Thank You for All Things Page 35

  “Well, who will preside over the service?” Aunt Jeana snaps, her head cocking toward Mom.

  “I don’t know. The funeral director … one of us.”

  “He needs a proper ceremony!”

  “My people on the reservation would do his ceremony,” Marie volunteers, and Oma says, “Oh, that would be lovely.”

  Aunt Jeana goes ballistic then, which makes Chico go ballistic too. “Are you crazy? Drums, and all that chanting? It’s heathen!”

  Uncle Clay laughs. “Heathen would be fitting, actually,” he says, and Mom grins.

  Aunt Jeana’s face bunches up and deepens almost to the color of Chico’s collar. “Is that how it’s going to be with you two? Both of you making snide remarks about your dead father?”

  “Jeana,” Oma says. “They’re just releasing stress.”

  Jeana stands up, clutching a still-twitching Chico. “Why do you defend them? They’re being rude and disrespectful. But then, you’ve always defended them, no matter how out of control they got. Is it any wonder that Sam was the way he was? Someone had to crack down on those two.”

  Uncle Clay stops laughing. “Don’t you fucking defend the old man in front of me.”

  Aunt Jeana gasps. “Your language, young man!”

  I sigh because, just as I predicted, it’s happening.

  Snap!

  Snap!

  Snap!

  “Oh, please,” Oma begs. “Let’s not argue at a time like this. Everyone, please, just take a nice cleansing breath, and—”

  “And just what?” Mom snaps. “Sit here and pretend he was a saint just because he’s dead now? Isn’t it bad enough that over the next three days we’re going to have to listen to what a wonderful, kind, caring man he was? Can’t we at least keep it honest among ourselves? He was a bastard. A bastard! And frankly, I don’t give a shit who does his funeral or where he’s buried.” Mitzy fiddles with her coffee cup, and Peter bites his lip and stares at the table.

  “Are you going to let your children talk about their dead father that way?” Aunt Jeana says, moving so close to Oma that Chico has to turn his head or face being crushed by Oma’s boobs. He claws at Aunt Jeana’s sweater, and she moves him up to her shoulder and pats his ridged backbone.

  Oma is holding some sort of talisman, her fingers stroking it anxiously. “They have a right to feel how they feel, Jeana.”

  “I’d expect something like that out of you,” Aunt Jeana says.

  “Jeana?” Clay says, no doubt omitting the “Aunt” from her name on purpose. “You don’t know a damn thing about what went on in this house. You came to visit once every few years and spent the whole time patting the ass of one of your little rats. When he called Ma a bitch, and worse, in front of you, you just turned away like you hadn’t heard.”

  “I know what happened here, young man! Your dad practically broke his back trying to save money so he could buy that lumber mill he wanted so badly, to give his family a good life. And your mother, she spent every dime he saved so he never got his sawmill. That’s what happened here! She used his money to buy you kids more things than you deserved, and she drank up the rest.”

  Uncle Clay snorts. “Yeah, right. He spent his money on his whores. That’s where his money went. And he wasn’t trying to give his family a good life. He was trying to be a somebody.”

  “I don’t know what Sam did with other women, Clay, and frankly, I don’t care. He had to find some warmth somewhere, I suppose, because he certainly wasn’t going to get any at home.”

  “Oh, please!” Mom groans.

  Aunt Jeana goes up to Mom. “Talk that way about him now, missy, but your father was good enough to come home to when you needed a place to hide from that lunatic you got yourself in trouble with, now, wasn’t he?”

  Mom looks horrified. “Go up to your room, Lucy,” she says.

  Jeana doesn’t wait for me to leave—though I’m not going to, anyway.

  “He took a bullet for you, young lady. A bullet! Now, if that isn’t a father sacrificing himself for his family, I don’t know what is!”

  Peter and Mitzy move to stand alongside Mom. One on each side, like pillars.

  “Go to your room, Lucy. Now!” Mom shouts. But I don’t. I step back to stand under the living-room archway, where I can see and watch and hear, but where I’m not directly in Mom’s line of vision. And I struggle to figure out if Aunt Jeana is speaking metaphorically about that bullet or if she means it literally.

