Rainy Days

A soft wind blows s the mourners gather beneath a bright green tent: the casket in the center. Some of the people cry as the last words is said by a grieving wife. That is my mom, the drama queen, ready to spill her guts whenever called upon. Today we gather to remember my dad, but no one is here for him. He was just a minor character in a Dickens novel. The world would not take notice of the passing of such a man if it were not for those he left behind. A funeral is no more than a moment for the living to cry out loud, gathered in groups around a dead body, and not feel the need to hide the tears. The tears not shed for the deceased, in most cases, but rather it’s some personal grievance that has these mourners in tears. Maybe it is the reminder of the passing of someone that they truly loved.

A slight hint of rain is in the air. My mother forces a thick red coat around my shoulders between sniffles. She never looks at me and her gaze seems vacant. She is not looking at anything in particular. Maybe she is caught up in a memory of better times. A time when she thought the man in the box, being lowered into the ground, was more than a body but a lover to embrace. Now, bitter and frail, she weeps for the misery brought on upon her by the deceased. 

I shiver as the wind continues, ignoring our proceedings, and a rain begins as a drizzle. I seem to be the only one concerned about the black clouds that loom over us as though the clouds are another mourner crying over the grave. I pinch myself to keep in a laugh and look around at the faces that I do not recognize. I wonder who these people are that avoid my gaze. 

The coffin is placed in position, ready for the last act of forgetting, and my mom takes up a hand full of dirt from a pile of dirt. I follow in her example, taking up a clump of dirt, and tossing it upon the coffin certain that there’s a rock among the dirt in my hand. I wait for the thud of the rock but a sudden onslaught of thunder drowns out any sounds the rock could make.

We find ourselves racing to our cars as a light drizzle turns into a heavy pour. The cemetery workers are quickly shoveling the dirt into the hole, hoping to beat the rain. I watch from the backseat as we drive away. I wave goodbye to the dad that I had wondering what it’d be like to have the kind of dad you see on television. I would even take the dad on “Roseanne”.

The car ride home is an awkward silence. My mom forbids me to listen to the radio on such a day as this. I wonder what kind of day this is since we will soon be back at our usual routine. We will sit around in front of the television laughing at a reflection of our lives. My mom will nibble on some grapes while I sip Hot cocoa from a mug with a picture of Santa, and life will go on s if nothing has happened today. In some way nothing has happened since my dad was never around enough to make a bit of difference in our lives, so why should he make a difference in his death.

“Alex, you’ll have to change out of those damp clothes when we get home. I’ll make your cocoa.”

I nod so that she can see the motion in the mirror. She never looks back at me because she says that she’s a safe driver. I guess doing her make up in the mirror while sipping on coffee and reading Time Magazine is safe driving.

At home I rush to my room and toss my clothes in a wet pile beside my bed. I already feel drier with no clothes on. I run around my room, naked, in a sort of celebration. I don’t know what I am celebrating. 

I dress for bed knowing that we will be in front of the television until my bed time. I think of the coffin being lowered into the ground once more before heading into the living room. My mom has my cocoa ready and a bowl of grapes in her lap as she changes ignores me though there is a commercial on. I sometimes wonder if she is the loving mother, as she is when she makes me cocoa, or the mother who is there but distant.

I sit waiting for “Roseanne” to come back on. This arrangement will be repeated in the morning as we watch her shows. I will have a glass of milk and a plate of cookies instead of cocoa. My mom does not believe in breakfast. She doesn’t believe in cooking in general. For my mom making cocoa and baking cookies is the most cooking she’ll ever do.

“Do you want to invite William over for the weekend?”

William is my best friend. I am at his house most weekends. My mom has never mentioned the idea of William coming here for the weekend. I begin to say yes to her when I realize that she doesn’t really want him to come here. This is just her way of being motherly, knowing that I will decline, and we can go on pretending to have a relationship that is non-existent. 

I have not told my mom about William. She does not have a clue that we are more than friends, but I am certain that my mom would rather have it that way. The show begins and we are engaged in the show rather than each other. I sip from my cocoa as the plucks grape after grape from the pieces of vine. We never speak as though speaking would take away from our television watching.

It’s soon Friday again and William is sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me pack for the weekend. He told me how sorry he was about my loss. I vaguely remember his presence at the funeral, but he kept his distance.

“My dad will be back to pick us up soon.”

“I know. I will be ready soon.”

I look at him for a brief second. He looks so cute sitting there, but I wonder if my mom would be accepting of him as my boyfriend. My mom keeps asking me when I will have a girlfriend. On more than one occasion I have been close to telling her but I am always too afraid of her reaction to say anything about me being gay.

“I’m ready.”

“Good. Is your mom home?”
“No, she went to Piggly Wiggly for some cocoa.”

“So, we are alone.”

H stands in front of him. I can feel his body pressed against mine. I can feel his skin touching my skin as our arms make contact. I look into his eyes as we begin to kiss. I cannot do this.

“Your dad will be here soon.”

“I know. We’ll just have to be quick.”

William unzips my jeans and gets on his knees. He looks at me with his big eyes and I say no more. He takes my silence as affirmation that he should continue. We are usually alone in his room when we do this, but I cannot think of a good reason to stop him. William’s mouth covers me in wet heat. I thrust forward with my hips with anticipation. I moan softly as a steady rain pours outside. I can feel myself getting closer when my bedroom door opens. It happens just as the door opens. My mom and William’s dad stand there, in the open door, as William swallows me. He has not noticed our parents standing in the door. I tap him on the head and he looks up. I motion for him to look at the door. He stops and looks at them.

“Mom, I’m gay.”

There’s a moment of silence before William’s dad leads my mom into the living room leaving the door open. I pull my pants up and look at William. He wipes his mouth and smiles.

“I guess they’d find out sooner or later.”