A Cup of Syrup

For the longest time, my mother would spend every morning rereading the same September 12th newspaper, drinking syrup instead of coffee, as she’d talk about Uncle Stephen, the “sugar silverback” renowned for his attitude that matched his sweet tooth and for having ten too many tattoos where grandma could see them each thanksgiving. Even if he tried to sneak through the relatives, he had a knack for being caught in the wrong place at the worst times, that day was no different. 

My father spent the next decade after that keeping my mother together, from talking with her all night, to purchasing an excessive amount of maple syrup, so much that our pantry became a Canadian colony. Not to mention juggling all of that with work. I couldn’t very well ask him for help on my Calculus homework when he was roped up in the office clacking away at his keyboard and cursing his coworkers. Though you needn’t sympathize with me, I wasn’t able to spend much time with my father, but I wasn’t ever neglected. My mother was more than happy to chatter away and I was sent to my grandparents nearly every week. Truly I was still plenty blessed, and my father, though never able to spend much time with me, still was considerate enough to wait until I at least had my own two feet planted on the ground before getting carted off to prison.

In 2012, my father was charged with voluntary manslaughter and sentenced to eleven years. I was a few cities away with my fiance when it happened so I only know things second-hand from my father, my mother was in no state to answer questions of any kind. My father confessed to everything in court describing the events in vivid detail.

“On the night of July 17th I arrived home after work. It was a very busy day covering for my coworkers so I wasn’t able to leave the office until around 8:45pm, after which I headed directly home. I had called at 5 telling my wife that I’d be late but I couldn’t guarantee a specific time. The drive home is almost 20 minutes and I arrived at I want to say 9:03, though my car’s clock has always been a bit off so I can’t be sure of that either. When I got home, I saw a Yamaha in the driveway, immediately I was put off and decided to park on the street a bit further than I normally prefer. I left my computer bag in the car tucked away underneath a grey university hoodie and then made my way toward the front door clutching my keys to keep them from rattling. I slowly opened the door wincing slightly at the creak of the unoiled hinges but shut it quietly behind me after taking a moment. After that I made my way towards the kitchen and took a cooking knife off the magnet holder bolted to the wall, I continued back to the front door where the staircase leading to the 2nd floor was and made my way up. As I rose I could hear two voices bickering, one of course belonging to my wife and the other unknown to me but it was clearly a man’s. I don’t recall the exact topic they were discussing but I could hear the voices gradually rising because of both my closing distance and their increasing volume. As soon as the voices turned to yells I picked up my pace and gave up on being quiet, I burst open the master room door and saw my wife in bed with a man who had more tattoos than clear skin and a silver beard. Clothes lay around the bed along with a pillow that seemed to have been tossed across the room. From there my gaze swapped between the man in bed and the knife in my hand. Jessica began trying to talk me down but I wasn’t listening. I reaffirmed my sight on the man shaking in the corner of the bed. Jessica seemed to notice that it was too late and got out of bed to try and restrain me but she couldn’t hold me back. I charged the man and dug my knife into his chest and stabbed him again three more times until I watched him bleed out. My wife, dragged along by my attack, ended up awfully close to the body along with me and got covered in blood.”

After the trial, my fiancé and I insisted that my mother come live with us but she wouldn’t, saying she’d wait there, so we decided to move in with her. During those first few months she rarely spoke, hardly a word to me and only looks to my fiancé. She gave up the newspaper and syrup for lying in the master room’s bed watching the ceiling fan spin. If we wanted her to eat we’d have to take it up to her like she was some kind of prisoner. Not even a full year passed when my fiancé found my mother hanging from the ceiling fan. Without even a note.

My father didn’t have much to say when I told him a few days later. He simply hung his head with a sigh and walked off. I didn’t call out as he escaped my imprisoned field of view, merely watched him go as if he were a ghost passing through our plane. 

I continued to visit as often as I could, about every other week, and gradually he became much more talkative and cheery, we had a lot to catch up on after over a decade of silence and he’d do so with an oddly nostalgic grin that I don’t think I had ever seen before. As long as we steered clear of mother he was more than happy to just chat, it wasn’t until two years into his sentence when I got married and he became excited enough to talk about my mom a bit, “too socially awkward to hold a wedding or skip it” he said, “But pretty enough that you’d know she’d look good in a wedding dress.” As if he just needed a warm up, he continued. “I doubt you’d remember but she used to love wearing white and nothing suited her more. It was really a shame when she stopped, and it was all your fault too.”

Offended by this accusation I retorted, “My fault? What in the world did I do?”

He chuckled, “Oh you’ll see, when your kid comes around you’re never going to be able to own a white tablecloth again. Ever since you were able to pick up a spoon, it’s been one dress in the fire and a brand new JCPenney's charge on my card.”