  “How many fathers would have done that, for a daughter who sent the cops after him, saying he’d beaten his wife when she’d only whacked her head from falling down in a drunken stupor? Not many, I can tell you. My father certainly wouldn’t have! He would have let my lover shoot me.

  She means a bullet in the literal sense! My stomach feels more than crampy right now, as I fill in the blanks of the story Maude Tuttle told me, and I know that my dad came to Timber Falls with a gun. And that means that he not only beat Mom, Milo, and me, but he wanted to kill us too. The realization of something that ugly makes my body go as cold as Grandpa’s.

  Snap!

  “Most fathers would have thrown you out on your rump for getting yourself in that predicament in the first place, much less after you told such horrid lies.” Aunt Jeana nudges herself so close to Mom that Mom must be smelling the hamburger on both her and Chico’s breath. “My brother risked his life for you, missy, and you can’t give him even an ounce of gratitude, to say nothing of respect?”

  Mom looks at Oma, silently pleading with her to get me out of the room. Oma, intuitive or not, is fingering the talisman in her shaky hands and blinking hard. She seems oblivious to Mom’s silent cue. “Let’s not hash over those times. They’re over with … We are family.”

  Oma might miss Mom’s cue, but Marie doesn’t. She comes to me and suggests she and I go outside for a little bit. I shake my head.

  “Of course you’re not going to show him any respect now,” Aunt Jeana says to Mom. “You didn’t then, why would you now? After he saved your life, you ran off, taking his grandchildren with you. But then, that’s what I’d expect from the lot of you. That man lost his dream, and what did the three of you do in his time of need? You left him high and dry, without even looking back.”

  “Oh, wait a minute here,” Marie says, moving away from me. “I was here through it all, Jeana. Not the night it happened, but almost every day before that. And I can assure you that the way Sam treated Lillian and these kids, most women would have been gone long before Lillian left.”

  Aunt Jeana looks at Marie like she’s seeing her for the first time. “Who are you, anyway? You aren’t family. What are you doing in this conversation?” She jabs her fingers at Marie, then at Mitzy and Peter. “This is a family discussion. I own this house, and I’m telling you all to leave.”

  “Honey?” Peter says to Mom.

  “I just want someone to take Lucy out of this room. Please, just get her out of here.”

  “No!” I shout. “I’m not going anyplace. I have a right to be here. I’m family! And so is Marie, and Mitzy, and Peter. Why do any of us have to leave?”

  “Lucy’s right,” Peter says. “Blood or not, Tess and Lillian and these kids mean something to us, Jeana, and we’re going to be here for them if they want us to be.”

  My insides melt from Peter’s words, and I don’t care if he snores or farts or is a tattletale. I want him to be my daddy now more than ever.

  “But we have private matters to discuss,” Aunt Jeana snaps.

  “What is there to discuss?” Mom asks.

  “There are arrangements to be made,” Aunt Jeana says. “And I don’t care how much you three despise him—God rest his soul—but he is going to have a proper burial. If it were up to the lot of you, he’d be tossed in a ditch to rot like a deer, but he’s my brother, and he’s going to be buried in a church by a minister, in spite of what you heathens think.”

  “Okay, Jeana. That’s enough,” Oma says. In my whole li
fe, I’ve never heard Oma use such a harsh tone. Not even when she talked about Rose Pottor. “You have insulted us enough for one day, and you’ll stop right now. Clay is right. You don’t know what went on in this house. No one does, except those of us who lived in it, and you’ll not be judging us like this.”

  Inside, I say, Ha! just like Maude Tuttle does.

  “I know enough to know that you were a drunk, and that this”—she wags her finger toward Mom—“this thing here, came home with a big belly, then brought her trash following right behind her and almost got my brother killed!” Aunt Jeana turns to face Mom. “Shame on you, missy. Shame on you!”

  Mom’s hands go up to her temples. “Lucy, go outside, damn it!”

  Uncle Clay is pacing in tight circles, his hands shoved so far into the pockets of his Dockers that they’re buried past his wrists. “Yeah, the big man. Took a bullet for his daughter out of pure love,” he says.

  “You weren’t even here, Clay, so what do you know?” Aunt Jeana snaps. “You’d already run off to California to make your millions, so don’t tell me what happened that night.”

