by Nella Tyler
It was a strange feeling that caused me to feel bare and vulnerable and yet, the knowledge that it was Dexter’s eyes behind that stare made it fare more bearable.
“You know,” he added with sincerity as his eyes drew back, finally releasing me from his invasive gaze, “Being a teacher is perfect for you.”
“Thank you,” I responded cautiously, searching for a way to transfer the subject away from me and on to literally anything else. “So, tell me, what happened that landed you in the Santa suit?”
He chuckled and leaned back, breaking any remaining strands of serious intimacy his strangely direct stare had established.
“I was stupid,” Dexter admitted, though his eyes sparkled as though, whatever he was going to say to the contrary, in reality, he wouldn’t want it any other way. “So, do you remember Garrett?”
Instantly, my heart sunk, knowing where this story was leading before he said another word.
“Oh God…” I rolled my eyes and sank my head into my hands.
“Yeah...he…um, hasn’t changed a bit and with that said, the two of us were at a bar and he got in a fight after trying to pick up a girl who was already taken. In all fairness, the guy started the fight, not Garrett, but he was damned determined to finish it.”
“So, of course, you jumped in to help him and the cops ended up showing up?”
Dexter tried not to look proud but undoubtedly enjoyed having the bad boy story.
“Yup, and so I had to pull a few strings to get us community service with no other repercussions, but mine was in the mall, as Santa Claus.”
I tried not to laugh but the memory of him, dressed up as the jolly red guy, now backed by the reason behind it, was too much to stand.
“Yeah, yeah…” he hissed, narrowing his eyes. “Go ahead and laugh. I would if I were you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, the suit and the beard and…why didn’t you do something less…”
“What? Jolly? Cheery? Maybe I thought it would be fun.”
This excuse didn’t help the attempt to take this whole thing seriously and so I giggled into my hands and closed my eyes, trying to stop.
“Dex,” I breathed when I was certain I would be able to gain control of myself. Grinning widely, I placed a hand over his and brought it closer to me. “Seriously, this is Mazie you’re talking to. There is no universe where you would think that would be fun. I’m sorry, but jolly and cheery are some of the last two words I would ever use to describe you.”
At this, his brow furrowed and he pulled his hand out of my grasp.
“Wow…” Dexter teased, “I might not make the best Santa but damn, I didn’t realize I was the grim reaper.”
“I’m sorry but you know I’m right,” I allowed my shoulders to rise and fall carefully, trying to lessen the blow of my insult without conceding to make him feel better. “And I didn’t say grim reaper. I said not jolly. You have other qualities…” I could tell by his mocking expression that he wasn’t letting me off the hook for that one, so I changed the subject instead. “So, what’s the real reason you wanted to do this? Specifically, and why can’t I tell your dad, or my dad?”
Instead of acting continuing his joking persona, now he turned serious. His eyes shifted nervously and his jaw tightened.
“That’s the reason, Mazie. I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. My dad is being a real hard-ass lately.”
“Lately?” I inquired suggestively, which caused Dexter to crack a grin.
“Yeah, well, it seems like no matter what I do, it isn’t good enough, so if he finds out about this, I’ll never hear the end of it,” he grumbled and shook his head, leaning back in his chair before coming back to the table and continuing in an aggravated tone, “It pisses me off that I have to hide this from him because it’s no big deal. I’m guilty by association…mostly, and I’m not a fucking child.” He shook his head. “And you know, if he was trying to make me a better man, or hell, even a better businessman, that’d be okay but ultimately, it’s all about him.”
“Yes,” I sighed, “Unfortunately, your father has always been very selfish. It was strange, though, because growing up, he always talked about you as his heir, his ticket to retirement. It seems strange that he even stuck around this long.”
“I know, right?” Dexter grumbled, “I don’t know if he actually thinks I’m incompetent or if he really likes to be an asshole and he knows once he retires, he’ll have far less opportunities.”
I chuckled, realizing that it was strange for Dexter to be opening up like this. He never was this way and from what Laura told me, he hadn’t changed a bit. However, I could notice a change but I didn’t want to dwell on it.
It was probably only wishful thinking.
“So…long story short, I took the Santa gig in an attempt not to see anyone I know; which as you can see, worked out wonderfully,” he rolled his eyes.
“Hey, listen, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Your secret’s safe with me.” This time, it was me who made it a point to stare directly into Dexter’s eyes as I swore my allegiance to him, “I promise.”
Seeming as though he believed me, his expression relaxed and he changed the subject to something lighter.
The rest of the evening was wonderful and I was sure that Dexter genuinely had as great a time as I did.
We talked and laughed, both about our childhood memories as well as our present lives, and he didn’t even seem to mind me telling him stories about my classroom and my cat.
When I drink, I feel the need to be funny. Unfortunately, my strictly regimented life is not funny, and therefore, I improvise, poorly.
