Unspoken

by Robin Wesley

            His mother opened the door with an expression of surprise then relief. He wasn’t sure if her shock was that he had finally arrived, or at his appearance. He’d been stranded at the Chicago airport due to the inclement weather for over twenty-four hours. Perhaps his mother hadn’t believed him or thought by now he would have just caught a plane back to California.

            Her shock and relief more likely were a result of his attire and appearance. Had she feared he’d show up as his Drag persona in the Dolly Parton blond wig, painted brows, and one-inch false eyelashes? No, he wasn’t wearing a bedazzled cowgirl skirt with matching vest or high heeled neon pink faux snakeskin boots. He was not Lois L’Amour the Country Queen of Calabasas, the headliner of the Auntie Hanks Ho Down. Today on the steps of his childhood home in Morrisville New Jersey, he was Marvin, a bald man in a rumpled brown suit.

            He started to utter an apology: for being late, for missing the funeral, for not visiting more often, for not being the son they wanted…The grey-haired woman in the floral housedress just made a shushing noise as if able to sense all the jumbled thoughts in Marvin’s head, and tried to quiet them. She latched onto him in a tight hug and the two stood holding each other for longer than either would normally feel comfortable.

            A yapping bark startled Marvin and he stepped away from his mother. Now her shushing sound was aimed at the small brown and white figure hopping around their feet. A tiny dog looked up at them. Its front right leg was only a stump. Despite this, the animal moved determinedly and demanded attention.

            “Ceratops, be good,” his mother commanded. Turning to her son, she added, “You must be famished. Come on in.” She immediately headed to the kitchen, saying that she’d make him a plate. She instructed him to put his stuff in Gram’s old room. He could still hear her talking but didn’t catch every word from the bedroom at the end of the hall. He heard something about the neighbor’s bringing food, and lots of tuna casseroles.

            Gram’s room, called that even after the old lady passed away decades ago, hadn’t changed. It still had the same 1970’s green wallpaper with a pattern of large palm branches. The same orange and gold bedspread covered the twin bed. Orange curtains hung over a window that overlooked the trash bins on the side of the house. Marvin left his suitcase at the foot of the bed and headed toward the kitchen.

            His mother was still talking as if he’d been in the room. Now she was chatting about the weather and expecting rain. She’d set out bowls covered in saran-wrap on the wooden kitchen table, along with two plates. Marvin began to uncover the bowls. One held potato salad, another a macaroni salad and a third green Jello with blobs of fruit suspended like flies in amber. 

            He thought of his father’s cuff links, the ones with the amber in the center and the little specks of insects. His father and grandfather had found those pieces on a fishing trip and Gramps made them into cufflinks. His grandfather wore them every Sunday to church and passed them down to his father when his parents got married. Funny a Jello salad could bring forth that memory.

            “It was a lovely service,” his mother said as she pulled a dish out of the oven and carefully placed it on a hot pad in the center of the table. As promised, it was tuna casserole with cheese melted on top covered with crushed potato chips. “Your cousin Jenny sang Amazing Grace. Your father just loved that song. And the Parson did such a nice eulogy.”

            “I’m sorry…” Marvin started to say.

            “Couldn’t be helped,” his mother said waving her hand as if brushing away bugs. “You can’t control the weather. Not your fault. Flights were cancelled.” She sat across from him and scooped small amounts of food from each dish onto her plate.

            No, he could not control the weather. But he could have booked an earlier flight instead of planning to arrive the morning of the service. The club manager had plenty of acts to cover his spot but he’d used work as the excuse. The show must go on.

            “Eat up, got lots,” his mother said. She looked so much older and thinner, but then he hadn’t seen her in ten years. She pushed the food on her plate around but didn’t eat any.

            Marvin obeyed and filled his plate. He even took a small portion of the green Jello knowing his mother would be upset he didn’t just try a little. A household rule, you had to give everything a taste. The dog barked and his mother took a noodle, blew on it a few times and then gave it to the animal.

            “When did you get this little guy?” Marvin asked.

            “About two, maybe three years ago,” his mother replied. “Didn’t I mention him? Your father’s idea. He was volunteering at the shelter when the pup was brought in, hit by a car, or attacked by another dog. I don’t remember. But he was hurt bad. They had to amputate the leg. Your father agreed to take in little Ceratops.”

