Grief is a miserable, ugly bitch. It wraps you up like cellophane, constricting you, trapping you in its suffocating embrace.
I haven’t moved much from my bed since I returned home from Brookdale the other night, hours after she had passed and her body was carted away for good. Jackie had to pull me from the bed as I just couldn’t let her go.
I still can’t.
I understand everyone’s time comes, and that she lived a full and healthy life for the most part, but it still doesn’t make the pain of her loss any easier to handle. It doesn’t make having to prepare to put her body in the ground any less heartbreaking.
Though I’d ignored most of the outside world the past two days, there were funeral arrangements to be made. I’m the only one here to do them—not that I’d want anyone else doing them regardless—and handling the subtleties of a funeral in only a few days is more work than I thought it would be. And much harder to get through. How terrible a thing it is that all you want to do is wallow when death rears its ugly head, but that’s really the last thing you can do. So many things need to be done first before you can even truly mourn.
This afternoon she will be put into the ground, with Grandpa, and dirt will be poured over her casket. And somehow, I’ll have to find the courage, the strength, to talk about this incredible woman’s life without completely losing it.
I’m slow to get ready, taking about an hour in the shower, seated on the porcelain floor and letting the water pour over me long after the hot water runs out, mindlessly cleaning myself when I can remember that’s what I’m in here to do, but most of the time is spent in recollection—poring over the days with Grandma and Grandpa when they were both alive and well, and my youthful, reckless abandon.
Without their guidance and support, I know it wouldn’t have been me burying each of them, but surely it would’ve been the other way around. I was a lost little kid before Grandma finally convinced my mom to let me and my brother Jared visit for the summer. My mother fought Grandma on it for years, solely for control purposes, but she eventually relented when I was eight years old and she realized getting rid of us for three months was a better deal than maintaining total control.
I was shocked when she delivered the news to us, two days before we were to take our very first flight ever to New York City; tickets provided by my Grandparents, of course, as they were every summer thereafter. The prospects of it were far bigger than my little mind could handle at the time, but the excitement was surreal. I felt like I was going to burst at the seams.
I hadn’t seen or gotten to know much of Grandma and Grandpa before then, beyond when they’d fly in for Christmas, so there were nerves involved too. They’d always been sweet to us, but what if they were like mom and dad when we were alone with them?
They weren’t, obviously, and the rest is history. And now, as I idly button up my white dress shirt, I can’t help but wish I had just one more day with them, together like they were, happy and so full of life. I can nearly taste the fresh sweet tea Grandma would keep out in the hot summer sun to brew for days—just the right amount of sugar added once it was finished. I can almost hear Grandpa cursing up a storm from his worn recliner as the Mets shit the bed again. I can almost smell the pot roast slow cooking in the crockpot, and I can feel Grandma playfully slap my hand as I tiptoe up to the countertop with outstretched arms to investigate.
I can remember the drive-in movies from the back of Grandpa’s old Ford pickup, and I can feel the popcorn being tossed back and forth between my grandparents who were still so in love, and never took life too seriously.
I can taste the salty tears as my grandparents hug me on the last day of summer, the knowledge of the goodness that had come over three months and the evil that awaited us back home all too clear. Grandma would pat my little head as we waited to be escorted through security, cradling me tightly in her arms and she’d whisper to me that it would all be okay, that the next six months would fly by, and she’d have something very special for me upon my return—always a book. And there was always Christmas, she’d remind me. It wouldn’t take that pain in my heart away, though, as my brother and I were led away from them, knowing that we were going from the best, to possibly the worst, scenario. And we could see it in Grandma’s eyes, too. There was an unusual level of tension in them; one we’d only see in those moments when we were headed back to Chicago, back to an uncaring household. Though we never talked about life with my parents with our grandparents, they knew. You could tell just from that look they’d give.
And then the pain would strike as we were led away, like an ice pick to my chest cavity, the air sucking in and out of the wound. It’s a pain that can’t be relieved. It’s what I feel right now, as I tighten my tie and slip my arms into my suit jacket—the pain in knowing I will never see either of them again.
I have very little words for Bobby as I climb into his SUV, and an awkward silence clings to the interior as he and Cassandra pass each other knowing glances in the front seat. Bobby’s eyes repeatedly flash to me in the rearview and he looks as if he’s about to say something, but eventually refrains and his eyes fall back to the road. He doesn’t think I can see him doing it.
“What’s up, Bobby?” I say, catching him with his eyes on me again. “Something on your mind?”
“I’m just worried about you, buddy. I know how hard this is on you. You know I’m here to talk… about anything. Get you out of that house, you know?”
“The last thing in the world I want to do is talk, man. You know that. I just need to… to…”
“Internalize shit?” Bobby finishes the sentence for me, though I would’ve used different wording.
“Yeah, probably,” I quip, my eyes trailing out the window as we cruise 495 on our way to the Long Island National Cemetery. I feel an uncomfortable pressure in my chest because I know Bobby isn’t done with me yet.
“You moved all those books back yourself. Didn’t even bother calling. I told you I’d help. Told you, you could use the car. I just don’t get it, bud. Why are you so against people helping you? Especially people who love you.”
