a little bit of you

Six hours after mom’s death, my next door neighbor, Clive, who I’ve been in a silent battle with since I was seven, drops a jar of Carbone in his driveway. It explodes atomic bomb style, sending the pretentious tuscan basil tomato sauce across the white cement. He fumes at the ground.

I choke back laughter.

He doesn’t really know what a bad day looks like.

Clive is thirty-four, exactly three years older than me. His parents are loaded. The kind of rich that allows him to keep his house while they reside in a private estate in California. He’s a pretty boy, too—the male embodiment of the clean girl aesthetic: slicked brown hair, a generic flush across his well hydrated cheeks, much like my favorite fictional serial killer Patrick Bateman, and a rotating closet that’s black, grey, white or blue. I would say that his style is effortless if there wasn’t so much effort involved.

He’s just as rigid in his daily routine.

Goes for a run from 7:45 to 8:15.

Waters the pothos every six days, no later than 8:20.

Makes breakfast by 8:45.

Showers and starts work by 9:15.

Finishes his day at 4:00, so that by 4:30, his pot of steaming tea, two cups, and an extra chair are ready to go on his front porch, even though I’ve never seen him welcome a single visitor.

I laugh so hard that I hiccup.

Clive turns a deep shade of poppy at the sound of my laughter. He launches off of his heels and takes four strides to the bottom step of mom’s porch.

I’ve been sitting here for most of the day—pretending a random splotch of bird shit on a ladder didn’t just send my mom to the morgue.

“It’s not polite to laugh at people.” He says.

“It just—it just—boom!” I can’t catch my breath.

“Boom?”

“Boom!” I make a gesture with my arms, an explosion of sorts.

The skin between his brows crinkles into an ugly accordion.

I stand, ushering for him to follow me through the house to the back sliding door. He complies, but with each doorway he passes, he hunches, peering around the corner, like he’s looking for someone.

He comes to stand next to me on the back porch.

I point at the fresh, chunky stain on the cement, laughing harder than before.

He blinks. “What?”

“Her head exploded.” I’m gasping for breath. “The pavement is two for two today.”

I expect him to be horrified.

Clive’s horrified by most things: loud noises, dog poop in the yard, punk music, when I pluck a flower from the garden at the front of his drive.

Instead, he runs into the kitchen, opens the cabinet just under the sink, and collects a bucket, towel, and dish soap.

I never imagined Clive in our kitchen.

Our relationship has always been defined by living on opposite sides of a fence.

He fills the bucket with steamy water, stirring in soap until it becomes thick and frothy.

This is real.

Clive’s in mom’s backyard.

On his hands and knees.

Cleaning up her brainy bits.

Jesus is one silly son-of-a-bitch.

Satisfied with his work, he takes the bucket to the edge of the yard, where the rose bushes have been blooming, and pours the dirty water over the top of them. They’re the only thing in the world mom loved just as much as me and my brother.

I brace my hands on my knees, welcoming a steady stream of laughter.

Somehow, I end up laying in the grass, my face toward the sun.

Clive skirts around me before disappearing into the house. When he returns, he places something next to me.

Sunscreen.

He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever the first thought is, he swallows it, trading it for another.

“I will close the door behind me.”

I’m a sweaty starfish on the grass.

I reach for the sunscreen, squeeze out a turd sized helping, and smear it over my face. I lay there for three hours, waiting for the sun to go down.

I look at my watch.

It’s 6:45.

I crawl toward his house.

He’s sitting on his front porch.

There’s a second chair, empty.

A cup of tea, waiting to meet the curve of someone’s palm.

Turns out, funerals are a lot of work. Planning how a dead person is going to look in their casket, even more so.

“How much makeup should I use?” Nancy says.

She’s the funeral director—also, a family friend.

I’m palming the phone in one hand, a bag of chips in the other, watching Clive nurse a cup of tea from the safety of my living room window.

He hasn’t taken a single sip.

He poured it an hour ago.

“Mom hated makeup.” I say.

“Something lighter then?”

He’s been stirring for thirty minutes.

I know there’s no sugar in that damn cup.

A physique like that doesn’t know sugar.

“Yep. That’s fine.”

“And with—with the—well—”

“Skull fracture, Nancy.”

“Yes. Do you want me to—”

“Do your thang, girl.”

“That’s not—”

“Nancy. I would rather be talking about anything else.”

