A Funeral

“It’s just you and me again,” I say.

I’d waited until the flock of my relatives had dispersed, and finally, I am alone at his casket. His pale face looks at peace, and it makes him almost unrecognizable. I’m used to the anger, the depression, the mask of whatever vice he could find.

On his lapel, someone, my mother I assume, has issued him a rose. I scoff at the symbol of love. That word, that feeling, had been foreign to Floyd, absent in every corner of his life. No matter how hard I tried to love him, I was nothing but a worthless, unwanted, little sister. My parents tried to assure me that these sibling tiffs were common, but not serious. They assumed we would work it out, that things between us would change with age. All I heard was that they weren’t listening. They didn’t understand the fear that I was living with. And I couldn’t even blame them; they were too busy raising five children to notice that I was living in my own house of horrors, alone in that room with Floyd.

Some of what he did to me was normal, I suppose. The name-calling, the shoving, the punch-buggie bruises. The burning of my Barbie dolls and the scissors to my stuffies were the first escalation of his anger. And to all of it, I’d met him with forgiveness, kindness, love. I was the younger sibling, yes, but even I could see that something was hurting my brother. He wasn’t happy, and every attack on me felt like a pointed finger. He’d lock me in the dark closet, taunting me through a hidden walkie talkie, and I’d wonder what I’d done to make him so mad. I’d cried, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, begging for him to let me go.

At the thought, I wrap my hands around the edges of his casket, feeling the need for that closet door to open. Beneath my fingers is white satin cloth coating the interior of the box he’ll be locked in forever. I notice the pillow beneath his head, and I remember why I had needed my privacy with him.

There’s something for you under your pillow, nine-year-old Floyd had told me.

Stupidly, I’d rushed to my floral pink pillowcase, thinking a miracle had driven my brother to surprise me. My tiny hand had eagerly slid under my pillow and latched onto something hard and rectangular. I remember the excitement, the mystery at the tape recorder I’d uncovered, imagining my dreams of playing a spy game with Floyd had finally come true. But when I’d pressed play, his voice had been so cold, I almost hadn’t recognized it.

I hate you so goddamn much, Margaret. I hate you so much, I hope you die. And if you don’t, I’ll kill you myself. Don’t even think about telling Mom and Dad about this, or I’ll kill them, too.

When the recorder stopped, I nearly threw it across the room, and behind me, Floyd was watching, laughing at my terror.

Don’t think I won’t, cuz I will, he’d said.

And I believed him.

So, two weeks after his thirtieth birthday, when Floyd invited me to his house, I was both curious and cautious. It’d been years since I’d seen him, and our communication as adults had been nothing but short exchanges: Happy birthday. Merry Xmas. A photo of his dogs. A photo of my child. He never even came to my wedding, so why did he want to see me exactly? Something about wanting to catch up; something about wanting to check in on his little sister.

We met for drinks, but when I got there, he’d already had a few, and clearly not just alcohol. He mumbled on about how his life was a mess. He was all alone. Work sucked. He was depressed. He was sorry he’d been such a shit brother.

I nodded. I played the role I’d always played. Water under the bridge. We’ll get together more. You’ll be alright. I didn’t tell him about all the sleep I lost as a kid. I didn’t tell him about the fear that followed me all my life.

It was almost too easy, with all the times he left to go to the bathroom. He had so many drugs in his body at that point, he’d hardly noticed. I drove him home that night, tucked him in his putrid unwashed sheets. The gun under his pillow told me he still had a knack for hiding things there. The AR-15 in his closet told me I’d probably done the world a favor.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” A hand presses into my lower back. I loosen my clutch on the casket, soften my face. I’m thankful tears come for many emotions, not just sadness. I wipe one away and turn to face the voice beside me. It’s my mother’s oldest friend, a woman who had been like an aunt to us growing up. I offer a weak smile, thanking her.

“Your brother was such a brave person. He fought for so long,” Beatrice says.

I tell her what I know she wants to hear. “I wish I could have done more to help him,” I sniff.

She sobs, pulling me in for a hug. “You were the best sister to him, Maggie. The best,” she squeezes me tighter. When she releases me, there’s a dark stream of mascara down her cheeks. “I’ll leave you two alone now. Take all the time you need.”

I watch Beatrice leave, but really, I am making sure there is no one around. Most people have taken their seats. My mother and my siblings are standing by the doors, waiting to greet anyone who arrives late.

Clutching the tape recorder in my pocket, I lean inside the casket as if I am giving him a final kiss goodbye. Quickly, I slide the recorder beneath his head. 

“There’s something for you under your pillow, brother,” I whisper.