We Become the Night

Putting the “Fun” in Funeral

“Joshua, I gotta ask, what’s with this house man? I mean, I know there’s no way you can afford this house on a teacher’s salary.” I say to him over breakfast. It’s been about two weeks since the “incident.” I’ve been trying to get my mind off of my parents’ deaths. So, I’ve been helping out around the house as much as I can. This week was the first week I’ve been back to school, though, so I have a lot of catching up to do. The principal thought I could use the week off and wouldn’t even let me come to school until this past Monday. The week in the house by myself while Joshua was at school teaching was the worst. I was so bored. I couldn’t go anywhere, and I can only play video games so much.

Tomorrow, Saturday, is the memorial for my parents. Joshua and Max’s mom have been handling the details, so I haven’t had to do it. On the one hand, I’m glad I haven’t had to deal with it, but it would’ve given me something to do while stuck in the house. Cole is still in the hospital. The machines are pretty much the only thing keeping him alive at this point. He won’t be attending the memorial, but I go to see him every day after Joshua gets home. I try talk to him as much as I can, hoping that he’ll snap out of it and come back.

Joshua laughs at my question.

“The house was passed down to me through my family. A Smithin has lived here for the past 300 years. The house was brought over from Wiltshire in England. My family resided in the house for 500 years before it was brought over. It’s expected that I will have children and pass it to them. The furnishings were all paid for by my great-great-grandfather some time ago. He liked fancy things. I haven’t the heart to change anything except to modernize it.”

I look around at the very modern kitchen, struck again by how different it seems than the rest of the house.

“Yeah,” he says noticing me looking around. “The kitchen needed the most updating. The rest of the house really only needed plumbing and central heating and air. All of which can be done in the walls, so the integrity of the rooms stayed intact. The kitchen needed all new equipment though, so I figured, go big or go home. So to speak,” he chuckles.

“But what about the money? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but it all seems kind of surreal. I mean, I’ve Googled it and teachers don’t make that much money. Certainly, not enough to keep up with the demands of a house like this.”

“Yeah, that. Well, I only teach because I like it. I don’t need to, salary wise. My family is loaded. That’s not something I want getting around school, though, so don’t go telling anyone.”

“Don’t worry about that. No one talks to me except Max. And even then, not so much anymore.” I hang my head and fight the feeling of tears. Joshua doesn’t say anything. He gathers up our dishes from breakfast and puts them in the sink. There’s a housekeeper that comes three times a week and she deals with dishes and vacuuming and things like that. On the days she doesn’t come, those are my chores. Today is a day she comes.

We get up. I grab my new bookbag, slip on my new shoes, zip up my new coat and follow Joshua out the door to his car.

The day after I first came to Joshua’s house, he took me shopping for new everything. Most of my belongings were left at my parents’ house and, the ones that weren’t destroyed by the animal or covered in nasty crap, I got out of the house. That only included a few outfits, my alarm clock (which miraculously remained intact, even though the nightstand it was on was destroyed), and a few photo albums. Unfortunately, that list didn’t include any of my school things as they were torn to shreds.

The ride to school is a quiet affair, though most mornings it usually is. Joshua parks in the faculty parking lot and we both exit the car. I say my goodbye and head to my locker. On the way, I see Patrick. He hasn’t said one word to me since I got back to school earlier this week. I don’t know what it is, but I almost miss his harassment. It was like his harassment is a way that I know people notice me. Now, no one so much as talks to me, even to insult me. They talk about me, through me, or around me, but no one talks to me anymore. Max, Jamie, and Mr. Smithin being the only exceptions. I never thought I’d miss the times I was bullied.

The line my mother said about Patrick the night she died plays through my head, and I chuckle despite myself. He turns to look at me and briefly I think I see the old Patrick in there. Then he turns away, hides his face and the moment is gone.

I shake my head and open my locker. I grab the books I’ll need for first and second periods, close my locker, and head to my first class. Mr. Smithin is already there sitting behind his desk. He gives me a brief nod and calls the class to attention.