“Robert,” Cassandra whispers, putting a hand to his knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. A squeeze obviously meant to say ‘shut the hell up.’
“It’s okay, Cass. Listen, Bobby, it’s nothing against you or anyone else. It’s not that I don’t want your help. It’s just, when I’m going through this shit, I don’t like being around other people, pretending like everything’s okay. Talking about random ass shit like my world isn’t completely falling apart. You know I get like this. I thought by now you’d just come to expect and accept it.”
“I wish I could,” he says with a slight shake of his head. “I really do. But I also know the way you’ve been doing it hasn’t been working for you. And as your best friend, I feel like it’s my duty to try and change the way you think, the way you operate, because I don’t think it’s benefitting you. It really isn’t. And what kind of best friend would I be if I just sat idly by and watched you fall apart?”
“You’d be a more manageable one,” I joke, forcing a smile.
“You picked the wrong best friend if you think you can mold me to your liking.”
“Ha! Sounds like somebody needs to take a bit of their own advice. Ain’t no molding me, my friend. I come untethered and free roaming.”
“You’re a pain in my ass, is what you are.”
“And what kind of best friend would I be if I wasn’t a pain in your ass?”
It’s the look I catch him passing me through the rearview that lets me know what he’s up to. And it’s the smile on my face that lets him know it’s working. He’s not trying to have a serious talk here. He’s just trying to get my mind on anything but what’s coming in an hour’s time.
When we pull up to the cemetery gates, a wave of anxiety washes over me, nerves tingling and heart pounding. My eyes dart from window to window, trying to get my first glimpse of her casket waiting for me to put it away for good. Grandma didn’t want anything fancy—no wake, no ‘hoity toity’ reception—just her, the casket, the dirt, and her awaiting husband. She didn’t want an open casket either. She was adamant about that, and though it pained me to abide by her wishes, I feel relieved in knowing the last way I’ll remember seeing her is lying peacefully in bed with her delicate hands folded together, a smile on her face, and her pale eyes on me. The happiness radiating from her as it did from me.
Cassandra’s hand on my knee shocks me at first, and then warms my soul. She’s never taken that step from ‘friend’s girl’ to ‘actual friend’ yet, and the look of sincere compassion on her face eases my flaring nerves a little. I plop my hand down on hers and give it a squeeze before looking back out the window, taking in the autumn leaves fluttering down onto the stones.
I’m taken back to Grandpa’s funeral, in this same cemetery, just a little over five years ago. I recall the drive in, Grandma clutching my hand tightly, her head resting on my shoulder and her tears wetting my shirt. I saw a piece of her leave that day, and she was never quite whole again.
Draped in black, a veil blurring her features, Grandma approaches the coffin, lifted up off the ground and open. Her eyes fall on my uniformed grandpa, the mess of medals and awards on his chest, the smile lines still ever-present in his now waxwork-like face.
She drops a hand onto his as we all look on—the preacher, a few friends of theirs still remaining, and my brother, of all people, who I never expected to see here. He looks disheveled, weary. My mother and father aren’t here, not that I’m surprised. The only way I even know how to contact my mother is through the lawyer who manages my grandparents’ affairs. He’s the only one who gets regular updates on her ever-changing whereabouts. Gee, I wonder why. As for my father, who the hell knows where he is right now? I haven’t heard from him in years, nor would I know what to do or say if either of them did show up.
I’m relieved it’s not something I have to worry about today. For today is my first introduction to absolute heartbreak. I haven’t stopped crying since he left us, cradled in Grandma’s arms, his ragged breathing leaving no doubt that it was his time to go. I’ve had to hide these tears though, forcing them down into an unseen compartment to be dealt with at a later time.
Today, I must think about Grandma and the loss she feels, the loneliness and pain a life without her true love is causing her. She is utterly destroyed, hardly the her she was before he left us. She barely speaks. Her eyes are almost always looking away from everything around her, taking in a world unseen by the rest of us. I still read to her every night, but there’s something different without Grandpa there in his bed, Grandma lying just beside him, squeezed in between him and the hospital bed barrier. The nurses never liked when she’d sneak onto the bed with him. They were worried she might hurt him. She was more worried about the disappointment in his eyes when she’d turn him down. He’d slap the mattress beside him weakly with a wrinkled hand, the oxygen mask covering his mouth, his voice long gone. She knew just what it meant though, and she fought it at first. But the eyes eventually won out. He just wanted her near him, and she wasn’t going to have it any other way.
And that’s how he went, her head nestled against his thin chest. It rose and fell with each strangled breath until it just… didn’t. It stopped, and she remained there, helpless and weeping until the doctors pulled her away. Her tears never wavered, and neither has the lost, weary look she now carries as she stares down at Grandpa in his casket. The cold autumn wind blows the tent above us, whipping it furiously; the gray, ominous sky toiling away above us.
It’s as if he’s speaking to us, letting us know he’s still with us; still the boisterous, grandiose presence he was before.
Grandma’s breath cracks as she fights through the tears enough to speak. She takes a thick swallow, her eyes scanning our little half circle around her before they land back on him.