“I know, kiddo.” She exhales loud enough for me to hear. “Do you have someone who can be with you tonight?”

I fight the urge to laugh. “No.”

I drop the blinds.

I can’t watch him anymore.

It’s too fucking sad.

On the day of mom’s funeral, I can’t decide between watching Clive, who is standing at the edge of the cemetery, half of his body hidden behind a dying oak tree, or Kate, mom’s ex-bestfriend, who managed to invite herself to the funeral despite not having seen mom in twenty years. She’s giving the performance of a lifetime with a eulogy no one asked for—or gave her permission to do. She rallies between guttural sobs and soft tears.

And Clinical Clive—well, he’s turned into Creepy Clive.

Eventually, he comes to stand directly behind Kate, who concludes her monologue with a quote from William Shakespeare. It’s so ill placed that it’s not worth repeating.

I give her a standing ovation—because, why not?

Unfortunately, people don’t respond well to jovial clapping at funerals.

Even if it’s your mom that died.

One person smiles, though.

I’m surprised by how much it warms my whole body when he does.

Then, mom’s lowered into the ground.

The priest says his final blessing.

There’s hugging.

Workers with shovels are ready to do their job.

People pile into their cars.

And I’m left sitting on a white chair made of scratched up plastic, staring at a fresh patch of perfectly rectangular dirt.

Wondering if a part of me died with her.

For some people, funerals are just another party.

They lazily melt into mom’s vintage leather couch, the one she thrifted in her early 20s while she was living in Chicago. Walk across the carpet in their muddy shoes. Eat heaping piles of the Italian food dad could barely afford to cater. Gawk at pictures of our family over the years, touching the frames with their oily fingers.

We’re on full display.

During one of the worst days of our lives.

Second worst for me—nothing tops seeing a loved one’s head explode.

And these people are behaving like they’re at a cook out in the middle of summer. It’s all chatter and chumminess, exchanging stories of mom like they’re tossing around gold.

Monica and Libby say they’ve known mom since her first day at the child welfare clinic. Her shoes will be hard to fill, they say.

Kate, a glass of white wine in her hand, balks at the story. She claims mom was quick to put her nose in things that weren’t mom’s business, but concedes that mom was extremely detail oriented. I watch Kate dance around the room, stop at the back door, and pivot with renewed energy toward the fridge, where she promptly pours another glass.

Dad and Linda are stationed at the front, exchanging clipped words. Dad gets misty eyed. Linda offers him a pasta stained napkin. They both check their phones. Will Kyle be coming? Linda asks.

A woman with silver hair and a toothy grin grabs me in an embrace and tells me that I look so much like mom. Then she spots another gariatric friend and squeals, vanishing into conversation.

I swipe a coke from the kitchen and duck into the backyard.

I’m not alone.

Clive is standing over the rose bushes.

They’ve wilted.

I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s his fault.

Instead, I study his back and the square of his shoulders. I wonder if his shoulders are that sharp or if it’s the jacket. If it’s the jacket, I wonder why he wants to be so sharp. Wonder if he owns anything soft or gentle around the edges. Is the suit new? Or was it waiting for a day like this, hiding between his work clothes and running gear? Does he ever wear color? Or is he betrothed to black and grey and white and blue?

Is he alone because he’s too precise in his existence, too severe in his choices?

He’s fiddling with the edge of his jacket cuff. It’s worn to a softer shade of blue.

I think I have it—whatever secret he’s holding from the world.

I see it—even in its smallness.

I stand next to him.

We stare at the roses together.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is even, warm.

“For what?”

“The roses.”

“Oh.” I shrug. “Soap isn’t great for flowers.”

I won’t say it, but seeing them wilted is just another blow to my already aching chest.

“And for leaving you in the grass.”

“I would have left me, too.”

“It was wrong of me.”

I pop the can open. “After the joke I made, I don’t blame you.”

I slurp the first few sugary drops.

Bliss.

“We don’t choose how grief manifests.” He shifts between his feet.

I look at him. “Manifests?”

He blinks. “It means—”

“I know what the word means.” I soften when I see him retract at my quickness. “People just don’t talk like that.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “People do.”

“Old people.”

“There’s nothing wrong with old people.”

“I didn’t say there was, but even old people curse.” I slurp. “You should try it.”

“There are much more interesting words.”

“I don’t know about that.” I burp. “Motherfucker is a pretty good one.”