After second period, I drop off my books at my locker and head to lunch. I’m sitting at the end of Max’s table, minding my own business and all of a sudden, a shadow looms over me. I ignore it at first, but then look up when I realize it isn’t moving on and jolt when I see Patrick standing there. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures questioningly to the seat across the table from me. I nod, my mouth hanging open, too stunned to say much of anything. He sits down. He folds his hands in front of him and squirms a little in his seat. Yet, he still doesn’t say anything.

“Yes?” I ask to prompt him into saying something or doing something. He squirms a little then mumbles something I can’t hear under his breath.

“Sorry. What?” I ask, boldly putting my hand to my ear in a mocking “I can’t hear you” gesture. He takes a steadying breath. I realize that he’s shaking slightly.

“I’m so sorry, Cal,” he says quietly before burying his head in his hands. His quiet statement rocks me back. He’s sorry? Sorry about what? About being an ass to me most of my life? About …. about what?

“Huh?” I say, certain I misheard him.

“Sorry. For everything. For bullying you all these years. For what happened to your parents. For what is happening to your brother. For all of it.” He shakes his head as if to dislodge the thoughts that are taking up space. I’m pissed. Hell, I’m beyond pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? He’s going to apologize? He doesn’t get to apologize and get let off that easily.

I scoff at him. That gets his attention, and he finally drops his hands and looks at me.

“What do you mean you apologize? You think one measly apology is going to mean jack shit after all you put me through over the years?” I don’t even know where this is coming from, but I’m not one to question it. I’m finally standing up to Patrick and damn if it doesn’t feel great. I stand up, out of my seat, and my voice gets noticeably louder. I slam my hands on the table in front of me and Patrick jumps, startled, but still, he doesn’t say anything.

“You honestly expect me to just say, ‘Sure Patrick, you made my life a living hell, lied to the school officials when you were called out about making my life hell, hurt me both physically and psychologically, took away my confidence so that the whole damn school treated me like a pariah at best, but sure, one apology is going to fix all that.’ Is that what you expect?” I’m breathing hard now, leaning on the table with my hands splayed out in front of me. My face is only about a foot away from Patrick’s. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t say anything. The whole cafeteria has gone quiet and is watching the two of us. Slowly, so slowly I’m almost expecting him to strike out, he stands up. He’s not standing in a menacing way, but as if he’s unsure he should stand.

He clears his throat then says something I never would have guessed he’d say, “I don’t know what I expect, but I truly am sorry. I know that I definitely don’t expect you to ever forgive me. If you’ll have me, I’d like to attend the memorial service tomorrow. I understand if you say no.”

His voice is meek and quiet, not at all like the Patrick of two weeks ago. I don’t know what happened to him during that time, and I don’t know if I like him better like this, but I feel that I should at least answer his request. The righteous anger I felt only moments ago is gone. I straighten up so quickly he flinches as though I’m going to hit him, and I look him dead in the eyes.

“Do what you want. I don’t care.” I say as I grab my bookbag and then turn and walk away. Max, who had been standing behind me the whole time, follows me out of the cafeteria.

“Well, um, that was really fucking weird,” Max says as he catches up with me. I take a good, long look at my best friend, my crush for the last four years and, I feel.... nothing. I mean, sure, he’s still my best friend, nothing will change that, but I no longer feel any attraction towards him. I let out a pent-up breath that I wasn’t aware I was holding.

“Yeah, it was,” I say. I smile the first genuine smile since that awful night two weeks ago. “And it felt freaking awesome!” I practically shout, pumping my fist in the air.

“No, shit! That was epic, man,” Max says as he holds his hand up for a high five. I slap his hand so hard it leaves red marks on both our palms, but neither of us say anything about it.

“I don’t know where all that came from. It was like I was possessed or something. I wasn’t afraid at all; not of Patrick and not of getting in trouble or anything. It was a weird sensation, almost like I knew there was nothing he could do about it.”

“That is weird. Well, whatever it is, I say use it.” He shifts gears a little and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I know you’ve had a tough time lately. Shit, you’ve basically gone through Hell and back. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Same with my parents. They said to tell you that if you ever need anything, just ask.”

I’m choked up a bit and can’t do anything except lean in to give him a hug. He hugs me back and we stand there, in the middle of the hallway just two dudes hugging it out. Again, I realize I don’t feel any attraction towards him.

