Coming Out
The snow had already begun its descent by the time we reached the Oregon border. Giant flakes careened into the windshield of my ‘85 Ford Taurus. They did little to no visible damage. I couldn’t believe it was already snowing so hard in November. The Northwest sucks.
Mitch let out a sigh from the passenger seat. Fifth one since our last potty break. I’d kept count. I gave him my best reassuring smile. “Doing OK? You look bored.”
He glanced over, but I could tell he was looking right through me. “Nah, I’m fine.”
“You sure? You can drive if you want. I wouldn’t mind the break.”
He shook his head, “Better if I didn’t. Lately it’s been hard to… you know, keep it together.” He clenched his hand, inspecting the grip. “I could lose control and you’d end up frozen to death in some ditch. Mom would be pissed.”
He smiled weakly, obviously concerned about seeing the family for the first time since the accident. He asked me to keep it a secret, so I wasn’t sure if anybody else knew. I had no idea what to say to him. Brotherly acts of concern and affection are weird enough when you’re not behind the wheel. What was I supposed to do? Call him slugger and punch him in the arm? It would just pass right through him and I’d look like an idiot.
I flipped the windshield wipers up to the next setting. “If we do this right, we’ll get in before dinner, stuff ourselves stupid, drink a couple bottles of wine, and pass out on the floor. Then we can sneak out in the morning while everybody else is out Black Friday shopping. No mess, no explanations. Easy as apple pie.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow, “You ever bake an apple pie?
“No, why? Are they hard?”
He flipped me sigh #6 and went back to his listless window stare. Didn’t hear a word from him for the rest of the drive. I had to make due with my college mix CD. It wasn’t as engaging as a real person, but it was considerably less moody.
By the time we arrived at our grandparents’ house, all of the family cars were present and completely covered with snow. It looked like one of the sedans had already tried and failed to pull out of its spot. Instead, it had plastered my grandpa’s new truck with muck and wedged itself deeper into place. Not a good sign for potential escape.
Mitch pulled his bag out of the back seat. “Better get the stuff out of the trunk right away. We might not make it back to the car alive.” He glided his way over the frosty ground in that same jacket he’d been wearing for the last nine monthes. Not a single flake touched him along the way.
Of course my brother left the heaviest bag for me. I’m hardly equipped for heavy lifting to begin with, and the slick driveway was not doing me any favors. I managed to stumble most of the way to the porch before face-planting onto the yard.
Mitch watched from the front door as I pulled myself free of the snow’s cold embrace. He feigned shock with a hand to his mouth, “You scared me for a second. I thought I saw a ghost!”
I showed him my frozen middle finger.
The door behind him burst open, flooding the yard with reflected light. Uncle Ray filled the threshold, delighted as could be and sober as could be expected. He peered out into the yard, slowly turning the wheels with a rusty hand crank. His eyes lit up when he recognized us. He yelled into the house, “Boys are here! Told you they didn’t die in a ditch.” He grabbed Mitch by the shoulder and led him into the house. “Don’t just stand out here in the cold. Get your butts inside. We thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“You don’t say,” was all I heard from Mitch as he was dragged into the house , leaving me outside. Alone.
“Seriously?” I called out to the empty night. “Nobody’s going to help me with any of this? Seriously?”
Once I fumbled my way inside, I unceremoniously dumped the bag in the entryway. I hoped to track down a warm towel before hypothermia set in, but my path to the bathroom was blocked by a small woman with a massive voice.
“Hey there, you little shit.” Aunt Carla always lingered on the ’sh.’ “How’s New Jersey treating you? Find yourself a little Jewish girl to marry yet? Maybe an Italian?”
I rolled my eyes, the classic counter to her pet name. “I graduated two years ago. I live in Mountain View now, remember?” She didn’t seem to register any of this information. “California? State below this one?”
She tsk tsk’d me. “You’re soaking wet. Dry yourself off, then come back and give me a hug. And don’t leave me waiting, I’m hungry and don’t have time for your bullcrap.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” I squeezed passed her and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.After I dried off, I waited until no one was in the hall and ducked into the media room.
A two foot tall Dora the Explorer greeted me from the far wall. I guess my grandparents saw fit to pick up a 52 inch LCD TV to watch C-SPAN and the Golf Network. Even septuagenarians had better toys than me. Disgraceful.
A small army of children sat in a semicircle around the flickering monstrosity, their eyes dead to the world outside of Dora. My sister Danny was lounging on the couch with her head in some guy’s lap. She jumped to her feet when she saw me open the door. She was three years younger than me and had turned pretty since I saw her last. I wondered what gave women the gall to always pull that move when you’re not looking.
