Since Dad’s service is private, the funeral director leads me and Vance directly to the room where he’s laid out. We pass by the large room where Mom had been laid out. I shudder. Vance looks away.
With Mom, I remember the three of us in a small room in the back. We were given some private time with her before they brought her into the big room. It was in that room that I popped one of Mom’s antianxiety pills. My choice was, take it or not be there for her viewing. I’d been dangerously close to passing out ever since I’d woken up that day. Sometimes I regret not being completely aware that night. Other times I’m thankful I was at least physically there. I’ll never be at peace with it.
The funeral director is a somber, yet kind guy. He’s really tall and completely gray. I’m wondering the same thing as the last time I saw him: How does he get his dress shoes so shiny? He opens the door to a much smaller version of the room Mom was in. Besides the baby-blue tone of the room, I don’t notice anything but Dad’s open coffin.
The shiny-shoed man walks us in, and we stop about five feet away. “If you’d like to place anything in the casket with your father, boys, you don’t need permission. Just go ahead and put it in there.”
Vance walks up to Dad and lays the family photo near his head. I nod to the guy, and he asks how much time we’d like before allowing our guests to come back. Hearing him say “our guests” causes a jolt of anxiety. I thought it was just Joey and Bill. I can’t handle anyone else. “Just Joey McSweeny and Bill Peterson, right?”
“That’s still up to you gentlemen. More are welcome, if need be,” he says.
Vance turns around. “No, just those two.”
“As you wish,” he says. “I’ll close the door on my way out, but my office is right across the hall when you’re ready.” He does as he says and gently pulls the door shut.
“He doesn’t look that bad,” Vance says.
I crinkle my face.
Vance responds to my cringe. “His skin looks healthier now than when he was alive at the end. Come look. I’m serious.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder and gaze upon our father’s body. He actually doesn’t look as bad as he did in the hospice. “You’re right.”
“Right?” he echoes. After we silently stare at Dad, out of the blue Vance blurts out, “Do you think Mom crashed into the tree on purpose?”
That question was something I’d toyed with after she was gone. “No, I don’t. She’d never have left you and me on purpose. It was an accident.”
“But you weren’t there during their last fight. It was brutal.” Vance’s voice is a whisper. “What if he pushed her to the edge?”
I look at my brother as his layers fall to the floor.
“He did push her to the edge, Vance. But she didn’t jump. I know it right here.” I pat my heart. “She lost control of her car by accident.”
Vance turns away and cries into his bent arm. I wonder what Dad must think of us, standing over his body discussing the possibility of Mom committing suicide because of him. It’s not right.
With his back still to me, Vance says, “I’ve been wrestling with that question since her burial. Probably thought about it a thousand times—I don’t know, maybe more. I wish I’d asked you a long time ago.”
When he faces me, I nod. Words seem like too much right now.
Again we stand side by side, grasping the side of Dad’s casket. My brain drowns as I reminiscence about moments from my childhood, small moments—Dad putting a Band-Aid on my knee after my bike wipeout, Mom quizzing me with math flash cards, the Christmas morning I had a fever. Each memory slices my heart. I close my eyes.
Love is the emotion that rips you up memory by memory.
The statement tumbles around, bumping into everything, and I’m laser-focused on the word “love.” My mother’s love was never in question; it was always Dad’s. There was no doubt that he failed to understand me, never took the time to, but his love…
I study his body, starting at the hands. Flashes of him pop—him bustling around behind the bar, making drinks, pulling beers, working hard.
Working hard.
Working hard.
Working hard.
The words repeat.
Dad worked hard for me, for Vance. Our bursting college funds are proof. Our house, clothes, food, all additional evidence. Maybe providing was how he loved me. Instead of telling me, he showed me, subtly. The words were always buried for him. It was complicated.
I don’t want my memories to shred me. They need to hold me together. This, I believe, is within my control. It has to be.
I stand up straight and force myself to be present. Vance is right. Dad’s skin does look better. But unlike Mom, who looked as if she was going to sit up any minute, he’d lost a lot of weight since his accident and his hair was thin and patchy. Ms. Becker had called yesterday with a question from the mortician who wanted permission to give Dad a haircut. Vance and I had looked at each other and shrugged. I told Ms. Becker that was fine.
So his hair is nice and tight to his head. No one would ever know he had lost so much just before he died.
“The haircut was a good move,” Vance says.
A warm tear glides down my cheek.
“Should I play the song?” he asks.
I nod.
Vance pulls out his phone. He taps the screen until the soft organ sounds that open “Many Rivers to Cross” float into our ears. We look at each other, both with dripping, broken faces. He lowers the phone and holds it to Dad’s ear just as Jimmy Cliff’s haunting voice sings. Without qualms, I put my arm around Vance’s shoulder. He tosses his around mine.
We choke on our sobs. We squeeze each other’s shoulders. We listen as Jimmy Cliff serenades our dead father.
We do all these things together. As brothers. Finally, finally as brothers.
I am not alone.
• • •
Vance and I pull into our driveway. Jacque Beaufort is sitting on our back steps. She stands and gives us a little wave.
Vance turns to me. “Did you invite her here?”
“No,” I say, my face no doubt drained of color.
“Shit. I don’t have it in me to talk to anyone.”
My feelings are identical, but it is Jacque Beaufort, and she is standing in my yard. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Cool. Thanks.” He accepts a hug from her and then excuses himself.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” She tucks her hair and rests her hands on her neck. “I went to the funeral home, but they said the service was private so I came here and waited. I’m so sorry, Oscar.”
“Thank you.” The fact that she made the effort to go to Dad’s service makes my heart swell. That gesture is like a spotlight on her kind heart. And she’s here, in the dark, waiting for me.
My brain could detonate with these facts.
“How are you doing?” she asks. Before I can respond with awful, shitty, destroyed, she smacks her forehead. “Stupid question, Oscar. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” My brain is short-circuiting with pain and confusion, shock and longing.
She holds out her arms, and without hesitation I walk into her embrace. It’s warm and perfect. She squeezes me tight and rubs my back. “I’m just so sorry.” We stand, wrapped up in each other, for what feels like centuries, each second full of exactly what I need: acceptance.
Jacque gently kisses my cheek before pulling away. “I’m here when you need me.”
My knees buckle as I step back. Jacque Beaufort just kissed me. I want to rub my face, but that would be weird so I stand like a statue instead. Equally as odd, certainly.
I nod and whisper another thank-you.
It’s like she knows not to push me to talk. “Go see if you can get some sleep. I’m sure you guys are wiped out.” She heads down the driveway, turning back once she reaches the sidewalk, and we lock eyes.
Jacque has never looked more beautiful to me.