After what feels like an eternity, we break apart and smile at each other.

“Thanks, man. I mean it,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a little friendly punch. “I really don’t mind staying with Mr. Smithin. I mean, you should see his house. Talk about kick ass.” I tell him with a mile-wide grin. He grins back, slaps me on the back, and tells me, “Anyway, we should probably get going to class before the bell.” I nod and we separate to go to our lockers, which happen to be on opposite sides of the school.

Periods three and four pass without incident. The final bell rings, I gather my books, and head out to the faculty parking lot to meet Mr. Smithin. The ride home is quiet, which is good as it gives me a chance to sort through my thoughts. Why was Patrick really apologizing? How and why was I able to stand up to him without fear when just a few weeks ago I was petrified by him?

By the time we reach the house, I’m no closer to figuring out what the hell happened than I was while it was happening. I know there must be something else going on, but I just can’t wrap my head around the events of the day.

We get out of the car and go into the house. I take my bookbag and head to my room to do my homework. I’m just about done with my homework when I hear Joshua call for me to come down for dinner.

“Hey,” I say as I enter the kitchen, “good timing. I just finished my homework. What’s for dinner?”

“My specialty,” he says with a flourish, gesturing to the island counter, “El Grande Tacos de Smithin.” I look at the counter and there’s a ton of food laid out and ready to be assembled as tacos, burritos, or quesadillas. I laugh as I head over to the counter and pick up a plate. I grab two soft taco shells, two hard taco shells, and a couple larger soft shells to make a quesadilla. I begin piling toppings on them. First ground beef with seasoning, then on goes the lettuce, tomato, a little bit of chopped jalapeno pepper, onions, guacamole, sour cream, shredded cheddar cheese, and to finish it off, a healthy dose of Pico de Gallo. I repeat this with all four of my tacos, hard and soft, and then pile a bunch of cheese on the larger soft shell, pop it in the microwave, and top it with the second larger soft shell. I then cut it into fourths and pile sour cream and Pico de Gallo on top of it. I sit at the table with my plate piled high.

“My, oh my,” Joshua says with a whistle when he sees my plate, “you’ve got one heck of a healthy appetite today.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what it is, but I’m massively hungry.”

“Well, eat up then. We’ve got plenty.”

I finish my plate and go back for seconds. A time or two I think I catch Joshua looking at me from the corner of his eye, but when I look up at him, his head is down. I shrug it off.

After dinner, Joshua and I play a little Mario Kart and, of course, I beat him two out of three rounds.

Upstairs, I get ready for bed. I make sure the brand-new suit for the memorial is laid out for tomorrow. I get into bed, pull the covers up, and I’m asleep almost instantly.

Then the dream comes.

I’m running, always running, through the forest, the streets, the alleyways. It doesn’t matter where, I’m just always running. Suddenly, I stop and look down at myself. I’m running on paws, on all fours, not on two legs. My vision is so clear, it’s as if it’s daytime in the dead of night. My hearing is so acute, I can hear what’s happening three blocks away without straining my ears. I know it’s cold, probably a little above freezing temperatures, yet I’m perfectly comfortable. My ears twitch and I hear a growl from behind me. I whirl around and face a giant grey wolf. I’m taken aback and my ears go up in surprise before flattening against my head in a warning. The grey wolf lifts one massive paw and stomps the ground between us. As soon as his paw hits the ground, the scene changes. I’m no longer a wolf in the dead of winter in the middle of the street. I’m a human again and I’m in my parent’s home, in my old room. Except it looks like my room at Joshua’s. My head whips towards the doorway as I hear the breaking and crashing coming from my parents’ room. I run to the door to open it. I think that if I can just get to them in time, maybe this time they won’t die. No matter how hard I try, though, I cannot reach the doorknob. My fingers graze it repeatedly, just barely out of my reach before it slams open, throwing me back against the foot of my bed. I clutch the corner post of my bedframe and pull myself up. I look to see who or what is in the doorway. I see my brother, Cole, standing there. He looks to be in good health, except for the torn and ragged clothing. All of a sudden, his chocolate brown eyes glow red, and he leaps at me with his hands stretched towards me, his nails long and sharp and fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

I shoot up and out of bed. It’s just a dream, I tell myself and I frantically search my body for the phantom injuries sustained at the end of the dream. That was much more vivid than previous nights. I try to shake the dream off as I climb shakily out of bed. I look at the clock on my bedside table. 6:00 a.m. I groan. I’m not supposed to get up for another two hours, but there’s no getting back to sleep now. I decide that since I can’t get back to sleep, I’ll straighten up the room.

