I hid a small smile and leaned forward to shake my father's hand, which to no surprise, he looked at with disdain. We followed in our father's footsteps as he led us toward the house. When we reached the porch, I jutted ahead to hold the screen door open. As they entered past me, my gaze was drawn to a wastebasket in the corner of the porch. Inside, the hundred-dollar bouquet had been tossed aside, like garbage. Nice, I thought and followed them inside. He led us into the kitchen. I remembered it being blue, but it was now a bright yellow. It seemed too cheery and inappropriate for a house in mourning. He pulled out his usual chair and sat down.
"Those flowers out front look expensive," I said as I entered the kitchen. "They would have looked better on the table than in the garbage."
He spoke without looking at me, "Flowers are a waste of money. Your Mom is too dead to enjoy them."
"They were for you," I replied, leaning against the kitchen counter, folding my arms.
"If they were for me, then you should have included a card."
"If you knew I sent them, you shouldn't have thrown them out."
He finally turned his eye in my direction, "Why the hell would I want flowers? I'm not one of your prissy city friends." No, he wasn't. "Now, sit down or get out, you're making me nervous." I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down. He turned to Lauren, "Make me something to munch on, will ya? I haven't eaten all day."
Lauren rose from the table and grabbed leftover chicken salad from the fridge. She returned moments later with a sandwich and placed it in front of him. It irked me how well trained he had her. "You look pale, Daddy," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Thin too," she added. "You should stay with Oliver and me for a while."
"Don't be stupid," he growled, swatting her hand away. "I lost my wife, not my mind. I can take care of myself. I don't need you hovering over me like a child."
Lauren looked scorned but smiled. "We want to make things as easy for you as possible, that's all."
"Who's we?" He demanded. "Certainly not him," he accused, cocking his head toward me. "He just wants to send flashy floral arrangements."
"Well, at least come over for dinner," she suggested. "I always make too much food as it is. You might as well enjoy it; Lord knows Bryce does." My ears perked at the mention of his name.
Dad rolled his eyes, "This is my home. This is where I'll eat. You are welcome to come here and cook for me if it makes you happy." Wow, I thought. How generous of him to offer. Lauren nodded in agreement.
I'd forgotten how much of a people pleaser she was, a trait she had inherited from our mother. One would have thought that I would have been the one with the constant need to please people. The person who would say and do anything to avoid confrontation at all costs -- but the opposite was true. Lauren and I had different experiences. She had been coddled and cradled by our father, true. But she had also spent years watching him push, control and beat me for the tiniest of infractions. It had made me strong but had turned her complacent, in what I assumed was an attempt to avoid the same fate.
I watched him take another bite of his sandwich while I took a long, appreciative swallow of my coffee. It felt odd to be sitting in that old kitchen, full of memories, both sweet and sour. Like the nights we sat around the kitchen table as a family, playing Monopoly or Risk. Our father never played, but he would sit there, beer in hand and watch as my mother, sister, and I took turns. He would offer words of encouragement or strategic insight but would never take part. I recalled the only time I had crushed a seven-year-old Lauren in a game of Monopoly. She had cried, ugly tears, that had sent my father into a tizzy. He immediately grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt and pulled me off my chair. He dragged me down the hall and all the way upstairs. I kicked and flailed and cried the entire way. I hadn't understood what I had done or why I was being punished. Once alone in my bedroom, he proceeded to teach me a valuable lesson about making Lauren cry. Even unintentionally. From that moment on, I went out of my way to let her win. It was that way with too many of my childhood memories. Attached to every good moment that I tried to grasp hold of, was a thorn that pricked and poisoned the thought.
"Why are you here?" Dad asked, handing his empty plate to Lauren, who took it the sink.
"We have to discuss the funeral arrangements." She rinsed the dish before placing it in the dishwasher.
"Not you," he snapped before turning his cold gaze once more upon me. "You." He spat the word out as though it would burn his lips to say my name. Lauren fell silent and proceeded to rinse several other dishes she had found in the sink.
"It felt wrong to stay away."
"It's always been wrong," replied my father. "That hasn't sent you running back before."
I gave Lauren a sad look. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head in response. I tried again, "I'm not running to or from anything. I wanted to be here for you. And for Mom."
He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "It's a little late for that, now ain't it? She's dead. If you wanted to be here, you should have tried six months ago."
He seemed like the man I remembered. Always blunt, always quick with an antagonistic response. No matter how civilized you intended the conversation to be. It was a habit I was used to, regardless of our time spent apart. I'd made up my mind not to let him get to me. I would allow him to be angry, to yell if he wished, but I would not be shaken by it. If he crossed a line, I had also made up my mind to put him in his place. I was not a little boy anymore. I would not cower from him.
"I would have been here, had I known she was sick."
He scoffed. "So, we have to be dead or dying for you to give a shit? What a good son you are." His sarcasm was overwhelming.
I tried, in vain, to defend myself. "I tried calling. You never picked up. I sent letters, you never responded. I even sent a Christmas card every year -- "
"Oh, yes!" He interrupted. "How could I forget the annual Christmas cheque you would send? So kind of you to rub our noses in your success!"
"They were gifts!" My voice rose. So far, I was failing at not letting him get to me.
"No," he shook his head. "A sweater is a gift. A watch or a nice tie -- those are gifts. A thousand-dollar cheque once a year is not a gift. It's a fucking statement!" His face was red, and his hands were shaking. "It says, look. At. Me. I'm a big shot on the TV. Here's some chump change to keep you poor people out of the dumpster. It's insulting." He took a breath. "I have never needed anyone's help to provide for your mother, definitely not from someone like you."
My eyes widened. "What on earth does that mean?"
He got up from his chair, throwing his hands into the air. "Don't make me say it," he said with disgust and headed towards the living room. I followed him while Lauren stayed in the kitchen, listening to the exchange.
"No," I insisted. "Please, say it. I'm eager to know what kind of person I am." He said nothing. He didn't have to. The look on his face said it all. "Oh, I get it," I said as it all became clear. "You don't want to accept QUEER gifts from your QUEER son." He looked away from me, cringing. "Don't worry, Pop. You can't catch it. Cashing my cheques won't give you the urge to take it up the ass."