Two Brothers and a Name

Standing outside the white funeral home looking out onto the busy highway, I tapped my foot anxiously as I twirled an unlit cigarette between my fingers. I hadn't smoked since my days in the army, but my cousin said it looked like I needed it. Perhaps by the end of the day, I will.

The news of my father's death came with an unexpected phone call from my sister at 2 in the morning a week ago. My wife insisted on joining me wanting to visit my family again.

"It's been three years, Carter," she insisted as I packed the morning after getting the news, "Your family hasn't even met Nora yet."

I smiled looking towards the window of the funeral home where eighteen-month-old Nora toddled about the sound of her laughter ringing above the sorrow in the room. Our oldest, Rachel, had turned four a month ago. I assumed, like Nora, she was spending her time chattering with cousins we hardly get to see. 

Suddenly, the sound of tires meeting the gravel turned my gaze to see a dark blue Buick with my Aunt Lori in the driver seat. I swallowed thickly the feeling of cotton suddenly in my throat. An old man sat in the passenger seat, just as hateful now as he was when I was Nora's age.

I tucked the unlit cigarette in my shirt pocket next to the unused match stick before turning and going inside and seeing my older brother talking to an old family friend.

"Carter, you remember…"

"He's here," I cut him off abruptly.

His face turned sour as he muttered obscenities rushing into the other room. I followed seeing Lillian, my wife, holding Nora pointing at the flower displays along the far wall. My anxiety kept the smile from my face as I went over placing my hand on the small of her back.

She turned her big brown eyes shining. After eight years of marriage, she still swept me off my feet even when under so much stress.

"He's here," I said as her eyebrows furrowed and she placed her hand on my arm, "Can you take Rachel and Nora to the quiet room? I don't want them near this."

"Of course," she said as I turned, but her hand clutching my arm pulled me back into her heart-shaped face, "It will be just fine, Carter."

A small smile crept onto my face as I gave her lips a quick peck as I turned to see the children scattering to the quiet room. A hush had swept over the building, the soft music from the record player in the hall even seeming to hush.

My eyes met my brother's as I went over to stand at his side. I crossed my arms to match his stance, my fingers itching for the unlit cigarette in my pocket.

"Chris, do we have time to get grandpa out the back or maybe the quiet room?" I asked in a hushed tone as I watched Lillian take the girls into the adjoining room.

"It's his own son in the casket, Carter," Chris said running his fingers through his thick brown hair before continuing to nervously scratch his sandy-colored beard, "It's our father. He is the one who has no right to be here."

Cora, my sister, came over standing resolute with us. I put an arm around her as she sighed in my embrace. I remember at her own wedding when writing out the invitations and trying to decide which cousins from his family to invite. Some of our close family didn't attend because we invited them. 

The family feud had stretched for decades, and to think, no one knows why we don't get along.

We hear the door open and I watch my eighty-nine-year-old grandfather stand straightening the collar of his button-up shirt and adjusting his suspenders. My cousins, aunts, and uncles stand waiting as well.

I look towards the casket where my father lay and imagine him standing, his looming six-foot-four husky build sucking on sunflower seeds. His sandy brown mustache puffed out as he sucked on the seeds and his piercing green eyes glared towards the doorway.

Cora gasped her hand coming to her face as I followed her gaze to the door. My eyes grew wide and my heart thrummed louder. Our uncle, Uncle Ross, sat hunched in a wheelchair his mouth curled in a snarl and glasses perched on the edge of his nose. An oxygen cannula pumped air for him and he looked every bit of his ninety-two years. 

Ross Jameson Hopkins, my grandfather's brother, who once stood at the same height as my father now was withered to the shell of his former self.

My grandfather broke the silence as he sighed stepping forward, his cane thumping at his side.

"Ross, Lori Mae, it's been far too long," my grandfather spoke up and said.

"How nice to see you again, Uncle Roy," Aunt Lori said, "Look, Dad, it's your brother and his family."

To all of our shock, no bitter reply came from the old man. He continued staring straight ahead as unhappy as any person I had ever seen. Grandpa himself seemed taken aback as Aunt Lori gave us a somber smile.

"Dad hasn't been himself for quite some time," she said patting his shoulder, "I was hoping the sight of you all could bring something back one last time."

My father's older sister, Aunt Bea, stepped forward embracing Aunt Lori who hugged her back a tear falling down her face. They exchanged some words between them before she composed herself. 

Grandpa sat in the chair beside Uncle Ross while Aunt Bea walked Aunt Lori towards the casket speaking of the heart attack that took my father at only sixty-five. 

"My God, Carter," Chris said behind me, "Do you think he knows any of us?"

"Hard to say," I responded with a shrug, still speechless watching the man in the wheelchair.

"I'll bet he remembers that time we snuck over his fence and threw firecrackers into his crawl space," one of my cousins said behind me as I cracked a smile.

"Or the time his grandson and I snuck a skunk into the church," another piped up. 

"When Jimmy married into the family and mistakenly invited both of them to the wedding," another said. 

"Was that the wedding where someone accidentally spilled beer into the horse trough?" someone asked as I smiled at the memory. 

I scratched the stubble on my chin as memories passed between us. Some made me laugh, and others made me shake my head. I looked toward the casket where a few had gathered and back to Grandpa and Uncle Ross.

"Remember the Christmas Grandpa was involved in that accident at the lumber mill and we spent Christmas Eve in the hospital cafeteria?" I asked the group; the younger ones couldn't recall, but I remembered clearly, "I was Rachel's age, right around four. Cora had to be seven and Chris around eleven. We were with my mom and Aunt Bea, about ten of us. We were writing our notes to Santa. Suddenly, Santa came into the room and let out a jolly 'ho, ho, ho!' He gave each of us a cinnamon stick and a car for the boys, a little doll for the girls."

