Elegy by Katie Rebhan (16, Virginia)

    A familiar pit had formed in Anna’s stomach, and she was plummeting through it. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she couldn’t stop checking her watch every few seconds. What am I supposed to do? Anna wondered as anxiety continued to marshall its forces. I don’t want to make him mad, but we really have to leave! Her heart pounded, but she gathered up her courage and cried desperately upstairs to her husband, “Jon, honey, if we don’t go now, we’ll miss the train!” Anna tried to make her voice sound nonchalant, but she had calculated the exact time they needed to leave the house, which had passed two minutes ago. 
    Jonathan thundered down the stairs. “Jesus, I’ll be ready in a second, you don’t need to yell. Call the kids while I finish up.”  ​

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    “The kids—” Anna started, but cut herself off. Their children had been ready to go for what felt like ages. Anna hurried outside to the car, taking her unassigned assigned seat in the passenger spot. Buckling her seat belt, she began to rummage through her purse. 
    “What are you doing, Mommy?” Gracie, Anna and Jonathan’s youngest child (who had recently developed a habit of questioning everything), asked from the backseat. 
    “I’m just checking to make sure we have everything we need, sweetheart,” Anna replied. Suitcases, check. Food and water, check. Tickets, check. 
    “Of course,” Laura, the eldest child, responded. “Just checking.”
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    It was Anna’s first time meeting her boyfriend’s family, and she was nervous. She was dressed up in the best (and only) dress she owned, and she had gotten both her hair and makeup done. Anna and Jonathan drove five hours from college to Jonathan’s house, and she was already tired when they arrived. 
    In the cozy kitchen, Mrs. Baker embraced her warmly. “Hi, you must be Anna! It’s so nice to meet you!” 
    “You too,” Anna responded, proudly handing over a bouquet of flowers she had picked up beforehand. “These are for you, Mrs. Baker.”
    Before Ruth could reply, Mr. Baker stepped into the room. He was already frowning, his face was lined with wrinkles, and his eyes narrowed as they landed on Anna. “Is this her, Jonathan?” he asked, and Anna couldn’t help hearing the derisive tone in his voice. God, I’m right here! she wanted to say, but she kept quiet, not wanting to anger Mr. Baker. 
    The afternoon passed slowly but uneventfully, and after dinner Anna spent a dutiful hour at Jonathan’s side over cocktails, answering the usual litany of questions that parents always asked: we met 3 months ago; no, Jonathan hasn’t told me that story yet; I haven’t decided, but maybe law school…. The cocktail and the warmth of the house sapped her energy and she retired to the guest room for the night. 
    Anna fell asleep quickly but woke up again to the sound of yelling downstairs. She got out of bed and made her way quietly down the stairs. Jonathan and Charles were facing off in the living room; cocktail hour, it seemed, had not stopped after a single hour but had lengthened into several. Both men looked unkempt and unsteady, their voices thick and slurred. 
    Jonathan was stubbornly repeating himself. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know her.  You don’t know anything.”
    Before Charles responded, he caught Anna’s eye from across the room. He did not acknowledge Anna before turning his attention back to his son: “You can do much better.”
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    Less than ten minutes into the journey, the kids started fighting. Gracie was bored and wanted to borrow Peter’s phone. 
    “No way. This is my phone, and you’re not going to put your greasy little fingers on it,” Peter declared with the usual diplomacy of 12 year-old brothers. 
    Gracie cried like any toddler who didn’t get her way, so Peter shoved her to get her to shut up, and Laura joined in, upset that her younger siblings had interrupted her precious reading time. Although Jonathan attempted to ignore the noise, it became so deafening that he couldn’t even concentrate on the road. If he and his brothers had pulled this utter nonsense when they were children, their father would have slapped them without hesitating. Jonathan didn’t want to yell at his kids (he didn’t want to be like his father), but what else was he supposed to do? Anna would never say a thing; she would just let this go on forever. Jonathan’s face became redder as his lips drew close together in a deep scowl. 
    “Would you just shut up!” Jonathan roared, spit flying out of his mouth and onto the windshield. “How the hell do you expect me to drive when you’re screaming at each other like animals? If I have to stop this car, you’ll be sorry!”
    The rearview mirror showed Jonathan his children staring back at him with horrified expressions, mouths open in varied levels of shock. Gracie was chewing her fingernail, on the verge of tears. Jonathan registered pangs of guilt. I’m not usually like this, he reassured himself. He remembered his therapist’s words: When people lose someone, especially their father, they tend to lash out. This is a normal reaction. 
    After a moment, Jonathan felt a cool hand on his arm. He glanced over at Anna, who said, “Honey, please don’t be mad. We really need to get going, or we’ll be late!”
    Red hot anger once again pulsed through Jonathan, and he had to hold himself back from snapping at his wife. You are not your father, so don’t act like it. It was becoming more difficult to tell himself that. 
