Chapter 1 #2
I flinched, then tried to pretend I hadn’t.
These were just my airplane clothes—I had planned to change before the wake—but I still liked them.
The top was from a thrift store my friend Gus and I liked to shop at; it was a vintage-washed T-shirt that said RAGE CONSUMES ME above a photo of a fluffy cat.
Grandpa glared at it with the disgust he usually reserved for Democrats, goldendoodles, and men who went to therapy.
I met his eyes and tried to hold fast to my promise that I would be myself this weekend, regardless of how anyone else made me feel.
“Um,” I said, clearing my throat, “I like this shirt.”
“Get some nice skirts and dresses for college,” Grandpa demanded, staring me down from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “If I’m paying your tuition, I want to know you’re becoming a proper young lady.”
I bristled but held my tongue. Dad’s eyes were burning into me, begging me to play along.
We both knew that if I wanted to get through college on Grandpa and Grandma’s dime, then I had to walk a certain line.
It remained to be seen what side of that line my queerness fell on, so for now I would have to let the little things go.
I gave my grandfather an apologetic smile and stepped forward to hug him hello.
“It’s nice to see you, Grandpa. I brought you a surprise.
” I forced another smile and pulled the corn bread box from the Tambrie’s Café to-go bag.
Ms. Tambrie herself had pressed it into my hands with strict instructions to tell my grandfather there was extra butter and peach jam inside.
I could have sworn she had a crush on him.
Maybe she liked comb-overs and coffee breath.
Grandpa lifted the lid and surveyed the contents. “No honey?”
“Ms. Tambrie said there was butter and jam.”
“She always forgets the damn honey,” he said, smacking the container aside. “And today of all days. It’s been a hard enough week already.”
Just then, Grandma rounded the corner, her hands aloft and her fingers pinched like something might need fixing at any moment.
She had that buzz about her like she’d been hurrying from one inane chore to the next.
Unlike Grandpa, she was still wearing her clothes from the wake: a formal black dress, diamond earrings, and perfectly coiffed hair the color of buttercream icing.
I braced myself again, fully prepared for her to make a dig like Grandpa had, but all she said was, “Oh, Louisa, I’m glad you finally made it,” as if I’d walked over from the neighbors’ house instead of flying a thousand miles through a thunderstorm.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said, returning her perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”
She neither acknowledged nor returned the compliment. “We need to discuss the photo boards.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but that’s how it always went with Grandma.
She saw everyone as a potential assistant.
Jesus himself could have shown up on the doorstep and she would have said, Now, if you insist on this Last Supper, you’ll have to help me set the table. Go fetch the cloth napkins.
“They’re in the living room,” Grandma went on, beckoning me to follow. “Shannon and I worked on them all day yesterday.”
The living room smelled overwhelmingly of flowers.
There were bouquets on every surface—the coffee table, the mantel, the windowsills, even Grandma’s old wooden hope chest, where she still kept her wedding dress.
At family parties, usually after a glass of gin, she would fish the dress out and try it on for everyone, making sure we remarked on how well it still fit.
“People are sending flowers in droves,” Grandma said. She must have realized how inappropriately pleased she sounded, because she cleared her throat and spoke more somberly. “As they should. Losing George has upended our world.”
The space not taken up by flowers was covered with giant trifold photo boards like something a kid might use for a science fair project. Grandma and Aunt Shannon, my dad’s younger sister, had made photo collages of Uncle George’s life that spanned from infancy to his final days.
“Go have a look,” Grandma ordered. “Then you can move them to the Cadillac. We’ll need you to drive it to the service tomorrow.”
I thought I’d misheard her. “Ma’am?”
“George’s Cadillac,” she said impatiently. “You’ll be driving it to the funeral so we can set up the photo boards before everyone arrives.”
I simply stared at her, unable to stomach the idea of driving a dead man’s car. Seeing Uncle George’s ashes—literally all that remained of him—had been enough of a mindfuck already.
“Oh, honey,” she said, correctly reading my expression. “Don’t be precious. People die every day. Doesn’t mean we should waste a tank of gas.”
My dad and Grandpa entered the room. Dad put a hand on my shoulder and said, “I can drive it, Lou, and you can take the truck.”
Grandma tutted. “Oh, Tate, you’re so soft.”
Dad chose to ignore the jibe, which was his usual survival strategy with Grandma. “Louisa’s had a long day. I’m starving, so I can only imagine she’s ready to eat a horse. How about we eat first, then tackle the photo boards?”
Grandma rolled her eyes. She had very little patience for basic human needs like food and water. “Never mind all that. Did you get a look at these, Tate? Shannon insisted we keep the photos from your college graduation even though you had that awful ponytail.”
Dad sighed in resignation and approached the collages with his hands in his pockets. “You taped the obituary up there?”
“Of course I did. Some people may not have read it yet.” Grandma sniffed. “Your father worked closely with the reporter to get it just right, and I want every person in this town to appreciate it.”
I looked over Dad’s shoulder at the front-page copy of The Rustin Herald. Dad had emailed my mom the digital version, but this was my first time seeing it in print.