Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  Freaking out while sandwiched between Dad’s bed and the chair wasn’t something I’d planned on. It just came over me. I did not want to meet Thomas.

  Like an imploding building, I fell to my knees. The crook of my arm captured my sobs. Peggy sat in the chair I’d just been beating the shit out of and whispered, “If you are hurting deeply, it’s because you loved him deeply.”

  That made me pause. And then a crapload of questions attacked me rapid fire: Why does this nurse have to be named after my mom? Why did my mom have to die? Will Dad finally get to apologize to her? How can I have no living parents? Who will call us down on Christmas morning? What will we do with all of Dad’s things? Am I old enough to take over the Blue Mountain? How will I call my grandparents without knowing the phone number? Where is Oscar going?

  Oscar walked out. Peggy said, “Let’s get you off the floor, hon.” I politely refused her help and got myself into the chair. She said she’d let me have some privacy. Once I was alone, I rested my forehead on the mattress and continued crying like a baby.

  I felt stupid talking out loud. He wasn’t there anymore. Did I say good-bye? My head throbbed. I didn’t know if I’d said good-bye. With panic in my voice I stuttered, “G-good-bye, Dad. I love you.” That wasn’t enough. I had more to say. “I will make you proud. You’ll see.”

  Oscar

  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.

  Vance

  Two months later

  I glanced at Oscar’s sketch of Dad—the one he did in the hospice, the one I gave him so much shit over. Unbeknownst to him I made a photocopy of it. I carefully folded it up into a square and tucked it inside my graduation cap.

  A few days after Dad’s burial, Oscar brought out his sketchbook at the dinner table. He had never done that before. He asked if there was a particular drawing that I liked, one that “spoke to me.” I’d raised my eyebrows and asked him to explain what “spoke to me” meant. He did, and I knew exactly which drawing. The one he drew of Mom on the phone. He nodded and said, “Yeah, that one is my favorite too.”

  When we were clearing the dishes, he asked if there was another one that I liked.

  Without a pause I’d said, “The one you did of Dad in the hospice.”

  “Really? The one you gave me shit over? That one?” He was busting my balls.

  I’d dropped my chin and mumbled, “Yeah, that one.” Me flipping out on Oscar was stupid. Thinking back, it didn’t even make sense. What was the big deal about him drawing Dad? I didn’t have a logical reason. It was more like I’d been scared shitless and my brother took the brunt of my raging fear.

  “Surprising. I thought you’d have picked one of you with Dad.”

  I’d surprised myself actually. The ones with me and Dad were great, but it was the nakedness of his face in the hospice sketch, the way Oscar was able to almost capture his soul. “It was beautiful and terrible at the same time.”

  Oscar looked me dead in the eye. “You saw that?” he’d whispered.

  A few days later, when I woke up, the drawing sat on my dresser with a note from Oscar.

  Dear Vance,

  I know graduation will be emotionally confusing—joy and aching sadness. So I’m giving you the sketch of Dad from the hospice. Yes, I realize it’s a somber drawing, but like I said, the day won’t be all one thing. I wanted you to have something that represented those complicated emotions. As you said before, the drawing was “beautiful and terrible at the same time.”

  You’ll never know how much it means to me to have you respect my artwork. I always thought you and Dad would make fun of me for it. So to have you tell me—to my face—that you think I’m good means everything to me.

  Oscar

  I zipped up my graduation gown, placed the cap on my head, and stared at myself in the mirror. The edge of the folded drawing poked into my head. I was okay with that. In fact, I liked it. It would be the perfect reminder that Oscar’s drawing was there. That Dad was there. I also wore Mom’s wedding ring on a silver chain around my neck. That was my brother’s brilliant idea. And it allowed me to keep Mom’s plastic ziplock bag in my drawer, sealed and private. Maybe I’d tell Oscar one day. Maybe I wouldn’t.

  I removed the drawing from my cap and tossed it into the big, brown envelope. I would put it back later. I had a surprise for Oscar.

  “We should go, Vance!” Oscar shouted from downstairs.

  I patted my heart. “Here we go, Mom and Dad.”

  We were in the car about to back up when I handed Oscar the envelope.

  “What’s this?” He held it up.

  I hadn’t planned on surprising him until after graduation, but I couldn’t wait. “Check out the paper-clipped stuff first.”

  Oscar unclasped the envelope and pulled out the papers. He flipped through and looked over with wide eyes. “Dad never canceled it?”