However, it was refreshing to be with someone comfortable enough with me to not only understand that but also call me out on it.
Even still, while I would have liked to believe that we were making a connection that rekindled what I believed to be genuine friendship when we were younger, I was hard-pressed to believe it implicitly. After all, he was a masterful conversationalist and could simply be putting on a show for me.
While I didn’t want to believe it, the cynic in me couldn’t help but wonder.
Still, when the night was over, Dexter walked me to my door like the true gentleman I knew his mother raised him to be and we stopped to say goodbye as I searched my purse for my keys.
“I had a great time tonight, Mazie. It was so great to catch up with you,” Dexter explained, “And I would like to see you again.”
By this time, I found my keys and stared at him, pretending to contemplate what he had asked.
I let the heavy silence drag on between us for a long moment before finally, I flashed a grin.
“Of course! That would be great!”
With that, I hugged him and hurried into my house.
Dexter
The next morning, I awoke feeling as though I had a hangover, although I had barely drunk anything.
Still, I knew there was a reason for the dragging sensation in the pit of my stomach, but immediately after waking up, I was lost to what it was.
It didn’t take long to figure it out, however.
When I looked at the date, my tepid headache blared and the sinking feeling I was experiencing nearly swallowed my heart whole.
Wincing, as though in actual pain at both the reminder of why I felt so drained and the subsequent actions that needed to be taken because of this day, I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned.
“Shit…” I grumbled aloud as my alarm blared in my ear. Growling at it, I rolled over and almost knocked it on the floor in the angered pursuit of turning it off.
While I was purposefully slow to get ready, apathetic about starting this day, I was eager to be done with it.
The only mercy I had left, I figured, was that today’s events would pass quickly, without leaving much room for anything more than paying our respects and leaving.
Yet, the idea of spending the entire day with my father was daunting, if not downright torturous.
However, try
ing to be the good son that I more often than not failed to be, once I was finally dressed, I slunk down to the garage and unlocked a black Sedan that I deemed morbidly appropriate for such an occasion.
On the way to my father’s house, I grabbed a bouquet of flowers and tried to put the reason for buying them out of my mind.
Afterward, I got back in the car and drove the rest of the way to my father’s house, dreading the destination more with every mile.
By the time I parked out front, my father was waiting.
He was dressed in an expensive black suit with tasseled loafers and a dark silk tie.
Standing there, with his closely cut white hair and the large blanket of flowers he held tightly, probably in an effort to look worthy of my pity, he looked as though I should be paying respects to him.
When I parked the car in front of him, got out, and approached him, he snarled and narrowed his beady eyes.
“Can you ever make it anywhere on time, Dexter?” he spat, but before I was able to say anything in my defense, he shook his head and continued, “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Today isn’t about you. Please, open the trunk.”
In lieu of retorting, I simply let my nostrils flare in anger and did as he requested.
By the time my father put the flowers in the car, I was already in the driver’s seat, ready to go.
My father, now relieved of the grave blanket, opened the door, got in the car, and was situated without a sound.
I didn’t instigate, knowing that wouldn’t solve anything, and simply started the car.
The drive from our house to the cemetery was only an hour, but in the deafening, strained silence, it felt like an eternity.
I hated the day of my mother’s death simply for what it was, but after three years, having to share the ride alone with my father was by far the worst part.
I missed my mother every day, but instead of grieving like a normal widower, my father insisted on making this pilgrimage to my mother’s grave on the day of her death, like it was supposed to mean something.
If he had chosen to do this on any other day—her birthday, Christmas, Easter, or even Valentine’s Day—I would have understood far more than him picking this day. Why he wanted to remember my mother on this day in particular, without even breathing a word about her any other day of the year and scorning me if I ever dared to try, was beyond my comprehension.
The cynic in me insisted that he chose this day simply because this was the day he lost my mother, and he doesn’t like losing. Therefore, by being with her today, he is in some way showing the universe that not even death could force him into an absolute reality that he didn’t want.
However, even for my father, that was a little pretentious. Although, aside from that, I couldn’t imagine why the hell he would want to visit her on this day.
Instead of getting up and making this trip, I would rather spend today, which I considered the anniversary of the worst day of my life, in bed, or drunk, so I didn’t remember it.
Yet, my father insisted on celebrating it, as if my mother cared.
I chose to believe that she knew who truly missed her and how they chose to remember her. My only hope for my father was that, whatever his reasons were for wanting to do this today, they were for my mother and devoid of any crazy vein of selfishness that he regularly associated himself with.
After all, Mazie was right: my father was selfish, in nearly every aspect of his life and yet, I still expected him to be different.
However, as I chanced a glance across the car, staring at my one remaining parent, while my mother’s memory weighed heavily on my mind, I realized that I wished a lot of things were different.
My mother was a wonderful human being. She was the only reason I developed even the smallest shred of decency. We got along great, and I always respected her. She wasn’t a pushover, but she was compassionate and understanding in a way my father was seemingly incapable of being.