“I’ve thought a lot about…” Her voice cuts off, her last word echoing off into the quiet distance. “A lot about what I might say today. Thought about it for a while now since John’s been sick.”
I move closer to her, standing just behind her and placing a hand on her shoulder as she fights through the tears. She glances back at me, smiling weakly and putting a hand over mine before continuing.
“There are those moments in your life… well, no better way to put it—they come up and smack you right in the face. It’s like God telling you, ‘don’t mess this one up.’ ‘Don’t ignore my signs.’ And when John was brought into that hospital, and I looked down on him…boy, let me tell you, he was a sight indeed. He still had smudges of black ash on his face and his hands. Blood, boy, it was everywhere. He was a real mess. But it was the eyes I saw. They spoke to me. John always had this unique way of communicating with just his eyes. So, he’s lying there on the gurney, looking about as sad as I ever saw a fellow look, and he grins at me, his eyes sparkling and full of life, as if he hasn’t just broken nearly every bone in his body. He nods at me, so dang sure of himself, and he says, ‘You’re gonna be my wife one day.’ Of course, my first response is, ‘You sir, have had too much pain medication.’ But he meant it. He never did leave me alone after that.”
She giggles, putting her hands to her mouth and shaking her head.
“He pursued me for a good six months after that. And eventually that dang charm of his and those dashing good looks did me in. As did his love and passion for life, you all knew well. And of all the ‘slap you in the face’ moments in all my life, that’s the one I’ll be on my deathbed remembering. His ashy, swollen face, and that one-of-a-kind smile. My grandson”—she takes my hand in hers again and pulls it to her cheek—“once told me the love John and I had was what romance novels are written about. It used to make me laugh, and I’d brush him off. But you know what; he was right. I met the most perfect man, and had the most perfect life anyone could ever ask for with him.”
The tears come down heavy now and I can feel them coat my hand. Grandma trembles against me. She chokes and gasps as a fit of sobs comes over her, and I do my best to steady her while my own tears come.
Eventually, steadying herself on the side of the casket, she leans in and kisses her fingers, setting them to his cheek. “Rest easy,” she says in a whisper. “I’ll love you ‘til the end and then some.” It’s what they always said to each other when Grandpa was heading out to patrol the streets of Brooklyn. It’s how she now says her very last goodbye.
I’m stirred back into the present by Bobby’s voice.
“Hey, Gavin, we’re here, buddy. You okay?”
I shake my head stiffly and fight through the pain in my stomach.
“It was five years ago she and I were here for Grandpa,” I mutter.
“I know.” His eyes fall as he turns back toward me, picking at his arm rest. “I was just thinking that myself.”
I take a heavy breath through the tightness in my throat, closing my eyes and forcing away the nasty knot that sits in my chest.
“Let’s do this,” I say, opening the door and hopping out, my eyes still closed tight as if I keep them that way I won’t have to face any of this—like it will all just disappear.
But it doesn’t. And when I open my eyes, I’m confronted by reality hitting me square in the face. Glimmering in the midday sun, which is drabbed out by thick autumn clouds, my grandmother’s coffin lies with a wreath of white roses on top of it—her favorite. Jackie is there, and for the first time, I see her in something other than scrubs. Her eyes are red and there’re bags under them. She passes me a tight smile as I near. There are a few others I recognize from the care facility alongside her, and Andrew and Javon stand just beside them. They approach me as soon as they spot us and pay their respects. I can hardly muster a ‘thank you’ through the tightness in my chest, but I try. To my benefit, they are succinct with their words.
I feel my legs go weak beneath me as I come closer to her coffin. Bobby’s paw lands on my shoulder as he attempts to steady me. Jackie, obviously recognizing my current state, walks over and takes me in for a hug, squeezing me tightly in her arms as her lips move to my ear.
“Feel her strength within you. Feel John’s, too. They are both here. They are both holding you up, strengthening you through this. You will always be a part of them and they’ll always be a part of you. Okay, baby?” she whispers, so quietly I can barely make it out, and then she pulls back from me, waiting for me to acknowledge hearing her. I nod my head, forcing a tight smile, and without much thought, I wrap her up in my arms and squeeze her.
“I love ya, lady,” I murmur, as I separate from her and inch my way to the coffin.
There’s a peaceful silence that follows as they wait for my next move. The pastor stands with his Bible in hand, patiently waiting for the go-ahead. Before I can give it to him, though, a rustle of leaves against the eerie silence pulls everyone’s attention, including mine. Looking back, I have to double take to make sense of what I’m seeing. My brother, Jared, chestnut brown hair with traces of gray, scraggly beard where it once was not, lumbers toward us, his eyes trailing the ground just before his feet. He’s got on black slacks and a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. A black tie hangs loosely around his neck, flapping in the wind.
He glances up just as I make my way toward him, my legs working almost outside of my control, the relief I feel in seeing him, the fuel.
“Fuck.” It’s all I can say when I reach him and wrap my arms around him. He hugs me back and almost immediately, the stoic face he carried when approaching becomes a mess of red, heated skin and tears running into his thick beard.