Joshua is knocking on the door. I look at the clock again. I let two and half hours go by. I should be getting ready for the memorial service today.

“I’ll be right there,” I call out to him. I hear a muffled “Okay” from the other side of the door. I hurry to get dressed in a black suit with a white dress shirt and black tie. The clothes are brand new, stiff, and scratchy. The black shiny shoes are even stiffer and more uncomfortable than the jacket. I sigh. It sucks that I have to say a final goodbye to my parents in clothes that make me feel so damn uncomfortable. I’ll be uncomfortable enough on the inside, is it really necessary for me to be so uncomfortable on the outside as well?

Joshua is waiting for me in the kitchen with breakfast on the table. My stomach is so uneasy, I can only get down a little milk and a bite of toast. He doesn’t say anything while I sit at the table and stare at my breakfast. Finally, he says that we should head to the center that the memorial is being held. This place is where my parents had their wedding reception and at least two of their anniversaries at. It was their favorite place to go for special events and I couldn’t think of anything more special than to honor them.

The parking lot is not yet filled as we arrived early to make sure things are set up. I see Max’s car and his parents’ car near the door. Both cars have doors and trunks open. It looks like they’re in the process of unloading things from them. I see Mr. Ryde, Max’s father, come out of the hall. He waves at me, so I head over to him. Before I can ask if he needs help with anything, he grabs me and pulls me into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he says as he releases me. I’m so close to crying that I don’t say anything. Instead, I nod and clear my throat. He pats my back and gives me a gentle push towards the door. I head into the hall and glance over my shoulder at Joshua and Mr. Ryde. They look like they’re talking, and I can just barely make out some words. I catch my name and that’s about it.

I turn around to continue my walk inside and end up in another bone crushing hug. This time it’s Mrs. Ryde, Max’s mom.

“How you holding up, Hun?” she asks.

“I’m hanging in there, Mrs. Ryde. It hasn’t been easy, but Mr. Smithin has been a tremendous help.”

“That’s good.” Her sweet smile has my lips turning up in response.

“Do you guys need any help setting up?”

“No, no. You just head on in and find a nice place to sit. We’ll take care of everything.” I nod and follow the hall down to the main room. I enter through the French doors to see Max setting up folding chairs in rows. His back is to me, and he looks just as uncomfortable in the black suit jacket as I am. He keeps squirming his broad shoulders as he sets up chair after chair. Every so often, he’ll mutter a curse and shake his hair out of his eyes. I tell him all the time that he needs to get his hair cut, but he insists on it remaining cheek length. I chuckle as I watch him curse his hair for the umpteenth time. He straightens up quickly and whirls around to face me. His surprised face softens into a smile, and he walks over to me. He gives me a one-armed hug, pulling me against his side and squeezing my shoulder a little before letting go.

“I know you’re gonna hear this a lot today. How you doing?” he asks. I sigh.

“I guess I’m doing as well as anyone in my situation can be doing.” I gesture to the chairs he’s setting up.

“Want some help?”

“Uh,” he hesitates. I’m sure his mom told him to not let me do anything.

“I know what your mom said, but if I sit here and do nothing, I’ll go outta my mind.”

“Ok.” He shrugs and then shows me where the stock of chairs is, and we set them up together.

The memorial is nice. Many of my parents’ friends and colleagues show up. A lot of people stand up and give heartwarming speeches about them. I get so many hugs, I lose count. The food spread is amazing, and I end up eating about three plates of different foods as well as dessert.

As I lay down to sleep after everything, I can’t help but think about how many lives my parents touched and how important they were to the people of our community. It brings a smile to my face as I drift off to sleep.