Living next door to the person you despise gives you a constant reminder to be better, to do better. My little brother, Tom, moved away years ago, and none of us have heard from him since he graduated college. Well, he did “call in” to the private funeral, but that hardly counts. His absence all these years was a strain on my mom, I’m sure, no doubt contributing to her early onset Alzheimer’s, even though he would never take responsibility for that, I’m sure. He’d rather hide in California, pretend none of us existed until there was a chance for an inheritance. Too bad, Tommy, too bad.
Who knows, maybe it wasn’t Tom’s fault. Maybe my mom just wanted to fade away from the ogre she had married and allowed to rule her roost. That could be the case. My hope back then was that it was contagious, the Alzheimer’s, that soon I’d see my father decline into a babbling, drooling mess. I dreamed about that too often, imagining his slip into helplessness as a just punishment for his crimes. It never happened, but that’s fine because the gas took care of it. It doesn’t bother me that I now live next to the house where my parents died, though as I mentioned, Mia thinks it ought to. Why should it? We all go sometime. It was their time.
As for my long-lost brother calling in to the funeral, that really happened. Mia and the boys and I walk into the funeral parlor, both caskets closed up in front, the rent-a-pastor standing stoically, awaiting our arrival.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the preacher said, nodding at us. “I’m sure you won’t mind that we have one more person here who wishes to pay his respects. Your brother, Tom, couldn’t be with us today in person, but he did want to participate in the service remotely.”
That’s when the preacher pointed to a cell phone propped on top of my dad’s casket.
“Are you kidding me? Tommy?” I managed before Mia grabbed my arm.
“Hey, big brother. How’s it going?” the cell phone said.
I tilted my head, the shock clearing at the sound of his voice. I knew why he’d made contact, but there was nothing left. I’d made sure of it. “I’ve been better, Tommy. Where are you?”
The cell phone voice laughed. “Same place as always, big brother. But now’s not quite time for small talk. Shall we get on with the service, then?”
I swallowed and shrugged as Mia guided me into the seat next to hers. The preacher spoke for what seemed to be no more than a minute and then it was all over. We said amen and I leaped up, grabbing the phone, pushing the button to get it off speaker.
“Tom, listen, I need to talk to you,” I said. I cupped my hand over the phone, my back to my family, my waist pressing against my dad’s coffin.
“There’s nothing left to say. I’m assuming you’ll split any inheritance that is left, as that’s customary and fair, but I suspect I’m not going to get anything. The pastor has my attorney’s information, if you do find it in your heart to share any proceeds of their estate with me.”
I kept my voice low, in control, and said, “They were totally leveraged. There won’t be a penny left after funeral costs. But why don’t we meet, talk about this in person?”
“Right. I figured you’d say that. Have a nice life, Paul.”
And the phone went dead. He’s a piece of work, that brother of mine. Crazy, too. I just wish I could get my hands on him, you know, to talk, brother to brother. I’ve tried to find him, but I have no idea where he is hiding. California is a frustratingly big state. I’m sure he’s having a happy little life. He sounded good. I’ll find him if and when I need to. He and I are survivors; we both escaped our parents, we just did it in different ways.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m being too dark on this special day, thinking about dreary memories instead of focusing on the moment here at this wonderful little community hugging the lake. Instead of thinking about my deceased father, who died before any cognitive slip could happen, unfortunately, I should focus on the bright orange sky proclaiming the sunset. Or smile about the fact that I’m up next to be checked out by the man with the yellow fingernails. Or I could congratulate myself again, for outsmarting the yellow-taloned dictator, for rising so far past him and his pungent reach.
Fingernails just like my dear old dad’s drum on the counter. “How you doing?” the man behind the cash register, Frank or not-Frank, asks. “Find everything you need?”
He is smiling at me, revealing teeth also yellowed from tobacco, like corn kernels dangling from his gums. Did I find everything I need? Well, no, of course not. Do we ever?
“Yes, just enough,” I say, flashing my pearly white teeth and cutting myself off before adding:considering I didn’t go to a real grocery store. Because even though that is the honest answer, I’ve learned people don’t often want to hear the truth. Some get their “feelings” hurt. As if a feeling could be hurt. Strange, us humans, stranger still. I’ve told you I’m a student of emotional reactions. And I’m an actor. I’ve studied how to imitate the reactions one is supposed to have: tears for sadness, or at least droopy eyes. Smile and twinkling eyes for joy. You know the rest. You’ve probably learned how to fake some yourself. I mean, are you actually as heartbroken about a friend’s dog dying as you say you are on Facebook? Come on.It’s a dog.Though I’m sure you probably feel more emotions than I do. I feel anger and lust, mostly. Sometimes, I must admit, I feel proud of myself.
“That’s it, then?” the man asks, as if the empty counter in front of him couldn’t answer the question.
“I’ll take a pack of Marlboros, red,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t smoke, never have. “Matches, too, if you’ve got them.” That was a gut reaction, an impulse purchase they call it. I wanted to feel a pack of cigarettes, his brand, in my hand again, to feel the power of crumpling the pack beyond smoke-ability. One of the tiny acts of defiance of my childhood. Oh, and I need matches. Always have a pack of matches on you, dear old dad told us, in case he needed to bum a light. We were his servants, Tommy and I. But in his defense, I’ve found it a good practice to have quick access to a flame.
“Sure,” the man says, reaching behind him to the locked cabinet, turning the key and pulling out the pack. He seems to look at me with renewed appreciation. We’re kindred spirits now, us smokers.
I slide my credit card across the counter, noticing the dirt and grime that years of packaged goods, plastic bags of vegetables, hands and sweat have ground deep into the countertop surface. I wonder how many different people’s DNA is represented here. The man swipes my card and hands it back. I wipe it on my jeans before putting it back in my wallet.
“Got another? This one’s been declined,” he says.
I feel that emotion, the fire spark. “Run it again. It’s an American Express. It has no limit,” I say. I swallow to keep my voice in check. There are two people behind me, soon to be more. I don’t look at their faces, just down at their shoes. The man behind me is a worker of some sort; he wears thick-soled tan boots and loose, stained khaki pants. Behind him is a woman with Nike tennis shoes and tight yoga pants. She’s a weekender, a vacationer. I know they see me as a successful business executive.
“Still no go,” the man says. “Just give me a different one—you’re holding up the line.”
We are no longer smoker comrades. “You’re probably doing it wrong, but fine, here,” I say. My voice is deep, angry. My jaw is tense. If I could see myself in a mirror, I know I’d see my father’s dark, angry eyes. I’ve given him the credit card I save for emergencies, as I must get out of here and back to my cottage. The emergency card is one I applied for six months ago; it’s just mine, not joint, but it’s almost tapped out. The offer came in the mail at the perfect time. This card has been fueling most of my life.
“Receipt with you or in the bag?” he asks, sliding the merchant copy across the counter for me to sign.
“The bag,” I say, signing with a jagged line, more of aPsquiggleSsquiggle than anything. My monogram is something I’m proud of, come to think of it: Paul Randolph Strom.PRS: almost a person. Just missing a couple things.I smile; the fire is dying and something like relief is washing over me. “Have a nice night.”
“Whatever, dickhead,” I hear a male voice say to my back. I know it’s the man in the work boots, because it isn’t the man at the cash register’s voice. I know working-man is jealous of me and my life: my closet full of designer clothes, my grand home on a treelined, sidewalked street, my beautiful wife who he is imagining in tight yoga pants. Probably, he’s tired of all of us, the wealthy city folk already clogging the streets and shops of his small town, and it’s not even Memorial Day weekend yet.