“Both you and your mother were so violent!” He exclaimed, “I had to hold your mother back whenever you did stain her clothes, you oughta thank me, you’d be a lot dumber if I hadn’t. And then when you’d start crying in public,” He let out a hearty laugh, “she’d always have this look on her face that made me think she was going to throw you into the river!”

After catching our breath he kept talking about her, “She was always like that, ready to take on anything but would always lose her wits once she got into it, same with the wedding, same with having you, and when we first started dating she’d always say, ‘leave the planning to me!’ and then I’d get a call later the same night with her crying on the other end because she made reservations forgetting that I prefer French over Italian. It took her another year or two for her to be comfortable with not worrying about my tastes but even after that she’d ask every date how I was doing, and she kept that up till marriage.”

He continued this topic for the rest of the hour before I had to be on my way. From that point onwards he was much more cheery each time I’d visit, bringing up my mother every now and then but still being hesitant to talk about anything recent. This continued even when I told him he was going to be a grandfather where his main concern was if I still had the collection of my baby photos collecting dust on the bookshelf. 

The first time he and his granddaughter met in person was a bit after my girl turned five, though I had told both of them plenty about each other beforehand and they’ve already gotten to talk over the phone.

“Hey, Sara! Finally decided to say hi to your old man?” He beamed, raising his arms up as if he could get a hug through the glass.

I propped her up on the chair and stood behind it, “Look here Sara, that’s Grandpa, remember what I told you about him?”

Sara got a little excited, “Dada said you got trapped by a wizard! Is that true? Is it?”

Dad didn’t take a second to think, “Well he had a cloak on so he must’ve been!” Though he spoke a bit too excitedly and started coughing. 

“Hey don’t drop dead before you get to give Sara at least one hug please.” I warned him.

“Yeah yeah, just feeling the age is all, comes with becoming a grandfather I’m told.” He grinned. “Also there’s a lot of dust around, and I guess pollen this time of year.”

“You sure you’re alright? Lately you’ve been looking as pale as teeth, not talking about yours though.”

“Haha,” he said sarcastically, “I’m just not getting much sunlight in here–,” he unloaded another cough into the corner., “...lost my young tan look haven’t I.”

“You haven’t looked young in 30 years I’m afraid.” I gave him a sympathetic look.

“Oh shove it, let me talk to the princess.” He rolled his eyes, “So how was your day little lady?”

My baby girl entered kindergarten in that same year’s fall and my father was set to be released later the next year. Outside of their first meeting I brought Sara over to say hi a few more times and I was happy to see the two getting along and each visit I was getting more excited for us to finally live under the same roof again and make up for all the lost time.

Unfortunately that day never came. He was released from prison a month early to be instituted in the hospital. I received the call some Saturday night and dropped everything to drive over and check on him. When I arrived, there he was, lying in bed with a plastic mask strapped to his mouth. I had a thousand questions and the doctor did not have any answers I wanted to hear. He’d been diagnosed with late stage tuberculosis, it’s developed to such a state that the doctors can’t make any promises.

The doctor also noted that “It was odd, usually he’d have been experiencing symptoms for over a year at this point, even coughing up blood, how come he didn’t say anything sooner?”

A stubborn old man was the only thing I could think of. So much for freedom, so much for spending time with Sara, so much for making up lost time. Nothing changed, just a whole new song and dance, new procedures for visiting, cautionary steps to prevent the spread. But he still had that stupid grin on his face.

“Don’t look so mad, there’s no way either of us could’ve seen this coming.”

“Yeah right,” I wanted to smack him, it’d be our first physical contact in over a decade but I still wanted to smack him, “For the past year when I’d ask about your coughing fits or your complexion you’d just brush it off…”

I saw his sigh fog up the mask, “Thought it just came with the territory.” his limp shoulders gave a pathetic shrug.

“Sure, coughing up blood ‘comes with the territory.’”

“Yeah who knew? For a bunch of sissies, the inmates sure did know how to knock a guy’s teeth out.” He claimed, shining a perfectly straight yellow grin.

He wasn’t going to budge, you could see it spelled out along his teeth and I could only sit back in my chair and acknowledge that.

“Here look on the bright side,” he declared, “This way I get to see your mother a little sooner anyways.”

“But shouldn’t you still be mad at her?” I asked.

“Mad at her?” he seemed puzzled, “Whatever made you think I was mad at her?”

I was confused, “Well why wouldn’t you be? After what she did that night.”

He mustered a soft chuckle, “You really think I’m the type to hold a grudge this long, and also both you and I know she was already off the deep end, I never blamed her for anything.” 

“Then why’d you kill him?”

He cackled like a witch and in turn fell into a coughing fit. After bringing it down and returning to his old smile, he confessed, “The only thing I’ve ever been guilty of is lying under oath and leaving your mom alone for too long.”

“What?”

“I told you before, both you and your mother were always so violent.”