FOUR
THE LAST FUNERAL I ATTENDED was for my grandfather, and I didn’t want to go. I mean, I knew I had to and I knew it would be miserable, but I was frightened by the thought of seeing his body in the casket. All I could think of were zombies.
I loved my grandfather—of course I loved him, because you’re supposed to love your grandparents and he was nice to me the once or twice a year that they came down to visit or we went up for Christmas, I just didn’t want to go to the funeral and I didn’t want to see his body, not up close, Grandpop’s hollow face brightly decorated around his cheeks and above his eyes, odd layers of makeup over his skin and I didn’t know where to begin, where to hold my eyes, so I latched onto the casket to steady myself and tried not to think about zombies.
At the service the priest spoke about a better world, a better place, where we might end up someday if we’re good enough or holy enough to hang out with the angels in the clouds and Jesus, I guess, I zoned out for a bit because church bores me mostly and my mind wanders to Naruto eating ramen at his favorite counter serve because that calms me somehow, and church doesn’t calm me at all. Not that I hate church. I mean I think I should because the Catholic Church pretty much hates us gays, but I don’t mind that much, the new pope seems okay and I like the architecture of the buildings, the dark stained wood along the rafters and the cathedral ceilings, high above us on our hard wooden seats, waiting for the priest to finish. Stick’s head is down, on an aisle near the front, his father’s body in the casket up on the chancel, like he’s on a stage. It’s devastating.
They reserved the first eight rows for Stick’s family members, his brothers and sisters and older siblings’ spouses and children, even his mother is here, dressed in black and sobbing noticeably, but sequestered on the other side, away from the family. We had the viewing first and that was even worse, seeing Stick’s father’s body up close, the makeup on his face not as extreme as my grandfather but just as unsettling—he’s a big man and it’s a big casket and when I saw Stick on the receiving line, I hugged him close and felt him cry.
We haven’t talked much, which I understand—his father died of a massive heart attack—but it’s been hard, not hearing from him, and when we talk it seems like his whole world is ending. I don’t know what to say, and Mom says it’s good to just be there for him but it’s hard to even listen, to watch his face deflate, it feels a piece of me gets ripped apart every time we speak.
I glance over again, across the packed pews between Janice and Michaela, Stick alternating between propping them up and holding on for life. Mom’s holding onto my leg and I’m glad that she’s here with me but she’s been smothering, more than her usual smothering, asking if Stick needs anything and what’s happening at their house and whether she should bring over a casserole—like her cooking could possibly help the situation. I’m wearing my gray wool suit, my only suit, too tight in the legs and too short in the arms and inappropriate for summer but Mom said it was fine, she wasn’t about buying me a new one. Dad came to the viewing but left before the service and the only good thing to come out of all of this is that I missed a day of baseball camp.
I see Stick’s face fall into his hands, and I shouldn’t be staring, or I shouldn’t keep staring, I don’t want him to freak if he happens to notice but I want him to notice. After everything. The priest is going full sermon now, the same repeated verses and the same boring speeches to explain the verses but this is a bigger church than ours in Woodbridge, not that I’ve attended enough to even remember where ours is located—the last time we went was on Easter and we got there so late there weren’t any seats so we had to stand in an alcove just off the entrance, too far to hear what the priest was saying. Like Jesus would have wanted, I’m sure.
Sammy’s up front with his grandparents and we were talking at the viewing—I mean it’s so shocking, I just saw him, Stick’s father, vacuuming the pool at the side of their house. The line for the viewing stretched out the door and wrapped through the parking lot all the way into the street, all the teachers and students who knew someone from the Turner clan showing up to pay their respects. I saw Staci for a brief fleeting moment, but I didn’t talk to her and I don’t think Stick did either. They dated in the spring, but he said he didn’t like her and then we kissed as the fireworks exploded over Woodbridge High. The priest mercifully exits the stage.
The church empties with the family first, from the front, so it’s Stick’s mom, gasping, led down the aisle by some other old lady and a younger guy—I wonder if that’s the guy she left Stick’s dad for because she’s still with him, and my mom asks about it when she passes—she doesn’t know the full story so I just nod and mouth “later.” Stick is the second youngest of the thirteen children and most of them are adopted, all the ones closest to his age, but he’s the natural born “mistake” that kept the marriage together until his mom cheated on his dad and Stick hasn’t forgiven her since.
His face is blocked by the crowd in the aisle, so he doesn’t see me as he passes, holding hands with Michaela. I know it’s selfish to think about right now, but my mind keeps wandering to the field between our houses and our kiss. And what to say to him now. After everything.
The older siblings are receiving the guests with handshakes and forced smiles and Stick is standing next to Janice and Michaela, out on the sticky asphalt where the hearse is parked. I tell Mom I’ll meet her at the car and head straight to him.
“Hey.”
His face drops when he sees me. “Hey.”
“Hi Mateo,” Janice says, pulling me in for a hug, which feels strange, we’ve never hugged before, but she holds me close, like I want to do with Stick. “Thank you for coming.”
Janice is shorter than me, with the same olive skin as my family, her curly black hair tied up behind her head.
“It’s good to see you,” she says. She rolls her S’s in the corners of her mouth when she speaks.
“Thanks. How—” I look over to Stick but his head is low so I turn back to his sister. “How’s he holding up?”
“He’s able to understand words now,” Stick says, almost like he’s joking but he doesn’t smile. His suit is wrinkled from sitting in the pews and his tie is askew, half unknotted.
“He’s still a jerk,” Janice says, without edge, slinging an arm through his arm to pull him closer. She’s pregnant but not quite showing and Stick is pissed that she’s moving out of the house. “He’s struggling. We all are.”
I nod to acknowledge Stick’s brothers—David, Marcus, Anthony, and Jarrett, and say hi to Michaela. Jarrett graduated in the spring and he’s going to college up in Maine, but the other brothers are kind of a waste, they sit around getting high all the time and Stick doesn’t hang out with them anymore. He says it was different when they were younger, when all of his siblings lived in the house, this big crazy family of multiple races that he spent all his time with.
“I’m sorry,” I say. He doesn’t respond.
The sun is bright so I need to squint and Stick’s hair is slicked down at the side, a style he must save for formal occasions, but the ends are so shaggy that it’s sticking up in the back, slick wet with jagged edges trying to break free. Janice thanks some other guests as they move past us. I find Stick’s blue eyes.