“I’ve missed you, brother,” he says, fighting through his hitched breathing.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it,” I say, still holding him tightly in my embrace, for fear that if I let him go, it’ll be another five years before seeing him again. “I never heard back.”
“First thing I did was buy a ticket. I just—I wasn’t sure if I could do it,” he cries, finally pulling back, but shrinking into himself, his eyes averting from my own as if he’s embarrassed to be seen like this. “Grandpa’s almost fucking killed me.”
I throw my arm around his neck and walk with him in slow steps toward the casket.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, big brother,” I confess, leaning into him and squeezing his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Gav. I should be thanking you. I should’ve been here years ago. I shouldn’t have made you do all this alone. I—I just…” I put a hand up to stop him.
“Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t even mention it. Not now. Not today. Today, we say goodbye to Grandma. Today, we honor her. Okay?” He nods, wiping the tears from his face as he digs a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and slips them on quickly.
I motion to the pastor for him to start. He clears his throat, nodding toward me before beginning.
“We are here today to pay our tributes and respect to a woman of God, a hero to this nation, a loving wife, mother, and grandmother. Grace Polcini was a shining light in every life she came across, a healing touch in the heart of a brutal war, a nurturing presence in the lives of her family. She is remembered…”
The pastor continues, but I don’t hear him. My mind is lost in the past, my brother and I just boys, playing with Legos in the middle of Grandma and Grandpa’s living room floor. The TV plays sports in black and white and the house is full of so many different wonderful aromas I can’t pinpoint just one. Books of all varieties and conditions line bookshelves propped against every available wall. The only smell that competes with those that permeate in the kitchen is that of the books. I was taught very early that that smell was to be appreciated, as were the dirtied, frayed pages between the covers. Grandma always had a philosophical view when it came to books. She saw them as living things, organisms that act as messengers, healers, saviors. And as they moved about, from bookstore to reader and back again, they carried with them the stories of their owners—and almost a power along with it. They spoke of a thousand stories beyond just the words between the covers. It’s why she loved secondhand books so much, the oldest ones meaning the most to her.
Many of the books she collected were hers and only hers throughout her life, and aged over the years in only her hands. But many more were picked up at secondhand stores, battered and pathetic things no one else would pay any mind. She did, though, and she’d carry them home in her tote bag with an honest belief that she was giving them new life, and helping to share the stories they’d picked up along the way. They were the same books I would later find myself drawn to, the ones that were beaten up, the bindings etched with fold lines, and nearly every page creased at the corner. These books and the stories inside them would one day evoke in me a desire, a yearning, to tell my own stories; to create an escape for readers as these books had done for me.
“…It is human nature to want to understand everything right this second,” the pastor’s voice becomes clear again, drowning out my fleeting thoughts. Has it been five minutes? Ten? I can’t be sure. He continues, “But trust requires leaning and relying on God and his destiny for each of us, even when things seem unclear. The Lord Jesus himself said, in Matthew, chapter five, verse four, ‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.’ Find comfort in knowing Grace, as a child of the Lord, has passed in peace, and lives on forever in the grace of God.”
He clears his throat loudly, drawing my attention, and he nods to me as he said he would when it was my time. “I’d like to now welcome one of Grace’s beloved grandsons, Gavin, to deliver her eulogy. Gavin.” He sidesteps and puts a hand up, inviting me to join him beside my grandfather’s headstone. However, I don’t move. I don’t know if I can.
Instead, I shut my eyes tight, and I speak from the heart.
“I wrote and rewrote what I’d say about a hundred times over the past two days. Nothing seemed to convey exactly what this woman means to me, what she meant to me, and how devastated her loss leaves me.” I take a deep breath, my eyes remaining closed and head dropping back as I swallow past the ache in my throat. I feel Jared’s rough hand wrap around the nape of my neck and it gives me the strength to continue.
“She lived life to the absolute fullest with my grandpa before he left us.” I motion to his headstone. “Their joy and zest for life was infectious. Their compassion, and kindheartedness, unsurpassed. After serving their country with great distinction, they both went on to a career in helping others, and not making much of anything doing so. But they never complained. They never brought work home with them or let it affect their marriage. They gave everything they had on the job, and put everything they had into their marriage back home. Beyond just the fact that they were two incredible human beings who gave their lives to others, I truly believe it was the undying love of these two beautiful people that saved me and my brother’s lives.” My eyes are open now, Jared’s hand on my shoulder, a new strength guiding me along. Tears fall down below my brother’s dark lenses, and he sucks in a breath as I continue. “They let us know it was okay to be ourselves, to have the feelings we were having, whatever they may be, and that we were worth the fight. No one fought for us harder than my grandmother.
“She loved us despite the pain we sometimes caused them,” I chuckle, giving my head a small shake. “Despite the annoyances we always caused them. They loved us with everything they had. And thanks to my grandma and her love of the written word, she inspired in me the dream of writing, and instilled in me the strength to chase that dream. I will never have a bigger fan than my grandmother.” I reach inside my jacket, pulling out the paperback I stowed there before leaving the house—the one I didn’t think would even make it out of my pocket. Staring at The Honest Ones in my hands, I’m brought back to that first time I handed the paperback over to her.
