The Funeral

As Robert approached the modest house, following along the path laid out by the cracking sidewalk littered with unruly weeds, his mind drifted back.

Back to the last time he walked this path.

Back to his mother’s funeral.

At once a distant memory and a fresh wound.

Half a lifetime ago, Robert had left home for college and, apart from borderline compulsory visits at the holidays, never really came home.

Robert knew he needed to make more of an effort, but he had his own life, with its own problems, to handle.

But his last visit felt different. Was different. He didn’t return out of some sense of obligation. He wanted to, needed to say goodbye to the woman who raised him. A quiet woman who never struggled to get your attention when she wanted it. A strong woman. Strong enough to hold their dysfunctional family far longer than anyone expected. A woman who, in retrospect, Robert took almost completely for granted.

But nothing about that visit had gone according to plan.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Startled back to the present, Robert turned to see his brother. His little brother. With flecks of gray in his beard. Not little anymore. The first time Robert had seen him in nearly five years. Robert anxiously readied his greeting, debating between a handshake and a hug.

Not that it mattered.

Jim walked past Robert without so much as a sideways glance. Walked up the steps onto the porch. Pulled open the storm door and unlocked the deadbolt. As he pushed open the door, Jim stopped. Looked back.

“You coming?”

Robert nodded and hurried towards the steps. Jim, not bothering to wait, let the storm door shut behind him before walking inside. Now on the porch, Robert sighed and opened the storm door.

As he passed through the threshold, Robert grimaced, scrunched his nose.

“Jesus,” Jim muttered as Robert passed through the foyer into the living room.

Discarded takeout wrappers and empty liquor bottles covered every flat surface in the room. Quite a contrast from the freshly vacuumed carpets and perfectly positioned throw pillows Robert remembered from his youth.

“This is disgusting,” Jim groaned, his voice distant.

Robert turned. Looked for Jim. Found him in the kitchen.

He could not agree more with his brother’s assessment of the kitchen.

More wrappers. More bottles. And several spilt somethings that had congealed on the countertops, on the cracking linoleum floor, like little baby oil spills.

And that smell!

“Did you know Dad was having such a hard time?” Robert asked.

Jim turned to his brother.

“Are you surprised? Doug was useless. Mom did everything for him. I’d be surprised if he could wipe his own ass without her,” he snarled.

Doug.

Their father.

Jim hated their father for reasons Robert never really understood. But Robert grew up with a much different impression of the man. A hardworking man. Worked tirelessly at a manufacturing plant. Having grown up poor, their father never had an opportunity to attend college. So, he replaced opportunity with hard work. And that had been enough for him. Robert hadn’t always had the nicest clothes or the newest toys, but he had everything he needed. His father took pride in that fact.

As he grew older, Robert followed his father’s model. With one important difference. After graduating high school, Robert didn’t go to work at the plant. He went to college. On a scholarship provided by his father’s boss. And that’s when…

“I can’t look at this shit anymore. Let’s find his will, if he even has one, and get out of here,” Jim barked before exiting the kitchen, not even waiting for a response.

Robert caught up to Jim in the hallway. His brother had his hand on a doorknob.

“If he’s got one, it’s probably in here,” Jim said as he flung the door open and walked inside.

Robert stood just outside, surveying the room through the open door. An office. His father’s office. Cluttered but, apart from a thick coating of dust, relatively clean. No food wrappers. No liquor bottles. Just a simple bookshelf leaned against one wall. A number of books haphazardly stacked here and there. As one might expect. But, also, dozens of athletic trophies of various sizes. And a slew of paintings and sketches ranging in skill from baby’s first foray into fingerpaints on up to aspiring art student.

Jim noticed Robert looking around the room. His face flushed slightly, and his impatient annoyance rose to a new level.

“Get in here and help me look for this will,” Jim snapped as he started digging through the drawers in the desk.

Robert entered reluctantly but continued to look around.

“It’s weird being in here.”

“What?”

“I’ve only been in this room once,” Robert continued, his voice dreamy, distant.