            “Ceratops?”

            “For Triceratops, cause of the three legs,” his mother answered then rolled her eyes. “I thought it was foolish too, but you know your father. Liked to be clever.”

            Marvin continued to eat more out of obligation than hunger. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since he’d gotten the phone calls. The first one saying that his father had a heart attack and was being taken to the hospital. The second call had come less than fifteen minutes later saying Pops was dead. Marvin still felt numb. With modern medicine people survived heart attacks all the time. They’d collapse in a store or have chest pains at home. An ambulance came. EMT’s would apply paddles and yell, “Clear.” The person would recover. A doctor would suggest losing a few pounds and write prescription for statin drugs. It happened every day. But not that day.

            “Your father tried to make a prosthesis for him,” his mother said. It took a moment for Marvin to pull himself from his thoughts and realize she was talking about the dog. “You know your father, always trying to fix things. He made a tiny artificial leg and a strap. Ceratops flopped around in it but I don’t think he liked it much. A sore developed on the stump. No matter what your father tried to pad it with, that sore wouldn’t heal. Vet said to just let the dog be, and sure enough, Ceratops got around just fine on three legs.”

            A moment of silence followed. Marvin ate. His mother continued to push food around her plate. Ceratops patiently waited for another scrap.

            “Your cousins want us to go over for dinner tomorrow night. Also, thought maybe we could go to the gravesite tomorrow. It’s a beautiful spot overlooking the river,” his mother said. Then she stood up suddenly as if bit by something, and without a word, ran off to the garage.

            Neither dog nor son took too much notice of the woman’s sudden departure. Both apparently used to her quirks. Marvin’s mother was known to stop mid-sentence and either change topic or go off and do something else. She explained that when something popped into her head, if she didn’t act on it, she’d forget. More times than not, she’d forget what she’d been doing before the new thought popped in. Marvin never understood why the invasive thought took priority over the existing moment. Then again, that had always been the problem between himself and his parents. He didn’t understand them and they didn’t understand him.

            As he was rinsing his plate in the sink, his mother returned with a hammer and pliers. She set them on the kitchen table and went off to the far side of the house, the master bedroom. Marvin covered the bowls back up. He was trying to find space to put the leftovers away when his mother returned with a white paper bag.

            “Oh, leave that. I got a system,” she said and thrusted the bag toward him. “Your father wanted me to give you this.” Before he could ask or look inside it, she was handing him the tools. “Now I need you to go on out to the treehouse. There’s a board inside that’s come loose.”

            “The treehouse? That thing is still standing?” Marvin asked. He shoved the bag into his pant pockets.

            “Of course. Your father has always maintained that treehouse. Gave it a fresh coat of paint every year and stained the steps. All the neighborhood kids come play on it. That’s why I need you to fix the board. One of the kids said a nail was showing through. I don’t want any of the children to cut themselves, and on Saturdays they tend to show up early. Better do it now before it gets dark.”

            Like the rest of the house, the backyard hadn’t changed since the last time he’d been home at least a decade ago. The barbecue was covered, and Marvin knew, if he peeked inside, it would be as clean as the day it was bought. He had loved his father’s spareribs and cookouts, but immediately after eating, the grilled had to be scrubbed thoroughly. A chore assigned to Marvin which he hated, and one he never seemed to do to his father’s satisfaction.

            In the center of the expansive yard, sat the oak. Gram would tell how it was planted when Marvin’s father was born. When his father was eleven, the tree had sturdy enough branches for a tire swing. Marvin never cared much for the swing, though he was encouraged to use it when visiting his grandparents. The tire was dirty and smelled. But he did love the tree. It seemed magical. In autumn, the leaves turned the most amazing shades of orange and yellow. Winter brought ice covered branches that looked like crystal. Then in spring, the little buds peeked out. Marvin loved how the tree could be so many different things.

            His family moved in with Gram when his grandfather died. Almost immediately, his father had the tire swing removed and started building the treehouse. It was suppose to be a father-son project. But every time Marvin tried to do something, his father would find a reason to take over. Standing there in the yard with tools in his hand, Marvin half expected his father to show up and grab them from him.