She feigned a hug to whisper in my ear, “Thank god you’re here. I can’t handle any more of this.” She caught my wrist in her vice-like grip as she addressed the drooling masses. “Hey guys, look! It’s your cousin Nick. He’s going to watch Dora with you now, OK?”
Before I could stop her, Danny pulled her friend out of the room to safety. I shouted after her, “I’ll teach them dirty words! And inappropriate movie references!” Nothing.
The kids were totally disinterested in the changing of the guards and didn’t give me a second look. Resigned to my fate, I plopped down on the couch next to my little cousin Sophie. She had her hair pulled up top like a Who from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. She glanced at me warily. I smiled as sweetly as I could.
“Hi, Sophie.”
She scooched farther down the couch. We’d only only run into each other a couple times since she’d become self aware, so I guess she still shaky on my identity and didn’t want to get too close to me. Fair enough.
I quickly learned that one can resist Dora the Explorer one episode at a time, but when placed in a Thanksgiving Day marathon, there can be no escape. By the time Dad came in to tell us the turkey was ready, I was yelling, “Swiper, no swiping!” with the best of them.
While the kids stormed into the kitchen, Dad held me back. He looked me square in the eyes and said, “Son, before we get to dinner, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I leaned close, a knot forming in my throat. Bad news in public is bad news, but bad news in private leads to tears. “What’s wrong?”
“Your sister brought her boyfriend to dinner. Chet or Chad or whatever.”
“Oh no…” I could already tell where this was going.
“There’s not enough room at the adult table. You’re going to have to sit with the kids.” He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I slumped over like a sack of dirty laundry. This was the worst possible news. A mere two years after admittance to the adult table and I was already shoved to the sidelines, banished to the land of snot and spills. Supplanted by my own sister, no less. Utterly defeated, I followed him into the serving area.
We all made smalltalk as our plates were piled high with turkey and potatoes and gravy with all kinds of holiday sides I will never eat but look nice on my plate. Aesthetics are just as important as flavor when it comes to big meals.
I sat down at the kids table, a drab Fisher Price affair, and set to work preparing my dinner. The trick is to mix all of the different food items into one indistinguishable paste and spread it all on a roll. That’s how the hobos do it, and if it’s good for them, it’s good enough for me.
I checked out the adult table’s roster. Same general lineup as last year. Immediate family? Check. Overbearing aunts? Double check. Uncles whose names I mix up? Yessir. Usurpers to my throne? Chet. Mitch had been placed between the two lovebirds and appeared to be playing referee to their game of footsie. I could already tell the stress was getting to him. Every time he tried to take a drink, it took him more and more attempts to actually pick up the glass.
Somebody said, “Looks like fall’s coming early this year. You laid down your new sod? It’s about time.”
“Not yet, better get to it though.”
“This turkey wouldn’t be so dry if it had been all the way thawed out first.”
“Let’s deep fry it next year!”
“You girls would start a grease fire that would make Nero squirm.”
“You know, just because you went to college doesn’t mean you know everything.”
Same old boring nonsense year after year. I tried to remember why I wanted to sit with them in the first place, but nothing came to mind. At least in my seat there was very little chance of being splashed with red wine.
Aunt Carol was fighting with Mom about politics, per usual. She said something about how supporting gay marriage makes you a communist Nazi sympathizer. Everyone had started drinking several hours before we’d arrived, and the group blood alcohol level was reaching somewhere into the double digits.
Sophie tugged at my shirt. “Mr. Nick, can you cut my turkey?”
I smiled as I pulled her plate over. She was so cute. “Sure, but you don’t have to call me mister. We’re family.”
“Uh huh…” She gave me the look I get from bouncer’s when they’re checking my ID. She pointed at the mess I’d made of my own plate. “And don’t make it like yours, I don’t eat babyfood.”
“Too bad we don’t have any monster food,” I whispered to myself.
On of my aunts across the dining room cooed, “Look at Nick and Sophie. He’s so good with the kids.”
Her husband slapped Chet’s back, “Speaking of kids, when are you two gonna get hitched and pop out some of your own?”
Chet choked a little on his food while the whole family turned to stare at them. Each face was a perfect mask of polite curiosity. When my family messes with somebody, they don’t hold back. Each strike is perfectly choreographed. The only person not in on the fun was my sister. It looked like she was trying to swan-dive into her own palms.
