercourse with. His wife and I have spent several hours in one another's company. “I’m happy that you made it. And I guess I'll see Dej and Aub next time I come up.”

  “Yea, that’s cool. How you feeling?”

  I let out a long breath and hold my arms up to my sides. “Shitty. But you know me.”

  “It'll be alright,” he says. “I saw your moms and step—”

  His words a cut off by the sound of hell freezing over.

  “What did you just say?!” Tyree exploded as he stood towering over my uncle.

  My uncle James blinked and shook his head. Then he negligently flagged Tyree, “Don’t worry about it, boy,” he fumbled the words out. “I'm just talking out my head. I need to go sit down.”

  Frustrated, Tyree grabs him by the arm. “Nawl, come again. Repeat what you just said.”
<
br />   “What's wrong?” I jump in, nervous at what might happen next.

  Uncle James is the one drunken family member who always ends up getting put out of parties and family events because he can't hold his liquor.

  When I reach out to touch his shoulder, Tyree whirls his attention to me. “Did you hear him?!” he yells.

  As confusion settles into chaos in my mind, I shake my head. “What did he say? I… I didn’t hear him.”

  Tyree's face twists in anger. “He a fuckin’ lie. That’s what he said.”

  I can see it in my uncle's eyes that he realized that he'd made a mistake. And it’s too late to take it back. But he tried it. “I said I'm talking out my head. Now, go on, boy,” he warns Tyree.

  Shaking my head, I pull at his arm unsuccessfully and make direct eye contact with him. “Ty, he drunk. Don't worry about it.”

  “Lieas, get the fuck out the way,” he warns, kind of flinging me off him. There’s fire in his eyes, so I know that there is anguish in his heart. “What did you say, old man?” He grabs my uncle by the lapels of his suit.

  My uncle looks at Tyree then back over at me. “I told your daddy not to die with that shit on his heart.”

  Uncle Melvin steps in, but my uncle James just keeps talking. “He was a hardheaded, stubborn son-of-a-bitch. But he should've done right by you. Told you the truth. He loved your mother. He loved you. You made him proud, but I told him to tell you that he was your father.”

  Oooh shit. And just like that, a thirty-six-year-old secret tumbles from the lips of a drunk.

  Thirty-Eight

  Alieas

  My dream. Is it crazy to say that I can't decipher if my heart is pounding or if it has stopped beating completely? They’re two vastly different occurrences yet, at this moment, I can't be sure. They both have the same effect.

  “James, come on now,” Uncle Melvin huffs. “You need to stop that drinking shit.”

  “So, you knew too?” Tyree demands of Uncle Melvin as Briannah comes to his side as the commotion escalates to other areas of the room.