My eyes remaining on the book, I finish, “It took me about a year to build up the courage to tell my grandma I was using her love story as inspiration for a novel. I’m not sure what I expected from her, but her unwavering encouragement and belief in my abilities is the only reason I’m holding this book in my hands today. I can still remember the day I handed it over to her for the first time. The official paperback, the real deal… years after the day I first broached the subject to her. She had this look in her eyes, this pride, it—” I sigh, grabbing at my tie and biting down on my tongue to fight the surge of emotion. “It’ll stay with me forever. It’s not something I’ll ever forget.”
I take a few steps forward, resting a hand against her coffin as I hold the book in my other hand. I shrug, unlatching the casket and lifting the lid open slowly.
I fight the ache that roots itself in the center of my chest when my eyes fall on her. They billow with tears, clouding my vision before I can swipe an arm across them. I kiss my fingers and set them softly against her cold cheek with one hand before placing my book atop her chest with the other.
“You made this happen,” I whisper, my vision blurring from the tears again. “I will never ever forget you. For you, I will never stop fighting to feel better.”
I take her in one last time, my heart pounding in my chest as I lower the lid closed. Latching it up again makes the finality of this all too real, and I’m hit with another bout of tears. I turn and wipe my eyes when I see my brother and Bobby come up to me, offering me their hands. I grab them and pull them in, hugging them as the emotions rip right through me.
I had more to say, but I can’t. Jared, instead, says a few words of his own as Bobby and Jackie console me near the back, away from the rest of them. Embarrassed as I may be in this moment, I can’t help the well of tears that come, one right after the other. My erratic breathing is the only real noise I make as they give me the usual, ‘It’s going to be okay’… ‘She’s still with you’ stuff, but I pay it no mind. It means nothing to me in this moment. Instead, I focus on the warmth of Jackie’s bosom, her arms giving me compassionate little squeezes. I concentrate on Bobby’s hand on my shoulder, and his nurturing grip.
I close my eyes as each person begins placing a white rose on her casket.
My body trembles as it comes time to leave my own. I do so with a hollow ache in my chest.
I walk haphazardly toward Bobby’s SUV when it’s all said and done. I don’t know anything in this moment but heartache. I feel nothing but a sickness sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach. Halting in my tracks and giving my head a quick shake, I motion to Jared.
“How’d you get here?” I ask him, weakly.
“Uber. From the airport.”
“When do you fly back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
I wave him forward as I continue walking after Bobby and Cassandra. “Come with us,” I say just as Jackie meets me at my side.
“I need to get back to my shift. You gonna be okay, love?” she asks, setting a hand to my shoulder.
“I’ll be okay, Jackie. I just need time.”
“Don’t be a stranger. Okay, baby?” she says, rubbing my back, fresh tears building in her eyes. “You’re like family to me. Whether it’s the same for you or not.” Her last words are greeted with my arms over her shoulders and I pull her in close.
Whispering into her ear, I vow, “You are family. Always have been, always will be. I love you, J.”
“Love you, baby,” she says, drifting off toward her car. “Good seeing you again, Bobby, and meeting you, Jared. You all take care, you hear,” she calls out to my brother and Bobby and they wave back at her with tight smiles.
“See you soon, Momma J,” Bobby says, unlocking the SUV and opening Cassandra’s door for her.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” my brother mutters in his usual quiet reserve before hopping into the backseat with a grunt.
The first thing I do upon entering my loft is head for the refrigerator. I pull out a bottle of Fireball and snap it down on the counter. Jared is halfway through removing his jacket and his eyes are fixated on the monstrous bookshelves.
“Wanna shot?” I ask, and his eyes trail over to me as he tosses his jacket onto the coat rack.
“What do you think?” he responds, his lips curling into a smile. “I need a drink. That was—”
“Shit,” I interject, pulling two shot glasses from the cabinets and two cold ones from the refrigerator for chasers.
He approaches the counter as I pour the shots and slide a beer toward him. I nudge his glass forward with mine and he wraps a cracked hand around it. I hold mine up, steadying it out in front of me, and wait for Jared to lift his own.
As he does, I say, “To family,” and he nods, throwing back the shot and setting the glass back down. He lets out a loud ahhh and wipes his thick beard with a hand as I take my own shot. I drop the glass down onto the table. With the cold beer wrapped in my fingers, I eye my brother and wait for him to turn to me. His emerald eyes are locked onto the floor, though, as he continues running a hand through his beard. He’s got these effortless good looks I’ve always been envious of, and it always shows the most when he’s deep in thought, looking all contemplative and shit.
He finally glances over at me and I take a second to analyze his face. There’s a faint set of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, as can be expected when you’re pushing forty, and some thick frown lines camouflaged by his beard. Even with that, his good looks are still intact and with his beard the way it is, he looks like an older Jason Momoa, without the muscles. His skin has always been darker, lusher, with the typical Sicilian olive hue that somehow missed me.
He grins awkwardly as he picks nervously at his beer label. “What?” he asks, scrunching his brows.
“Where the hell have you been, man?” I ask, the words coming out freely. His eyes drop and shoulders slouch. “You could’ve visited, you know? She needed you.”