Silence surrounded us as tears filled my eyes, "Grandpa played Santa every year, but that year, it was Uncle Ross."

Everyones' gaze fell on the brothers who never got along. I stepped forward walking towards them as I sat on the oak coffee table across from Grandpa who had big, sad tears in his eyes. I cracked a smile and looked between them. 

"Do you remember the family reunion about ten years ago, when I was home on leave? Grandpa, you and Uncle Ross both made sure everyone welcomed me home," I said as Grandpa gave a smile, "The guys at the union to the ladies at the telegraph office all were at the streets waving flags. It was the Fourth of July in the middle of December."

"Oh, I remember," Grandpa chuckled.

"We froze our backsides off," came the raspy whisper of Uncle Ross as my eyes widened as his gaze met mine, "You have no idea how hard it was to find that many flags right before Christmas!"

The three of us chuckled a little as Chris came over standing behind me. Uncle Ross turned then to Grandpa as I held my breath. The entire room collectively withheld any sudden movements.

"Remember when you and I came home from basic training?" Uncle Ross asked Grandpa, who returned a hearty laugh. 

"It was at least ten degrees outside!" Grandpa exclaimed, "Our socks were so thin that our toes were blue by the time we got home!"

The two old men shared a laugh as Uncle Ross turned his gaze to the group of cousins that had gathered around me. He lifted his hand shaking a bony finger at someone standing behind me.

"You were the one who brought a skunk into church with Peter when you were boys," Uncle Ross accused as his ever sour face turned into a toothless smile, "We had to scrub the walls of the sanctuary three times before the smell started to clear out!"

We all shared a hesitant chuckle as he turned to Cora a smirk coming to his face as he tapped his nose. She smiled looking down at her black dress smoothing out a crease as he smiled at her. He looked at each of us before turning back to Grandpa.

"Roy, did you ever fix up that old Pontiac you kept hidden behind the garage?" Uncle Ross asked.

"No, I started to a couple of times, but I sold it after Laura died," Grandpa said, his beloved wife's name causing him to choke up.

Silence enveloped us as Uncle Ross nodded his head, folding his hands in his lap. His eyes fell to his frail hands as he sighed, a low raspy sigh.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when Laura died," Uncle Ross said, tears in his own aged blue eyes, "I'm sorry I wasn't there how you needed me to be."

Grandpa looked completely taken aback as a tear betrayed him and rolled down his wrinkled face before disappearing into his white beard. He swallowed thickly collecting himself.

"And I'm sorry for not being there for you," Grandpa said, "When you lost Catherine and when you lost Joe, I'm sorry I wasn't there."

Joe, Uncle Ross's only son, went into the service around the same time as my father enlisted. Dad came home and married mom. Joe never came home. 

Uncle Ross's own face streaked with salty tears as he held out a trembling hand to Grandpa. Grandpa stood closing the five steps between them and embracing Uncle Ross in a hug. Our own faces were streaked with tears watching bitter enemies embraced as brothers once more.

A few more stories were shared and children came out to play once more. Lillian came out holding Nora as I swung Rachel in the air causing her to squeal with glee. Uncle Ross stayed for the funeral and Aunt Lori decided afterward it was best to leave.

Uncle Ross grasped Grandpa's hand in the parking lot, blue eyes staring into blue. The two old men now seemingly looking at each other for the very first time. One in a wheelchair and the other leaning on his cane age having settled into their bodies, for a moment, I saw two young men in uniform who just came home from war with socks too thin and uniforms worn and tattered.

"It's been a pleasure, Ross," Grandpa said.

"Truly, Roysden," Uncle Ross said with a smirk on his face at the use of Grandpa's full first name, "I bid you farewell, my brother. Until we meet again."

They embraced in one final hug before Aunt Lori was once again helping Uncle Ross into the dark blue Buick. I turned going back to my own car as I pulled the unlit cigarette from my shirt pocket spinning it between my fingers. I paused as I turned to look back. 

Grandpa stood waving as the dark blue Buick pulled onto the busy highway. I pulled the match stick from my pocket sliding it across the concrete pavers along the sidewalk the flame springing to life. I lit the cigarette between my fingers and flicked the match to the ground stomping out the flame before taking a long slow drawl releasing it and the stress of the day along with it. 

A family rivalry that had spanned decades for a moment ceased to exist at the white funeral home on the side of the busy highway. I heard the sound of footsteps as gentle hands embraced my arm. I looked at my pretty brunette with big brown eyes. 

"How did it go today?" Lillian asked.

I took a deep breath as I tossed the cigarette to the ground stomping it out with my foot. I looked to Grandpa who Aunt Bea was leading to her car.

"Unbelievable," I said to her. 

I kissed her forehead tenderly as we watched the busy highway, not so busy at this hour of the afternoon. The family was gathering for the graveside service five minutes up the road.

"Have you told anyone yet?" I asked Lillian softly.

She hummed, shaking her head that she had not yet told anyone. I smiled down at her as her brown eyes sparkled meeting my own green eyes.

"If it's a boy, what do you think of Ross as his name?" I asked her.

She sighed looking towards the highway biting her lip and looking back up at me. Her smile and red lipstick made my heart thrum.

"Ross Hopkins," she said, thoughtfully, "Charles Ross Hopkins; that's a mighty big name to live up to."

I had to agree, but I couldn't think of a better name to name my son than my own father's name. Charles, a man who spent his life working the lumber yard, third generation. A man who served his country and loved his family more than anything else in this world. Ross, the bitter man who learned late in life to remember and cherish. The man who helped my family in the background, who never took the credit. My great-uncle, Ross Hopkins, a man without a namesake. 

Charles Ross Hopkins; I had to agree with my bride: a mighty big name to give our son indeed.