He turns to me, and when I see his face, I realize how unkept he is. There are dark crescent moons under his eyes. His skin is dull, lips slightly cracked in the corners.

“Do I have something on my face?” He says.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

I pause, consider. “I’m just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“How it’s possible for you to look as broken as I feel.”

Five days after mom was put in the ground, Clive spends 11 minutes evaluating his driveway. He crouches to the spot where the Carbone met its end, paws at it with the tips of his fingers. Every time he walks by it, he admires its shape.

“We should sell the house.” Dad says.

“I love this house.” I say.

He’s texting ferociously. “You can’t afford to stay here.”

“I do alright for myself.”

When I look back out the window, Clive is nowhere to be seen.

“The bar isn’t going to pay for this house.”

“The house is paid off. I just need enough for the utilities.”

“What about your commissions?”

“It’s a slow month.”

“Are you submitting for an art fest tent?”

I roll my eyes. “Dad.”

“You need extra cash flow.”

“Dad.”

“I don’t think you’re being realistic about this.”

“Where will I go?”

“You can move in with me and Linda.”

Linda is a smoker.

Linda likes to gamble.

Linda smells like bad sushi.

Worse than the kind you get at the gas station.

And I love gas station sushi.

Clive reappears, tea pot in hand.

There’s that second cup.

I huff. “It’s, like, eighty degrees out.”

“What?” Dad looks up from his phone, finger hovering over the screen.

I said that outloud. “I’m hot. And I need a shower.”

Dad doesn’t move an inch.

“I need a shower.”

“Do you want me to wait—”

“Dad—”

“Okay, okay. I’ll come by next week.”

I mumble a half-hearted confirmation to dad, wave goodbye without looking at him. He kisses the top of my head, tells me that I need to make sure I’m eating enough. The door clicks behind him.

Clive adjusts in his chair once, twice.

He shifts the waistband of his pants.

Crosses and uncrosses his legs.

He waves at dad—says something that makes dad laugh.

I scowl.

It couldn’t have been that funny.

Since when are he and dad friendly, anyway?

I run upstairs and take a cold shower before I lose my head.

The stream is ice against my skin. I welcome the sharpness, the unrelenting cold pelts against my back, chest, the tops of my feet. Reinvigorated, I slip on a cami and shorts, slide into my paint stained flip flops.

The sun is setting when I stomp out mom’s front door.

I pivot toward his driveway.

His eyes go wide when he sees me coming.

He stands, then sits, then stands.

His eyes dart in every direction.

I grab the second tea cup, pour myself a healthy swirl from the pot—

“Wait—” He says, reaching for the cup.

Glug, glug, glug.

I spit it out.

It’s fucking hot.

And it tastes like ass.

He laughs.

I’ve never heard him laugh.

“This is repulsive.” I say.

“The tea wasn’t for you.” He says.

“Disgusting, actually.”

“I think it’s quite nice.”

“Of all the options in the world, you pick this?”

“It’s green tea. It’s the second most consumed drink in the world.”

“And it sucks.”

“The world would disagree.”

“Old people like green tea.”

“Actually–”

“You should have invited my mother over. That woman would be so pleased to know—”

I whip my head to look at him.

Really look at him.

I feel my heart leap into my throat.

I say it slowly. “You were waiting for my mom.”

He nods.

“Why?”

He tilts his head. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“She was my welfare caseworker.” He says.

I feel a stinging behind my eyes.

I will not cry in front of Clive.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“You let me torture you with mild insults and passive aggressive bullshit for years.”

He shrugs. “You seemed to enjoy this game.” When I don’t say anything, he looks at his watch. “It’s four-thirty.”

My throat is tight. “Probably.”

“Do you not work at the bar?”

“I’m—I’m on an extended leave.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

I shrug. Nod a little. Shrug. Shrug that turns into a nod.

I will not cry in front of Clive.

“I made pasta.” He says.

I think of his Carbone.

The bird turd.

The pavement.

Dish soap.

Dead roses.

Deep crescent moons under his eyes.

“Okay.” I say.

“Okay.” He says.

I take a seat in the empty chair next to him.

He grabs the tea cup from my hands and disappears into the house.

Gives it to me upon his return.

I sip.

It’s coca-cola.

I cry, my throat and chest finally releasing.

Not because the tea cup is filled with coca-cola.

But because I found a little bit of you in him.