“She didn’t even remember me, Gavin,” he shoots back, his eyes locking on to mine.
“She did for a while there. And what kind of excuse is that anyway? She’s the only one that was ever there for us, outside of our grandfather, and you left them both in the dust. You left us all in the dust.”
He shakes his head, his hands meeting his hips, and crinkles of annoyance line his forehead. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here with you. I knew it’d turn into a bitch fest,” he says, taking a heavy chug of his beer. “You’ve always been all over my ass. News to you, little bro; that’s not how this works.”
“Don’t give me that tough guy act, Jared. I didn’t bring you back here to bitch at you. I brought you here to catch up. And part of catching up involves me asking you where the hell you’ve been. Five years, bro. It’s been five years since I saw you last. I don’t even know how long it’s been since we last spoke.”
He throws his arms up, scoffing loudly. “What do you want me to say here? My life is fucking shit, bro. I’m broke, can’t seem to find the damn energy to fight for anything, and about ready to call it quits. Is that what you want to hear? Does that make you happy?”
I rear back a little, eyes widening as his words surprise me. I had no doubt he was struggling, but didn’t think it was as bad as he’s portraying it to be. “Of course not,” I respond, shaking my head. “I don’t wish for anything negative on you. I just wish you had cared enough to come back. Cared enough about them to see it through to the end.”
“I couldn’t fucking watch them deteriorate, Gavin. I couldn’t watch them go out like that,” he cries out, his face a deep shade of red. “It fucking killed me.”
“You don’t think it killed me, too? To watch every day as disease took both of them away from me, piece by piece…” I put a hand to my heart, softening my tone a bit. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Jared. I’m sorry. That won’t bring either of them back, and certainly won’t change a damn thing. I guess I’m just pissed because I know that you’re gonna head out that door tonight, you’re gonna get on that flight tomorrow morning, and that’s gonna be it. There’s no one else left to die. No more funerals to attend. I’ll never see you again.”
“There’s always Mom and Dad’s,” he says, his lips turning up into a grin, an eyebrow arched.
“Ice cube’s chance in hell I attend either of those. For all I know, Dad’s been dead for years anyway. He’s probably hanging from a belt in some Mexican barrio somewhere. Fuck them. This isn’t about them. This is about us. You’re all I got left, bro.”
He rolls his eyes, waving me off and says, “Oh shut up. I’ll be back to visit.”
“You’re lying through your fucking teeth,” I gripe, chugging my beer and wiping a forearm across my lips. “You wanna smoke?” I motion toward the back door with my head and his eyes light up.
“You bet your ass, I do.” He chuckles. “You always could be counted on when it came to weed.”
I shake my head as I lead him to the back door. Looking over my shoulder at him, I mutter, “I don’t think that can be considered a compliment.”
“I wasn’t intending for it to be.”
Jared loosens his tie and pulls it over his head as he sits in one of the wrought iron chairs beside the table in the garden. He smiles wide as his eyes land on the tin cigarillo case on the table.
“I know that case,” he says. “Why do I get the feeling it’s not a change purse anymore.” Grinning, he lifts it up and opens it, his googly eyes taking in the joints that fill it. I’m a creature of habit, and I’ve had this old cigarillo tin case since we were kids, though it used to hold change in the days before my delinquency.
“How are you not fucking cold?” I ask, shivering as I take a seat and swipe the tin from his hands.
“I run hot. You know that. Fucking gift from our old man.”
I laugh, nodding in agreement. “I always say that. I get that tendency to overheat from him too, but shit, it’s cold as fuck out here. And you’ve lived in Texas forever.”
“Well”—he stifles a laugh, putting a hand to his mouth—“you always have been a bit of a pussy,” he says, bursting out into a fit of laughter.
I shake my head as I slip a joint in my mouth and light it. I take a heavy drag, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing it in his direction. His nostrils flare and eyes dramatically roll white as he sucks down the smoke.
“Enjoy that secondhand shit, big bro. You’re not getting any of the real stuff talking that ‘pussy’ nonsense.”
He rears his head back, his lip curling. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, his lips transforming into a smile.
“Watch me,” I respond, taking another delightful puff of the cannabis stick and blowing smoke right back in his face. I reluctantly hand the joint over when he crosses his arms in defiance, and he’s quick to reach out and snatch it.
He puffs away on it as I scrutinize his actions. Much of his demeanor—gestures, body movements, speech patterns—is a carbon copy of my own. It’s such a strange thing how two people can be so alike, having spent so much time apart.
Jared never could look at my mother the same way after what Uncle Joe did to us. He rightfully blamed her and as soon as he was old enough to leave the house—which happened to be sixteen, in his case—he did. He left with a girlfriend to move down to San Antonio with her family and escaped the house of hell we once shared. Being four years his junior, I was left to fend for myself as Dad’s alcoholism got worse and Mom’s mental illness intensified. He became a man searching for a new life in a far-off place, while I fought for normalcy in my adolescence back home without him.