They gave him a couple more seconds to sputter before breaking into a hearty laugh. Meanwhile, Mitch was hovering over his chair. He’d turned even whiter than usual. Once everything calmed down a bit, he cleared his throat. The family’s attention turned to him. “Everyone? I-uh… I have an announcement to make. Wow… That sounds weird out loud. Anyway, there’s something I need to tell all of you.” He fumbled for the right words to say. “I… am a ghost. Have been for almost a year now.”
Silence.
“I know this is abrupt, but I wanted to let all of you know at the same time. I’m still the same person just…a little bit more incorporeal.”
The whole family started talking at once. Only my table was unfazed. The kids were too busy smearing their faces with mashed potatoes to pay any attention, and I had known about this from the beginning. He’d been hit with a car while riding his bike home from work. I even had to verify his body. The whole experience had been so strange. He’d kept the whole ordeal a secret because he didn’t think they’d understand. He was definitely right.
Dad was the first to break through the din. “Son, have you really thought this through? What it means for your future?”
“This isn’t something I chose. It just sorta happened,” Mitch pleaded. He ignored Uncle Ray’s snort.
Grandma was next. “But how will you survive? There can’t be much work for… the umm… you know.”
“Deceased? It’s OK, you can say it. It’s not an insult.” Some of the cousins gasped at the term. “Actually, I’ve been haunting a little community theater for the last couple of months. The pay isn’t great, but it’s steady and the actors are really superstitious. Last week there was this blonde girl playing the part of an old woman, right? I scared her so badly, her false teeth fell off of her regular teeth!”
Nobody laughed. Not even a snicker.
If there’s anything my family is humorless about, it’s death. If there’s another thing, it’s community theatre. No one had been anywhere near a play since 1987. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but as far as I can gather, it involves Bye Bye Birdie and uncle Carl’s chipped tooth. Whenever it comes up, a fight breaks out. So I decided to leave it as one of those great family mysteries you don’t question.
Aunt Karen pointed a crooked finger at my mom, “See? This is what happens when you let your kids go to school in California. They come back as liberals.”
Mom’s nostrils flared, “Why don’t you come across the table and say that to my face?”
“You can’t talk to my wife like that!”
“Shut up, Frank. Mind your own business.”
“Mathew 10:1. And he called to him his twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal every disease and every affliction.”
“What does that even mean”
“If you were a pious man, the Word would come to you as if from a babbling brook.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Can we have some punkin pie now?” That was Sophie. Adorable, right?
“No surprise we have a spook in the family, the way you all act.”
That was the last straw for Grandpa, patriarch and last bastion of sanity at the dinner table. He stood up and shouted, “That’s enough! You all have no right to judge Mitchel or his lifestyle.” He pointed at Karen. “When you joined that cult, we didn’t say boo.”
“Jenny Craig is not a cult! I lost 24 pounds.”
“Horse crap. You’re fat as ever. And we’ve all seen them big woolly pajamas you parade around in.” My cousin Jake was a closeted furry, and recoiled at being called out. “No sir, far as I can tell, Mitch is the least screwy of the lot of you. Most importantly, he’s family, something you all need to learn how to respect. If you’re so petty as to let a trivial matter of life and death come between you, then I recommend packing up and taking a walk out in the snow.”
Mitch was touched. I don’t think he expected anybody to stand up for him. “Thanks Grandpa, that means a lot.”
“Anytime, boy.”
The peace didn’t last long.
“Well, they won’t let him into the country club, that’s for sure.”
“Real mature, Ray.”
“Didn’t you hear what dad said?”
“I’m not fat!”
And so it continued. Mitch quietly excused himself early on and didn’t return for the rest of the night. The argument soon shifted to Carol’s drinking problem, and then to Grandma’s accusations involving Danny’s virginity.
Outside the snow kept falling, and inside the adults kept drinking. Sophie and I weathered the storm with sizable slices of ‘punkin’ pie. By the time all the dust had settled and everyone was either in bed or passed out on the carpet, there was one broken wine glass, two cranberry stains, a sprained ankle (Aunt Carol decided the Fisher-Price table was a suitable dance floor and nearly killed herself from the fall), and half a dozen racist jokes that would haunt the teller for years to come.
At about two in the morning I pulled a couple of beers I’d hidden earlier in the evening and tracked down Mitch on the back porch. He was watching the snow fall, flakes occasionally drifting over and through him. We drank in silence for a while, enjoying the tranquility one only finds in a completely snow covered landscape.
Mitch smiled. “I gotta admit, that went over way better than I expected.”
I nodded. “Didn’t I tell you? Easy as apple pie.”