Yet, the rift between my father and myself wasn’t new. It was inbred. He wanted me to be one way, and for whatever reason, he would never allow himself to tell me that I was doing anything right. Everything was a damn competition to him, and even if I brought home the gold, there was always more work to be done.
My mother, on the other hand, was more nurturing and encouraging. She wanted me to explore other avenues, both inwardly and outwardly, than simply being a business mogul. While she supported my father’s ambitions for me, they didn’t seem solely motivated.
It was no secret that she hated the way my father and I were always arguing. After all, she loved us both and wanted the best for her family, and we never made it easy for her.
Even on the day she died, my father and I had a fight, so I had to hear the news from our family’s lawyer because the stubborn ass with a heart of stone refused to call me himself.
In all fairness, I wouldn’t have answered, unless he had called from my mother’s phone, but perhaps that was even too fucked up for his sadistic nature.
Still, I resented him for it.
After all, not only did he not even try to call me, he flat out refused. Even at my worst, I would have put our differences aside to make a phone call and had I any inkling of what the call was about, I certainly wouldn’t have ignored it.
Yet, my father had never once tried to make amends for adding more pain to our already grieving family.
Thus, every year, in the silence of this damn car ride, instead of remembering my mother, I thought solely about her death and how poorly my father handled it.
I knew that if my mother somehow knew, she would give us both hell for being so stubborn, but as much as I wished things were different, I knew nothing would change unless my father willed it.
Therefore, I remained silent and the drive seemed to wear on forever.
A few times, I looked over at my father again, thinking that perhaps today was the day that we would patch things up. Maybe today, in the spirit of truly celebrating my mother’s memory, we would be able to give her what she had always wanted.
However, each time I tried to think of something to say, the thousands of times my father had said something hurtful to me, or worse, hadn’t said something when he should have, burned in my mind. These memories lit my heart ablaze with fury, and I continued to drive, unable to find anything more than anger to approach him with.
I wasn’t proud of it, and I knew my mother would be disappointed. Yet, instead of using the time we had left in our journey to try to be the bigger man, nothing assuaged my ire enough to allow a positive initiation.
Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, we pulled up to the cemetery.
I glanced over at my father as we turned in but his face remained emotionless, and that aggravated me.
He had dragged me out here, on the only day I had no interest in being here, to pay his respects; I figured the least he could do would be to show some damn sentiment.
Although, I knew I should expect nothing less from my father, and thus, I got out of the car, trying to shake the idea from my head. I was annoyed, sure, but that was the end of my feelings on the matter.
I walked to the back of the car and grabbed both the flowers I had brought and my father’s grave blanket.
The street was lined with trees, which seemed slightly out of place with so much death surrounding it.
Yet, the landscape was beautiful; despite the graves of course. Rolling hills and lush green grass made up the landscape, while perfect rows of well-maintained headstones line the whole of the cemetery. The only break is where the road severs into paths winding through the grass so that loved ones don’t have to walk too far to visit those that have moved on.
In silence, my father and I stepped up onto the patch of grass that paved the path to my mother’s grave.
Despite the mood being so dismal, it was a nice day outside; one my mom would have loved.
If she were alive, my mother would have wanted to spend such a lovely day at the beach, or shopping;
doing just about anything other than going to a graveyard.
After all, it was no secret that my mother was the spontaneous, fun one of the family. She was the one who forced my father to do something other than work and excelled in the pursuit.
My mother was the one person on the planet that made my father human.
I was reminded of that as we reached the grave and my father, expensive suit and all, sank to his knees and started to dust off the minimal amount of dirt on the headstone.
Once it was cleared off, my father turned back toward me and took the flowers from my hands. He placed the grave blanket carefully across the span of dirt that had long ago been covered by grass and set the bouquet I had bought against the stone.
When he was finished arranging the flowers in his own, precise manner, he put his head down, ceasing all movement.
His shoulders slouched and his body hung, almost as though in defeat in front of the grave, in complete silence.
When he did speak, it startled me.
“It’s hard to believe it’s been three years, today,” my father said in a gravely, raw voice that was filled with emotion.
I was surprised, both that he was speaking to me and the vulnerability he allowed his voice to possess.
As my father turned to look up at me, his eyes reddened slightly, not faring much better than his voice, I struggled to find something to say to him. I wanted to respond in a manner that might help our relationship and start to bridge the gap that we had always.
Alas, not for anger, resentment, or any other explainable reason, words remained completely lost.
Though I knew my chance was slipping away, seeping into the ground of the dead, likely never to arise again, for as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t come up with any suitable words to respond with. So, eventually, I nodded silently.
As if he had taken this as his cue, my father stood up, dusted himself off, and marched back toward the car.
“It’s time to go, Dexter. We have a long ride back,” he responded, and this time, his voice had returned to the emotionless shard of ice that encapsulated his everyday tone.