I never really blamed him for hightailing it out of there, though I often did so vocally. If I had the willpower to escape before I did, I would have, but at the end of the day, all jokes aside, what my brother said is true—I have always been a bit of a pussy; always shied away from those things most challenging. I’ve always seen the sliver of good in the worst of people. For the longest time, I believed Mom could change. If it hadn’t been for Grandpa’s deteriorating health, I may still be there fighting for her wellness—even if she had given up on it herself long ago.
The best thing that ever happened was getting away from her, out from under her controlling grip, and learning so much from my grandma in the short time I had with her before the Alzheimer’s took control.
It saved me.
“Things haven’t been as easy for me over the years as you’d like to imagine.” Jared returns to our earlier conversation, handing the joint back over as a swirl of smoke drifts around his head.
“I never assumed they were. I always figured they were as ugly as my last few years have been. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ and all that shit, right?”
“Yeah.” He scoffs. “Something like that. Do you ever talk to them anymore?”
“Mom and Dad? Fuck no. You do?”
“I used to, a lot more. Haven’t in a while.”
“Where the fuck is Dad, anyway?”
“Last I talked to him, he was still in Arizona, doing time for armed robbery.”
“That motherfucker’s in prison?” I ask, eyes wide and mouth gaping, though I’m not sure why I’m so surprised. I pass the joint off and he eagerly takes it, his eyes already glossy and bloodshot, an unwarranted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“The past three years now, as far as I know. Last letter I got from him was about that long ago.”
“And Mom?”
“Haven’t spoken with her in about two years. Not since the last time she needed something. She can’t get it through her head that I don’t have the money to give.”
“Hence, why neither of them have my number or address.”
“You sent them Grandma’s funeral information though, right?”
“Yeah. Mom at least, but I’ve had a PO box since I released my first book. Over my dead body, she gets my real one. I honestly don’t know how you even still talk to them.”
“It’s complicated, little bro,” he replies, squinting through the thick smoke as he dabs the joint out in the ash tray. “Before you came around, and when you were still a baby, things were different around the house. Happier. Not saying you caused any of what came to be.” He chuckles, putting a hand on my elbow and shaking his head. “No, they were just different.”
“I honestly just think you’re misremembering things. I can remember thinking our parents were normal, too, when I was younger. It’s when you get a little older, a little wiser, and you’re able to see what a good parent really is that the façade comes crashing down. You know what I think the real reason is you can stomach still having them a part of your life in some capacity?”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re gonna tell me anyhow?”
Ignoring him, I proceed. “It’s because you got the hell out of there when you still had a bit of your sanity intact. The shit didn’t rub off on you as much as it did with me.”
He scoffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “Brother, you always have and always will hold a grudge against me for leaving, but you gotta understand, it wasn’t much easier for me. I was sixteen years old when I left, and had to become a man. I moved to a place I didn’t know with a woman I kinda hated. I started working construction because it’s the only shit I could get on and I never looked back. This ain’t no life to write home about. How I see it, you got things pretty damn good here, Mr. Book Writer,” he says, a bite to his tone, as he motions his hand around the garden.
“I can’t help that I grew up with reading and writing as my only escape. ‘If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others…’”
“Yeah, yeah, read a lot and write a lot. Let’s not forget who handed you your first King book.”
I smirk, having forgotten that he was in fact the one who turned me on to Stephen King in the first place, when he gave me his copy of Carrie at the ripe age of ten. It scared me shitless and I’ve been hooked ever since.
“So, construction still, huh?”
His lips are pressed tightly together, his brow scrunched as if he’s taken offense, though I didn’t mean any.
“Yeah, when I can get it. And roofing, siding, mowing people’s fucking lawns… whatever brings the money in. It’s a dream, man, let me tell ya. Not many people are trying to hire a felon these days.”
I nearly choke, my eyes wide as I make sense of what he’s just said. “A felon since when?”
“Better part of two years, brother. I served eight months and some change back in 2015.”
“For what?”
“Aggravated assault.”
“Fuck me, bro. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that? I could’ve helped somehow. What the hell happened?”
“Bar fight. I went ape shit on the guy. And what the fuck could you have done? Broken me free?” He laughs loudly. “I was the dumbass who got drunk and found myself a fight. I earned the time, fair and square. ‘Sides, they cut me a pretty good deal.”
“I’m just…” I shake my head slowly, my eyes falling to the stone patio as my mind runs wild. “Just feels like I’m sitting across from a stranger right now, you know? It’s fucking sad.”
“It’s fucking life,” he retorts, standing from his chair and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “Mind if we move this party inside? Now, I’m fucking freezing.”
I grin, nodding as I join him standing.
“Fucking pussy,” I mutter.
Once inside, he cuts right toward the couch and I go left for the fridge to grab more beer.
“Hey, how about you bring that Fireball with you, too?” he asks with a sly smile and I swipe it with my free hand as I pass by, the two beers held between the fingers of my other hand.
I set the bottles down on the coffee table before plopping back into my seat. Jared takes the Fireball, twists the cap off, and throws the bottle back, taking thick chug after thick chug, until a quarter of the bottle disappears. He sets it back to the table and lets out a pleasant groan.
“Jesus, Jared. Take it easy.”