  “And you were here?”

  “I wasn’t. But I heard what happened. That lunatic pulled a gun and told Tess that he wasn’t leaving without her. Sam went to knock it out of the way—so his little girl and her babies wouldn’t be killed—and he fired, catching Sam in the thigh. You going to deny that? Sam’s got a scar on his thigh that says it happened. Go look, then tell me I don’t know what happened here!”

  “That’s bullshit! He did not!” Mom screams. “He didn’t put himself between me and Howard. He didn’t!”

  Everyone stops and stares at Mom. Including me. Oma hurries to Mom and tries wrapping her arms around her, but Mom shrugs her away and continues.

  “Howard pointed the gun at me, yes. And he told me to get in the fucking car or he’d take us both out. And Dad, he turned to me …” Tears bubble up in Mom’s eyes, and she licks her quivering lips as if they’ve turned to dust. “… and … and … and … he told me to get my trashy ass out of his house and to take my ‘bastards’ and my ‘scum’ with me.”

  Oma looks like someone slapped her. “No, Tess,” she says, shaking her head, her fingers loose over her mouth. “Your father never said that.”

  Uncle Clay glares at Oma. “You sure about that, Ma? You were drunk as a skunk that night, weren’t you? Hard telling what you missed.”

  “I would have remembered it if he’d said something like that, Clay.”

  “She would have remembered, drunk or not,” Aunt Jeana says, backing up to stand alongside Oma as if they are suddenly serving in the same army.

  Mom moves to the spot on the floor where the table can’t sit, and where no one ever stands, and she looks down. “Right here! Howard was standing right here!” She suddenly starts shaking so hard that it scares me. It must scare Peter too, because he hurries to put his arm around her waist to steady her.

  “Howard had the gun on me the whole time, and Dad didn’t make a move. Not one goddamn move!”

  “No, Tess,” Oma says. “He stepped in the minute Howard pointed the gun at you.” There is desperation in her voice, but I’m not sure if her desperation to get at the truth is for Mom’s sake or for hers.

  “He was right here!” Mom screams, as if she has forgotten that I’m listening. “Howard was standing right here, and Dad told him to take me and get out. Howard turned to face Dad when he spoke, the gun turning with him. That’s when Dad charged him. Not when he had the gun on me. When Howard turned it on him. He knocked his arm and the gun went off, and the bullet grazed Dad’s leg. Dad had the gun then, and he knocked Howard to the floor.” Mom has her fingers splayed, and her arms chop to show us all the place at her feet. “It happened right here!”

  Mitzy wraps her arm around Mom, above Peter’s, and tears are streaming down her face. “Oh, Tessy,” she cries.

  Mom continues, her face old and young and haunted.

  “And he could have stopped there. Dad could have stopped right there. He had Howard on the floor. Dad was twice the size of him, for God’s sakes. And he had the gun.” Mom looks down at her feet, her whole body shaking. “He had Howard down on his back. Right here! After he’d knocked him down with so many punches that I thought he’d kill him. I screamed at him to stop the whole time, just like I’d screamed at him to stop when he was beating Clay so badly. I begged him, told him Howard was sick and just needed help. And he stopped … I thought he’d stopped.”

  Mom is crying so hard that her stomach is convulsing, but still she gulps and pushes the words out as Peter holds her up.

  “I screamed at Ma to call the police, so they could take Howard to the hospital so my babies would be safe. So he’d be safe too. But she didn’t make a move to call, so I did. And while I was dialing, I looked back, and Dad was on his knees, bent over Howard. Dad’s whole body was shaking. And then … and then …” Mom stops and gulps for breaths, then she says, “Then he put the pistol right between Howard’s tormented eyes and he pulled the trigger! He pulled the fucking trigger!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Uncle Clay says.

  Mom folds at her middle, and Peter catches her. He turns her to him and holds her close, his hand cupped over the back of her head as she sobs, his other hand on her waist, as if to still her insides.

  Aunt Jeana looks dumbfounded, but only for a moment. Then she pulls herself up a little taller and she says, “It was self-defense. That’s what the law decided,” and she brushes past me, walking in a jagged line, as if she’s as drunk as she says Oma was, and goes into Grandpa Sam’s room.