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    Jonathan was hiding underneath his bed. Supposedly there were monsters living there, but Jonathan knew better: the true monster was outside, drunkenly clambering up the stairs. After a few moments of silence, fists pounded on the door. 
    “I swear to God, Jonathan, open this damn door right now!” Jonathan knew that his father would never seriously injure him (a slap on the face was the limit of Charles’ physical punishment), but the words he would say were worse. Jonathan prayed that his father would go away, that tonight would be different from last night, the night before, every other night. 
    But his father shoved the door open, barreling into the room and immediately spotting Jonathan’s hiding spot. Jonathan couldn’t meet his father’s stare from under the bed. He waited for the inevitable slap and stream of belittling invective and tried not to cry this time.
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    Ruth arrived early everywhere she went, and today was no exception, so she decided that she had time for a cup of coffee before her train departed. As Ruth settled into a cafe nestled in the back of the station, she suddenly shivered. Surely it was no coincidence that this place looked exactly like the coffee shop she had met him in. It felt like a sign, or rather a warning, that maybe she shouldn’t attend the funeral of her ex-husband. 
    ​Charles had been an abusive husband and father, and she had left him when their youngest child departed for college. Why go to his funeral? Closure, she reminded herself. She needed to end this chapter of her life. 
    Suddenly, Ruth felt a tap on her shoulder. “Anna!” she cried, jumping up and hugging her, the pain momentarily forgotten. “Where are Jonathan and the kids?”
    “They’re waiting to board the train; I wanted to get coffee before we leave.” Anna hesitated, then sat at Ruth’s table. “Can I talk to you about something?”
    Ruth nodded slowly. She and Anna weren’t particularly close. “Of course, darling.”
    Anna took a deep breath before speaking, but the words flowed as though rehearsed (knowing Anna, they probably were). “I’m worried about Jonathan. He’s struggling with his father’s passing, and he doesn’t know how to feel about the loss of someone who hurt him so much.”
    Ruth squeezed Anna’s hands. “Honey, I understand why you’re worried. The only thing you can do is to be there for him because he needs you. He’s very lucky to have someone as compassionate and perceptive as you to support him.” 
    Anna smiled. “Thank you, Ruth. I hate to see him torture himself like this.”
    “I know you do, sweetie, and Jonathan knows it too. We should get to the train soon.”
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    “Honey, I’m home!” Jonathan cried, spinning and twirling Ruth around the kitchen like a princess. “How was your day?”
    Ruth smiled brightly at her husband, glad to see that he was once again in a good mood. Last night was just a fluke; everything was fine once more. “Wonderful, what about you?”
    “Great, absolutely amazing, just terrific! Paul told me he loved my proposal, and he even hinted at a promotion at today’s meeting. Come on, baby, let’s celebrate.”
    He opened a bottle of wine, which they drank together, then a second bottle, which he mostly drank himself. The evening drew on and Ruth’s smile faded as Charles’ movements become heavy and more deliberate. Hoping to forestall a third bottle, Ruth coaxed Charles to the table for dinner. She served the meal—Spaghetti Bolognese, her husband’s favorite—and watched him take the first bite. But instead of pleasure, the look on his face was one of disgust, and Ruth already knew what was coming. “How can you wreck everything you cook? I could open a can of spaghetti that would taste better than this. I was having a good day, and you ruined it.” Enraged, he grabbed his bowl and threw it across the room, barely missing Ruth’s head, before storming out of the house.
    Ruth sat at the table for 20 minutes, just staring at her uneaten meal, before finally mopping up the red sauce where it had splattered on the wall. 
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    Laura despised her family. No, maybe that was too strong, some teenage hyperbole: she just didn’t like her family and their problems. Laura couldn’t help resenting all of them. 
    Laura’s grandmother tapped her arm to get her attention. “What makes you love reading so much, do you think?” Laura saw through the desperate attempt to bond with her by talking about the one thing Laura loved more than anything else in the world. 
    “I guess sometimes I just want to hide from the real world. No actually,” she corrected herself, “I want to escape. I think I relate to book characters more than real people…” Laura struggled to express what she was feeling. “It’s like I become part of the story when I read. I don’t even have to think about what’s going on in my actual life.” Laura was struck by the accuracy and honesty in her own words, and she expected a heartfelt reply from her grandmother, but Ruth had fallen asleep during Laura’s speech. God, Laura thought, what is wrong with this family?
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    Sometimes Peter wondered why he had been born into this particular family. All of his friends had normal parents and normal siblings. He had been shocked the first time he had gone over to a friend’s house and observed their lighthearted, loving manner with each other. Peter had always believed that all fathers yelled at their children and all mothers turned a blind eye. 
    Peter noticed that somehow Gracie had taken his phone and was playing a video game on it. Peter snatched the phone straight out of his sister’s small hands. “I thought I told you not to touch my stuff!” he cried, realizing a little late that he had spoken too loudly as several passengers swiveled their heads toward him. 
    “I just want to play games on it!” Gracie screamed. 