“That is me taking it easy,” he smirks, grabbing the beer bottle from the coffee table and lifting it to me in a pseudo cheers before taking a big drink of it as well.
“You could always come up this way, you know. I don’t have a whole lot of money, but there are some things around the house that need fixed.”
He grimaces, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a temple stiffly. “I got no interest in being your paid bitch boy.”
I roll my eyes before narrowing them on him. “That’s not what I meant,” I say, retrieving my beer from the coffee table. “Not what I meant at all. I’m just saying, it would be good to have you around more. As much as you piss me off, I’ve kinda missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Gav, but unfortunately, a cross country move ain’t in the game plan for me.”
“And why not? I could help you out.”
“I don’t think so. I got the kinda problems can’t nobody help with.”
“Try me.”
“Well, I imagine your first roadblock would be Arlene and the baby growing inside her belly.”
“Is this real fucking life right now?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air. “Just gonna hit me with all the bombs today, huh? First, prison. Now, what, a wife and kid?”
“Ex-wife.” He’s quick to correct me. “I ain’t with that bitch anymore, but as of six months ago, we’re gonna be linked for life.” Jared grunts, his distant eyes trailing to the Fireball. “Leave it to a little bit of alcohol and a lot of pent up frustration to get me back inside that pussy. Sweeter than pie, but the bitch who owns it…” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Succubus.”
I drop my head in my hands, letting my palms run down my cheeks until they fall back to my sides.
“Don’t you worry yourself, little brother. I’ll be alright.”
“I just don’t even know what to say.”
“Ain’t much that needs saying.” He shrugs. “In three months, I’m gonna be a daddy, whether I’m ready or not.”
“Boy or a girl?”
“She won’t tell me. Anything she can hold over my head, you better believe she takes advantage.”
“That’s so fucked.”
“That’s Arlene. The pride of fucking Texas. She’s hellbent on making me pay for that divorce.”
“How long were you with her.”
“Year, total. Six months married, just about.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
He chuckles, shrugging as he finishes off his beer and replaces it with the bottle of Fireball on the coffee table. “I was thinking, ‘damn, that pussy is sweet, her daddy’s rich, and she’s got a heart of gold.’ The first two were legit. The last one, well, I found out the hard way, her heart’s blacker than asphalt.”
“Alimony or anything like that?”
“Nah, we weren’t together long enough, and besides,” he cackles, “what the fuck is she gonna get out of me? Now, child support… that’ll be interesting.”
“Maybe you could stay up this way for a few months until the baby comes. I mean, I’m assuming she’s not letting you be involved with the pregnancy.”
He confirms with a nod.
“So, stay up here for a bit, make some money, and forget about some of the bullshit for a bit.”
He shakes his head. “Ain’t that easy. Can’t just up and leave Texas. I’ve got obligations.”
“Until that baby comes, what kind of obligations do you have down there? I mean, really?”
“Just don’t try and make a big deal about this. I’ll be up to visit more, honestly.” From the look on his face, I don’t think he even believes the words coming out of his mouth.
I nod, lips pursed and thoughts running, as he takes a drink of Fireball again, straight from the bottle. “Well, just think about it, alright? I mean, really think about it. I’m gonna grab a nap, that joint did me in, but you wanna hang out here for the night? Maybe grab a late bite tonight and brunch tomorrow before your flight?”
“I fly out real early,” he responds.
“Late dinner, then? And spend the night, please. There’s no need for you to pay for a hotel room.”
He hesitates for a moment before eventually nodding. “You got it, little bro. Go get some sleep. I’m gonna polish off this Fireball.” He holds the bottle up as his eyebrows dance.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave some for me for when I wake,” I joke, rising from my recliner. Heading toward the stairs, I turn back and say, “I’ll see you in a few hours, bro.”
He grunts, winks, and digs at his crotch. “Few hours, indeed. Rest easy, Sleeping Beauty.”
When I wake, I notice darkness has overtaken the loft, which means I likely overslept. I one eye the alarm clock and it reads eight-twenty. I lumber out of bed with a groan and search blindly for the side table lamp’s pull string. Finally locating it, I flip the light on and bat my eyelids as my vision adjusts. Slipping on a pair of basketball shorts, I walk toward the stairs and proceed down them.
As I reach the bottom, I say, “Hey fucker, sorry for sleeping in. You ready for some—” I’m cut off by an empty room. A row of empty beer bottles is lined up against the edge of the coffee table and the Fireball bottle—finished off, as promised—sits just before them. There’s an eerie silence around me.
My first stop is the bathroom, but it’s clear Jared’s not in there as there’s no light filtering out from the cracks. I knock anyway, calling out his name with no response. Inching the door open, I find it empty as suspected. Next, I check the garden—nothing. I don’t have his number, haven’t in years, so there’s no contacting him beyond email or good old-fashioned snail mail, which does me no good here. I’m hoping he simply ran out of patience and went out for a bite. Though, as I sit down on the couch and flip on the TV, my gut tells me what I already know—he’s gone, hightailed it out of here again. It’s what he’s best at. I wait anyway, if for nothing more than to be proven right.