  “I didn’t know …” Uncle Clay says after Aunt Jeana leaves the room, filling the silence that stands on the outskirts of Mom’s sobs.

  Mom pulls her face from Peter’s jacket—as if she can feel Uncle Clay staring at her, even if she’s not a sensate—and she glares at him.

  “You didn’t know because you didn’t want to know. I needed to talk to you after it happened, Clay, but I didn’t even know where you were. And after the twins were born two months early and I was so scared that they’d die, I tried to find you again, because I needed you then too. I was in such grief Ma had to take care of the kids until I could get my shit together after they were released from the hospital. Luckily, she didn’t touch another drop of booze after that night, but, damn, we were struggling. We could have used your support then, but I still didn’t know how to find you. You didn’t want to know anything about what was going on here after you left, any more than Aunt Jeana wanted to know. And when I did find you, you wouldn’t even take my calls, so I had to leave you messages. You sent me a basket of flowers and that was it. A fucking basket of flowers.”

  Uncle Clay’s face crumbles.

  “You blamed Ma for the years she was drunk and oblivious, but you chose to stay oblivious too once you left. You just didn’t use booze to do it. And ever since you walked out, you’ve treated Ma, me, and even the kids as though we were as bad as Dad. And maybe in some ways we were, but Ma got sober, and she’s been my strength and my help since then. And I’ve done the best I could with what I had to work with, just like her.”

  “Oh, honey,” Oma says, and she goes to Mom, taking over for Peter and holding her up. After a moment, Uncle Clay goes to them and he embraces them both. He doesn’t say he’s sorry, but his hug and his tears do.

  Peter moves to put his arm around me. “You okay, Lucy?” he whispers, and I nod, even though I’m not sure I am. He draws me close, and I can hear his heartbeat through his sweater.

  The room is quiet but for the soft sounds of sniffling and the scraping noise as Peter pulls out chairs so Mom and Oma and Uncle Clay can sit down.

  Someone knocks at the back door, and Marie hurries to answer it. I glance up to see two men stepping inside with a gurney. While Mom and Oma and Uncle Clay sit with their heads tipped down, their hands still clasped, I turn and look into the living room and watch the men carry Grandpa Sam out the front door, a
white sheet over his face. Peter helps with the doors and talks quietly with the men until they are gone.

  Mitzy and Marie sit down on the couch without speaking, sharing tearful looks between them.

  I turn and look back into the kitchen, and I say, “He wanted me to tell you all that he was sorry.” Mom and Uncle Clay and Oma look up. “And Mom … Uncle Clay … he wanted you both to know that he understood why you couldn’t be in the room as he was dying.”

  I don’t bother saying how he told me, because only Oma, and probably Marie, would understand. Instead, I just tell them the important part. “He wanted you all to know that he loved you.”

  We just stay where we are then. Frozen, like we’re in a play and the final scene is over, but there’s no stagehand to drop the curtain. That’s when Milo comes into the room, rushing so fast that I can feel the breeze he stirs, Feynman thumping behind him. He grabs a cup from the dish rack and jerks the refrigerator door open. “I’m on position—” he starts to say, then he stops, his pointy head turning until he’s scanned the room. “What’s the matter?” he says. “Did Grandpa die?”

  chapter

  THIRTY

  IT IS my first funeral, and I’m wearing a scratchy new dress, which Mitzy ran to town to buy for me when she bought the simple navy dress Mom is wearing and the black slacks and dress shirt Milo has on.

  We sit in the first pew of the church Aunt Jeana found—Me and Oma, Milo, Mom, Clay, Aunt Jeana, Peter, Marie and Al (who is walking good now after his hernia surgery), and Mitzy and Ray, because we are all family.

  Mom said this church isn’t a real church, because it doesn’t belong to any denomination and because they sell vitamins and make their money on a pyramid scheme, then hide their profits behind the exemptions that should be saved for real churches—or for none at all. It doesn’t look like a real church either, in spite of the big wooden cross that hangs on the wall before us. It’s made out of the same planks that hold up the clotheslines out back of Grandpa Sam’s house.