    Laura poked her head over the seat in front of them and hissed, “Shut up, you two! Everyone’s staring at us.” Peter rolled his eyes. His older sister was freaking annoying. She was so bossy that she was like his second mother. Peter leaned over to engage his mother across the aisle. “Mom, when can we go home?”
    “We haven’t been gone two hours yet, Peter,” Anna sighed. “I know you don’t get why we have to go to a funeral for someone you hardly even knew. But he was a big part of your father’s and grandmother’s lives, and we need to be there to support them.” Anna patted his shoulder. “And just remember, we’ll be back home in two days.”
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    The Baker family, dressed in plain black clothes, entered the church and took their place in the front pew. Jonathan was feeling too many things at once: hints of irrational guilt that he had hated his father up until he was gone, fear of what was going to come next, the realization that he had already mourned his father, that in Jonathan’s mind, he had been dead long before last week. 
Not wanting to think about his father anymore, Jonathan looked around the church, observing the tall arches, the paintings on the walls, and the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. But it wasn’t enough: his eyes kept returning to the coffin at the front of the room, and the pastor’s words still found their way into his head. 
    “Today we celebrate the life of Charles Baker, an incredible brother, husband, and father. His friends describe him as considerate, dependable, and charming, naturally drawing others toward him. He was deeply protective of his family, and always wanted the best for his wife and children. Charles was a beautiful human soul, and he will be missed.”
    What the hell? Jonathan was so shocked that he couldn’t even move. What was this pastor talking about? He sure as hell was not describing Jonathan’s father. A “beautiful human soul?” Was this pastor on something?
    “I’m sure we all remember Charles’s love for baseball. Completely obsessed with it.” The pastor paused as a few people laughed quietly. “He was an incredibly skilled athlete, led his high school team to the State Championships, was even recruited to the minor leagues.”
    Baseball! Old memories came over Jonathan in a long, crashing wave. His father had never spoken about his love of the game or talked about his time in the minor leagues. Charles was not one to drift into the soft confines of nostalgia or to discuss his passion, success, or failure with his son, especially a child who had not proven himself worthy of these confidences. No, his father had opened those doors slowly, subtly, with actions instead of words. 
    Jonathan was six—maybe five?—when his father had taken him to his first baseball game. They left the house together on a sunny Saturday morning after Charles had wordlessly directed his son into the front seat (no car seats for Jonathan; rough assistance with the seat belt was Charles’s only concession to child safety in those days). The drive to the stadium was spent largely in silence, Charles not telling Jonathan where they were going and Jonathan not thinking to ask. 
When they passed through the turnstiles, Jonathan had felt a change overcome his father. Charles’s posture straightened and his breathing altered, slower and more deliberate. He seemed to take energy from the sound and scents that surrounded them.  
    Sitting in the church pew, Jonathan smiled as he thought about the transformative effect of the ballpark on his father. But his smile faded as the memory of that day continued to unspool. Young Jonathan had felt nervous in the stadium, rattled by the throngs of people and loud noises that assaulted his senses. Once in their seats, he found himself immune to the charms of the sport: the game bored him and he failed to comprehend even the most basic rules of play. As the afternoon heat crept into the ballpark Jonathan began to complain and ask if they could leave early. Charles had ignored his whining son, who continued to complain for the next thirty minutes. 
In the end, Charles never responded to Jonathan, but merely stood up at the end of the fifth inning and began to make his way to the aisle, leaving his son to abruptly scramble out of his own seat to follow his father down the steps and out of the stadium. Jonathan inhaled sharply at the memory: Charles had taken Jonathan to his church that day, but his son had been deaf to the hymns being sung. Charles never talked about that day, nor did he ever talk about his experience as a ball player, and he never took Jonathan to a baseball game again.
    The realization hit Jonathan suddenly: maybe he had been keeping moments like these from himself, trying to convince himself that his father was only a terrible person with no dimensions as an excuse, a reason for Jonathan to justify his own aggression and unsuccessful attempts at fatherhood. 
    You are not your father. His therapist’s words, repeated so often that they had become a mantra, echoed through his head. How much energy spent, how much time wasted, in the service of defining who he was not, while neglecting the question of exactly who he was?
    Jonathan didn’t cry that day until the train ride home. Rubbing a lone tear off his cheek, he wasn’t sure if he was weeping for the present or for the past. He put his arm around Gracie, who had fallen asleep and now slumped against his side. He looked up at Peter and Laura, sitting in the seats facing him, who both quickly registered their father’s stare and looked surprised to see their father’s wet, red eyes. 
    “I’m glad that you came today,” he said, “it was important to me to have you there.” Jonathan hesitated, thinking of words to add. He smiled to see Laura and Peter’s surprise deepen to shock as they processed their father’s humility and gratitude. Gracie stirred and sighed, then sank deeper into her father’s side. Jonathan felt another tear start its slow descent down his face. He didn’t bother to wipe it away this time. Outside, the neat family houses streamed by in a blur.

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