  “Nope.” A few weeks before Dad’s accident, I was about to knock on his office door, but when I heard the words, “Yes, the boys have their passports,” I dropped my arm and eavesdropped. He was on the phone with the travel agent. He never did cancel our trip to Jamaica, and by what I heard, we were still going. Hearing that news lifted my heart so high it felt like it might burst through the top of my head. Dad was obviously going to surprise me. He didn’t hate me.

  “So we’re really going?” Oscar sounded unsure. “Am I allowed to?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, we’re really going. Everything’s done and paid for. We already have our passports. And who’s going to stop us? I’m your guardian, remember?”

  Oscar dropped his head. For a second I thought he was upset, but then he smiled and snorted. “Dad would definitely want us to go.”

  He went to put the envelope underneath his leg. “Wait,” I said. “There’s something else in there.”

  Oscar reached in and pulled out his folded drawing. Once it was opened up, he just stared at it. At least a minute passed and then he said, “I don’t understand.”

  I said. “First, don’t be mad that it’s folded. It’s not your original. I made a copy. I’m going to fold it and wear it underneath my cap so Dad’s with me today. You cool with that?”

  Oscar turned and looked out the window.

  Why wasn’t he saying anything? “Are you mad?”

  “Not mad. Just drive. Give me a minute.”

  I continued backing out of the driveway. When we were halfway to school, I said, “You all right?”

  He took a big, loud breath. “Four months ago, if someone told me that my brother, Vance, was going to fold up one of my sketches and wear it underneath his graduation cap, I would’ve fallen on the floor laughing.” Oscar smacked his thighs and blew out his breath. “So, what you said to me at the hospice, when we were meeting with Ms. Becker after Dad died. You said we had an ultimatum. Remember?”

  I nodded.

  “I’d never looked at our situation like that. So black and white. Sometimes I can complicate things.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, no shit.”

  “I always thought you and Dad were masters at assuming things. I used to tell myself that all the time. Maybe it was all of us. Maybe we all assumed a whole bunch of stuff about each other. We did, didn’t we?”

  A red light loomed ahead, and I slowed to a stop. “You’re right. It was all of us. All three of us let it get so messed up. Assumptions definitely were part of the problem.” The light turned green, and we quietly motored along for a while, lost in our heads. Then it hit me. “You know what? It’s simple. Either we’re brothers or we’re not. And I mean we act like it. We owe it to Mom and Dad to take care of each other.”

  “I think we’re doing it, Vance.” Oscar held up his palm and I high-fived him. If hands smacking together could feel like a promise, well, then we just sealed the deal.
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br />   I shoved his shoulder. “Of course we’re doing it, dipshit. Look at us.”

  We laughed so hard I nearly missed the next light.

  We scored a pretty decent parking spot and walked through the lot. “Is Jacque meeting you at the entrance?” I asked. I’d had a feeling Jacque was there to see Oscar the night of Dad’s service. I could tell by the way she kept looking past me, searching for my brother. And about a week later she sent us each our own sympathy card. When Oscar’s face went purple after reading his, I was sure his note was more than what I got:

  I’m so sorry for your loss, Vance.

  Sincerely,

  Jacque Beaufort.

  “What did she write to you?” I’d asked him. My normally private brother handed me the card.

  Dear Oscar,

  First let me say how incredibly brokenhearted I am for your loss. I can’t even imagine the pain you must be in. Please know that I think of you a lot. Anyway, I hope you finish out the school year. Being in the busy halls of WCHS could be a good distraction. But if you decide to do cyber school or something, that’s cool. I meant what I said in your yard that night—I’m here if you need me. I know now is not the time to make plans so I’ll text you in a few days or weeks. I’m not sure how long I should wait. Maybe you can text me when you’re ready to talk?

  With all my sympathy,

  Jacque Beaufort

  PS Remember when I was all blabby that day at the piano, going all deep? I’ve always thought you had a quiet confidence like my mom. I could tell you had a lot going on underneath the surface. That intrigued me. Oh, and you’re a really excellent hugger.

  “Holy shit, dude. She likes you,” I’d said.

  Oscar shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. You’re the one with all the experience with girls.”

  The moment was huge. I’d felt the weight of it on my shoulders. Oscar only had me to talk to. Only me. I held out my hand and said, “Can we make a pact that we’re not going to repeat the mistakes Dad made with Mom?”