            Marvin took another moment to admire the treehouse nestled in large branches. It was a bright yellow. The same Sunshine yellow he’d chosen when it was first built. Initially, there had been a rope ladder, but Marvin, at the time, was on the heavier side and had difficulty negotiating the swaying ropes. Instead, his father built a staircase that wound around the truck in a spiral. That treehouse became Marvin’s sanctuary.

            Marvin heard something behind him and realized Ceratops was following him. Hammer and pliers in one hand, Marvin bent down to pick up the little dog. Ceratops let out a low growl and Marvin stood holding up a hand in apology. “Just trying to help, little guy,” he said. Marvin ascended the stairs slowly making sure they could hold his adult weight, and Ceratops stubbornly followed managing to hop up each step. Once inside the structure, Marvin sat and laughed as the dog hobbled up to him wagging its tail.

            “Well guess you can make it all by yourself,” Marvin said. “You must have driven Pops crazy. He was one to want to fix things, but you didn’t need fixing. We are a little alike.” Marvin gave the pooch a scratch on the head.

            He took a moment to examine the current occupant’s décor. There was a pirate flag on one wall, and a box a Legos beneath it. On the other side of the space, was a small table with a plastic tea set and an abandoned doll. A chalkboard was set up next to one of the windows. Children had drawn pictures. Someone had also written a profanity that had been erased but was still legible.

            Marvin spied the loose board near the door where he sat. He was able to pound it back in place making sure no nails were exposed. He wasn’t as good with his hands as his father, but Marvin was satisfied with the success at the small task. Long ago, he’d learned to appreciate his own accomplishments.

            “Our family wasn’t much in giving compliments,” Marvin said out loud as if the dog knew what was in his head and understood. “But we all had a talent to point out failings and disappointments.” Marvin remembered their big blow up when his father demanded to know when he was going to quit all the nonsense.

            “Can’t you just be a normal gay?” Marvin said mocking his father’s deep voice. “Do you have to go parade around dressed like a cheap Vegas floozy? When are you going to grow up and do something meaningful with your life.”

            Ceratops looked at Marvin and cocked his head. Perhaps he admired the impression or was confused by Pops’ voice coming out of this newcomer’s mouth.

            Marvin looked at his canine audience and spoke in his normal voice, “Yeah, I apparently wasn’t even being gay correctly. That was the last time I was here. The argument escalated from there. I asked him what was so meaningful about laying drywall and accused Pops of wasting his potential. I mean look at this thing.” Marvin tapped on the sturdy walls of the treehouse. “He designed and built this whole thing himself. The man was always inventing stuff, good stuff.”

            Ceratops rested his head atop Marvin’s leg and the man sighed heavily. “Pops like to read too; that’s where I got my love for reading. He’d study all kinds of things. Economics, astronomy, botany, ancient Egypt. The man was a genius. But of course, I never said that to him. Never told him how much I admired him. And that I wish I could have done one thing to make him proud. I honestly thought if maybe once he came to see me entertain and saw how happy people were when I performed…” Marvin gave the pup a gentle rub.

            “Don’t think I didn’t have contact with my folks all this time. I’d call a couple times a month. But we never really said anything. Pops would ask about the weather, or the latest flu going around. The Covid era gave us something to converse about. He never told me he volunteered at an animal shelter. Never told me about you. And now the bastard’s dead and neither of us can say any of the things we may have wanted to.”

            Marvin wondered if there were unspoken things his father had wanted to say. He chastised himself for his little pity party. It wasn’t like he was the first son to ever have issues with his father. He was about to head down the treehouse stairs when the bag he’d shoved in his pocket rustled. He pulled it out and retrieved a small box from inside. Opening it, Marvin gasped. Tears started to flow. The little dog was alarmed at Marvin’s loud weeping. Inside the box, were the bits of amber with those specks of bugs. They were no longer in the cufflinks. Instead, the polished fossilized tree resin adored a set of ornate silver hang down earrings in the shape of lassos. There was no note. There didn’t need to be. Marving could hear the unspoken words.

            “I love you too, Pops,” Marvin said.