“What are you talking about?”

“This room was off limits,” Robert replied, his eyes focused on the bookshelf, his mind focused elsewhere.

“What? I was in here all the time. This is where he made me practice the guitar. Where I learned how to paint. Where he would mark up my stories with his damn red pen.”

“I snuck in here one time,” Robert continued, not really listening to his brother, as he rummaged through the bookshelf.

Jim turned to face his brother.

“Who gives a shit? He’s dead. You aren’t gonna get in trouble.”

Jim’s callous, bitter tone brought Robert back to the present. And left him angry.

“You really are an ungrateful little prick, aren’t you? Look at this room. It is a monument to you! The little miracle. You had opportunities that I could only dream of. Pitching lessons. Painting supplies. A guitar! A freaking guitar. And you can’t even muster a little gratitude for the man who provided all that?”

Robert expected an eruption. But instead, Jim suddenly became quite calm. Almost detached.

“And what did all those opportunities amount to in the end? A noodle armed pitcher who barely made the varsity baseball team and paintings not fit to hang on a parent’s fridge.”

“At least you had the opportunity to try,” Robert replied softly, the desire to fight with his brother fading.

“I didn’t have opportunities. I had burdens. Doug knew he would never been anything more than a factory worker and he desperately needed someone else to live through. And you were nowhere to be found,” Jim continued, his tone resigned.

“I didn’t…”

“I became his walking, talking trophy. His show pony. Always on display.”

“I…”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jim closed the drawer on the desk and left the room. Robert rushed after him.

When Robert caught up to his brother, he saw Jim heading to the front door.

“Where are you going?” Robert asked.

“I’m leaving. He clearly didn’t have a will. We need to leave this house. Just let it decompose, sink back into the earth, and get back to our lives.”

Robert knew if he let Jim walk out the door, he would probably never see his brother again. And he wasn’t prepared to say goodbye to anyone else today.

“What about the garage?”

“What about it?”

“We didn’t check there.”

“We didn’t check the bathroom either. Do you want to check the laundry basket? The toilet?”

“Come on. Let’s check out the garage. Ten more minutes.”

Jim sighed deeply. But he stopped walking towards the door.

“Fine.”

The brothers walked towards the door that led to the garage. Robert led the way.

“Sarah and I got divorced.”

Jim looked at his brother, unsure of the proper response.

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok. It wasn’t working. We both knew it. It was pretty amicable as these things go.”

“Still sucks.”

“Yeah.”

The brothers stood in front of the door to the garage. Unsure of what came next. Robert finally reached for the knob and opened the door.

Both brothers stared in silence, dumbfounded by the scene before them.

The garage was every bit as cluttered as the rest of the house. But not in the same way.

Jim entered first. Mesmerized by a flock of easels, each one proudly displaying an impressive oil painting, he drifted in their direction.

Robert watched his brother for a moment. Then something caught his eye. Past the paintings. Past dozens of black and white photos hanging from a makeshift clothesline spanning the garage.

A desk. A beautiful desk. A slab of black walnut live edge oiled to a shine propped up by black cast iron legs.

Robert walked closer.

Atop the desk sat a well-maintained typewriter and two stacks of paper, each one at least six inches high.

Resting atop the first stack, fastened with three brass tacks, sat a manuscript. Robert picked up the manuscript and started reading.

After a moment, Jim joined him.

“What do you have there?”

Robert handed Jim the manuscript.

“Did you write this?”

“No. I’ve never seen this before…” Jim replied, his voice trailing off as he continued to read.

Robert turned his attention to the second pile. Another manuscript fastened with brass tacks. But this manuscript was littered with gashes of red ink.

After a few minutes, Jim put down the manuscript. Glanced at the one in Robert’s hand.

“Now that one I did write. Notice all the red ink?” Jim asked with a wry chuckle.

Robert looked up. Smiled at his brother.

“Not bad.”

“Thanks,” Jim replied with a proud, if slightly bashful, smile.

“Do you still write?”

