Читать книгу Born in Syn - Beth Kander - Страница 12

After his father died, Howie had a lot of questions. But on the morning of the funeral, the normally talkative three-and-a-half-year-old was silent. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to listen. To pay attention. To remember. He wanted to know the word, funeral. What it really meant.

His grandmother Millie and his grandfather the Reverend were awake and drinking coffee in the kitchen when Howie woke up. When Millie asked him if he wanted her to make him eggs or bacon or pancakes, Howie shook his head and pointed at the pantry where the cereal was kept. He wasn’t talking. He decided that as soon as he woke up. He would be quiet (hushed, inaudible). When his grandmother fixed him a bowl of Cheerios, he avoided crunching them. He took them out one by one, letting the o’s dissolve in his mouth silently.

“Good boy, Howie,” his grandmother said every few minutes, absently. Like she was reminding one or both of them that they were still there. The Reverend said nothing throughout breakfast; his gaze was locked on his coffee, his jaw just plain locked.

The Reverend remained silent as he drove them to the funeral home; over the course of the short drive, Howie’s grandmother told him seven more times that he was a good boy. It was around the third time she murmured such a good boy that Howie wondered where his baby brother was. He knew his mother was at the funeral home already. Someone else must have Baby Nathan. But who?

As his grandparents ushered him to the front pew of the Bowen Family Funeral Home, Howie looked around to see where his mother was—if the funeral was starting, she should be there, next to him. She promised. Was she checking on Nathan? Howie’s brother probably shouldn’t be there for the funeral. He was usually quiet, but when upset, he’d let out an ear-piercing shriek that made everyone jump. Then Mommy would coo to the baby everything’s fine, everything’s fine.

But that was a lie, Howard suddenly realized. Everything was not fine. His father had died, and his mother had just let it happen. Just like that.

Why didn’t Mommy keep Daddy safe?

Howie used to think his parents were invincible. Maybe even magical. But his father was not invincible, and his mother was obviously not magical. Those were stupid baby thoughts. Howie grew angry at himself.

“Howie,” his grandmother said, patting his head too roughly, taking him by the shoulders and smashing his face into her soft stomach. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Smothered in the black polyester fabric of his grandmother’s dress, Howie hated hearing those words again: You’re okay, it’s okay. Those were lies. (Fibs. Falsehoods.)

“Quiet, Millie,” snapped the Reverend. “It’s about to start.”

Howie frantically pulled away from his grandmother, swiveling his head to find his mother. He wanted to ask his grandparents where she might be, but he also didn’t want to break his vow of silence for the day.

There she is.

Dressed all in black, face pale as the marble floors in the funeral home lobby, Howie’s mother made her way up the aisle. She looked thinner, older, not like herself. Howie almost burst into tears at the sight of her. It looked like all the joyful parts of her got left behind, and only the sad, tired parts of her showed up for the funeral. Like she was impersonating herself and failing.

She looks like a pseudo-Mommy.

She caught his eye. Desperate to do something, anything, to make her feel better, Howie blew her a kiss. It was something he’d seen his father do to cheer her up before. She stared at him, and tears began pouring down her cheeks. But then she reached up to catch the kiss, and held it to her wet cheek. Then someone walked up to her, blocking her from Howie’s view.

Howie started to panic, but then there she was, even sadder, paler, and thinner up close. Howie was relieved that at least his mother still smelled like herself. A little saltier; all those tears. It was Howie’s dad who taught him that tears have salt in them, telling Howie to lick his own tears after an uncharacteristic tantrum. That fascinating bit of information had ceased the tears immediately, and as Howie licked the briny sadness from his fingers, he filed away forever that tears were salty. It was one of the last things his father taught him, though not the very last.

“Howie,” his mother whispered. “You’re the only person I want to see today.”

The room was packed with people. And all of them seemed to want to talk to his mother. So he knew she’d have to see more than just him, but he decided against telling her that. It might just make her sadder. And anyway, he’d taken a vow of silence for the day. So he just moved a little closer to her, nodding. She put an arm around him, straightened her back and stared blankly at the front of the room, where a rickety old preacher-man was taking his position at the lectern.

“Friends and family of Ernest Fell,” said the preacher, looking out at the assembled. “We are united in mourning this sudden, tragic loss. Today we will remember the life of Ernest Fell. Ernest was a God-fearing man, who loved the Lord above all else. He carried Jesus in his heart.”

Howie was confused. He was pretty sure that his father loved him, and his baby brother, and his mother, above all else. His Daddy may have loved the Lord—he taught them the now I lay me down to sleep, pray the Lord my soul to keep before bedtime, and all. But he had never mentioned Jesus. Not to Howie. The little boy began to worry that there may have been some sort of mix-up, and that this preacher was accidentally sharing the details of someone else’s life.

Howie glanced nervously at the Reverend, who was staring forward, eyes locked on the preacher. Every few minutes, he sort of nodded. Howie then looked at his mother, her eyes damp with unshed tears. Howie was pretty sure she was not hearing a word the preacher-man said. She was too far away to listen. Her body was next to Howie, but her mind was somewhere else.

With Daddy, thought Howie. Wherever he really is, that’s where Mommy wants to be, too.

Not with me. With him.

“…and now, let us pray together for our Brother in Christ.”

The preacher gestured, and everyone rose. Squeaking pews and rustling shoes echoed dully in the funeral home’s bland sanctuary. Then the preacher did some sort of call-and-response prayer. Half of the assembled muttered along (the Reverend and Millie among the mutterers; Howie and his mother among the silent).

“We may be seated,” the preacher finally said, and everyone sat heavily. “Now. I’d like to take a few minutes to reflect more deeply on the life of our friend Ernest.”

Whose friend? Howie thought. Your friend? You never even met him. My father was not your friend. You’re a liar.

Howie decided, right then and there, that he abhorred funerals. He would live as long as possible, and die when he was an old man. But he would never want to have a funeral. He wouldn’t want anyone to talk about him when he was dead.

Because they’d probably get it all wrong anyway.