Vance and I decide not to wear suits to the funeral parlor. We actually share a laugh in the hallway thinking about Dad making fun of us if we wore them. He wasn’t even wearing one in his casket. One of Ms. Becker’s questions for us was what we wanted to have Dad wear. I remember Vance and I looked at each other and said, “Not a suit.”
Vance is still puttering around in the kitchen. I sit on the edge of my bed and continue wrestling with the same question: Should I put one of my sketches in the casket with him?
When Vance said he wanted to play the song for him, I’d leaned toward “Yes, I should put a sketch in,” but now that we’re about to leave and the whole thing is about to happen, I am unsure.
Would he want one of my sketches in with him for all eternity? He’d never seen one when he was alive—which has tortured me since leaving the hospice—so would he even like what I draw? The sheet is soft under my palms as I run my hands back and forth.
Maybe the gesture is for me, the living. Maybe Dad wouldn’t care one way or another. Having such an intimate part of me, such a secret and private part of me, tucked inside with him could be a small comfort…for me.
I reach for my sketchbook and thumb through.
“You ready? We should head out,” Vance shouts up the steps.
My heart knocks in my chest. “Be right down.” The decision of which drawing was made long ago. I flip right to the page. It’s Dad behind the bar at the Blue Mountain. There’s only one man sitting having a drink. Dad’s head is tossed back and he’s laughing. He didn’t see me come in that day. I wasn’t supposed to work but I hadn’t felt like going home. I’d planned to just sit at one of the tables on the restaurant side and do my homework. After a while, it became clear to me that no one knew I was there, so I started drawing.
I carefully tear it out along the perforated edge and hold it up. It’s folded and in my back pocket by the time I reach the bottom step. “I feel like we brought stuff to Mom’s. Are we forgetting things?” I ask.
Vance’s face scrunches. “We are. The zoo photo.” He heads into the living room to grab it. He holds it up, shouts, “Got it,” and high-fives me as he passes. The sharp smack of his palm on mine is jolting. We haven’t high-fived since we were kids. I was always jealous watching Vance and Dad share excitement like that. Hungry for someone, anyone to be happy to see me. And now my brother…my brother…is treating me like a friend.
I am not alone anymore.
I smile. “That T-shirt looks good on you.” He had on Dad’s beloved vintage Jamaican Red Stripe. Dad had been wearing it that day I’d sketched him laughing behind the bar. The T-shirt was faded yellow with a drawn beer cap in the middle of the chest. Across the top of the cap it said “Jamaica’s” in bold red script, and then in the center, it had a thick red stripe that ran diagonally with the words “Red Stripe” across it. In the bottom right of the cap, it said in block print “Lager Beer.”
After hanging up with Ms. Becker yesterday, Vance and I picked out what Dad would wear. Vance came up with the idea of us each wearing one of his favorite T-shirts. It was the best idea my brother ever had, and I told him so.
Vance looked down and rubbed his chest. “You don’t think this is the one we should’ve had him wear, do you?”
“No way. His Blue Mountain Lounge was his favorite.”
“You’re right.” Vance blew out his breath. “Dad would totally approve of that chili stain on yours.” He pointed to the center of my chest.
“That’s why I picked this one.” I’d chosen Dad’s Jamaican sunset silk-screen T-shirt that he’d bought from one of the West Chester artisans in town. He said he’d bought it at the very first West Chester Chili Festival, worn it, spilled chili on it, and then two days later I was born. The story, now that he’s gone, has taken on a different meaning for me. My father lived his life, stains and all.
I used to get angry with him for wearing this grubby, old, stained T-shirt. He would always tell me to lighten up.
Choosing this shirt is part of my plan to lighten up.