“A little. When I have time. Which is pretty much never for an English teacher slash JV baseball coach slash expectant father.”

“You guys are expecting? That’s amazing!”

“Thanks.”

Robert set the manuscript down. Looked around the garage. Tried to remember the last time he felt this… happy.

“Hey look. I found something.”

Robert looked at his brother, holding an envelope. Written outside in pen: three words.

For my boys.

Jim tore open the envelope. Pulled out a letter. Robert crowded behind his brother so they could read together.

**

To my boys,

I hope this letter finds you well. Honestly, at this point, I just hope it finds you.

I know things haven’t been good between us for a while now. If they ever were.

The last time I saw you boys, I made a mess of things. I had hoped that time would have eased the tension between us. That we could come together, be there for each other, when your mother passed. That bygones could be bygones. That we could have a fresh start. But there are some mistakes you make in life that you don’t get to walk back. I see that now.

In the years since your mother’s passing, I’ve been alone. I could blame a lot on my cancer. That the toll it took on my body turned me into a bitter man. Turned me into a burden for your mother to bear. A grouchy, miserable man that you only visited at the holidays out of some misplaced sense of obligation. But that wouldn’t be true.

The truth is I am alone because I failed you boys. Long before the cancer ate away at me.

Robert. Sweet Robert. My firstborn. Born to a man unprepared to be a father. Too young to know anything. And too proud to realize that fact. I raised you like my father had raised me. Rote mimicry without reflection, without modification. Work hard. Support your family. I never got to know you. To really know you. To know what you could have been with a better guide showing you the way. And for that, I am truly sorry.

Jim. Jimmy. My little man. Our little miracle. I know you hate that moniker, but that’s what you were to your mother and me. I don’t know if you knew this, but your mother had two miscarriages after Robert. We didn’t know if we would have another child. And then, all those years later, I was blessed with a second opportunity to be a father.

All those pitching lessons and guitar lessons and art camps and everything else. All I wanted for you was the opportunity to be exactly the person you wanted to be.

You were my second chance and all I did was find new ways to mess up being a father. I hope you can forgive me for treating you like a chance at redemption instead of a son.

In the years since your mother’s death, I’ve had a lot of time to think, to grow. I’ve discovered a lot about myself I wish I’d learned sooner.

So many things. And not enough time to share them all.

But this one, this one you need to hear.

Don’t live your lives according to someone else’s plan. Find what makes you happy and fight to the death for it.

Boys, I am dying. In fact, if you are reading this letter, chances are I’m already dead. There won’t be any more chances for me.

But it’s not too late for you.

**

Jim clenched his jaw, struggling to hold back tears, as Robert wrapped his arms around his brother. Jim turned around to face his brother. Buried his face in his brother’s chest. And wept. Robert squeezed tighter, unable to let go.

Eventually, Jim wiggled free from his brother’s embrace. Wiped his face. Changed the subject.

“Do you think Dad did all this?” Jim asked, gesturing at the paintings, the photos, the manuscripts.

“I think so.”

“Did you know he was this talented?”

“No, but I had my suspicions. Remember when I told you about the time I got in trouble for sneaking into his office? Well, I found a sketchbook. They were just pencil drawings, but they were amazing. One was a portrait of mom. It looked like it belonged in a museum.”

“Why did he get mad?”

Robert shrugged.

“Well, I wish I had inherited some of his talent. I sure wouldn’t mind being rich and famous,” Jim replied with a chuckle.

Robert took out his phone. Pulled up an image. Showed it to Jim.

“You did this?” Jim asked, astonished.

“Yeah. I started drawing again when things started to get bad with Sarah. A way to take my mind off, well, everything.”

Jim swiped the screen repeatedly, looking at each image for a moment before hurriedly moving on to the next one.

“These are incredible. What’s his story?” Jim asked, holding out the phone to show Robert.

“I don’t know. I get ideas watching movies. But they are only ever images, fragments. Whenever I try to come up with a story, I get nowhere.”

Jim smiled.

“I could help with that. If you want.”

Robert smiled too.

“I’d like that.”