Heart in A Cage

By the time my father died, I was getting used to dealing with death so much that it left me completely empty and emotionless on events like these. At least that was what I’d forced myself to believe. It was the only reason I could come up with that was good enough to explain why I, Larry Stiver’s one and only son, was not crying on his beloved father’s funeral.

The sad part wasn’t that everyone actually believed it; it was that I almost did. Like I’d brainwashed myself into thinking exactly what everyone else already accepted as a fact. Nobody wanted to explore the idea that maybe I just didn’t feel anything, that I was a heartless bastard who had no feelings. That would mean that I wasn’t normal – and how could that possibly be, when I’d had a father who got along with everybody, who was the ultimate Mr. Nice Guy?

Even as I watched his casket being lowered eighteen inches into the ground, about to be buried forever, all I could do was stand there and stare. Around me, relatives I hadn’t seen in months – probably even years – were crying openly, their faces pinched. Even Dad’s “golf buddies” were looking a bit teary-eyed, and they’d barely even known him, except to joke around with him on Thursday and Saturday evenings.

The minister was standing right next to the large hole in the ground, saying something along the lines of hope and strength, about accepting life and death. His lips moved in a quick and inattentive manner, spitting out words he’d probably rehearsed a hundred times before. I couldn’t help but glower at him; he had no right to tell us what was going to happen to my father, to say words of comfort that held no damn meaning. He was just a stranger with a job to fulfill. What did he know?

“Connor,” a voice said from somewhere behind me. A heavy hand landed on my shoulder. “Would you like to say some words?”

My first instinct was to say yes – after all, it would add a nice touch to my ‘performance.’ I could get up there in front of everyone and talk about the man who took care of me, made sure I was okay, and, overall, put up with my shit. I knew that I would be getting those pitying looks, the ones that clearly said, “I’m sorry for what happened – but better you than me, right?”

Then again, what did I have to prove? Deep down, I knew that I respected my father – in my own way – and that I cherished everything he did for me. I didn’t have to tell them anything.

“No,” I replied quietly.

“Alright,” the voice said, already moving away. “If you change your mind, just let me know.”

I nodded absentmindedly and continued to glare at the minister. He was no longer speaking; with an expectant look on his face, he watched the crowd as though he were waiting for something. Averting my eyes from him, I looked to see Karen Walter, Mom’s younger sister and my only aunt, leading Grandpa Byron to where the minister held out his arm, ready to give his support.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us today,” Grandpa said softly, his watery brown eyes hard. “My son, Larry Stiver, was a good man. For as long as I can remember, he was always the one who made us laugh. Even as a child, I knew his heart was made of gold…”

*

After the service, we all gathered at the place I’ve called my ‘home’ for the past sixteen years. It was a small bronze-colored stucco house with white trimming, set in a cheery little neighborhood – the kind where small children played tag outside in the summer, and whiny dogs constantly barked at strangers. While everyone else sat around in the living room, talking in whispers, I stood in the kitchen and watched Aunt Karen make coffee. She looked like one of those women from the cover of Family Fun magazines: tall and thin with short blonde hair and blue eyes. Whereas my mother had always been quiet and kept to herself, Aunt Karen was the kind of person who participated in charity events and made cookies for the bake sale. When I had been little, I remembered wondering what it would be like to have parents like Karen and Jeff, my uncle.

Although I hadn’t seen her since last Christmas, Aunt Karen acted like we’d actually kept in touch over the past year, asking me about school and my nonexistent social life. “You’ve certainly grown, haven’t you? How old are you now, sixteen? I remember how Deon was at that age – he still acts like he is, sometimes.” She chuckled lightly, placing cups onto a patterned tray. “Would you take these out, hon?” She didn’t give me a chance to respond; pushing the tray into my arms, she directed me towards the door with her hand on my back.

Reluctantly, I walked into the living room and avoided looking anyone in the eyes. I was over the whole pity talk; there had been enough of it at the funeral.

Just as I was about to walk away from the sorrowful faces staring intently at me, a stubby woman pulled me down beside her on the cramped sofa. “Connor, you poor thing!” she said in a quiet voice. “Your father, he was such a gentle, caring man, you know. You used to follow him around like a puppy when you were little.” She sniffed and anxiously asked, “You’ll be brave for him, won’t you?”

All I could do was nod.

Thankfully, Aunt Karen chose that moment to call me from the kitchen. “Connor, hon, would you come here a minute? I could use a hand.” Nodding at the woman, I stood up and scurried away. Behind me, the whispers started up again, and I distinctly heard the phrase “that poor boy” echo behind me.

Once again, I found myself watching Aunt Karen move around the kitchen with a determined look on her face. She continued on as though I’d never left: “Now I know that this is hard on you, but just bare with me, darling. I can only imagine how you must be feeling right now.” She motioned toward the living room with her hand. “And I know they’re no help. I’m sorry about that, but I can’t very well ask them to leave, can I?” I had the urge to ask, ‘why not?’ but managed to keep my mouth shut. “Tonight, I’ll stay with you here, but tomorrow we have to pack up and leave. They informed me today that they’ll be emptying this house as soon as possible – apparently it needs to go on sale.” She shook her head and looked at me with sad eyes.

“Where are we going?” I asked – not because I cared, but because I knew she expected me to be curious. It was the whole ‘normal’ thing again.

“You’ll be staying with us, honey,” she said, moving forward quickly and placing her hands on my shoulders; I was a little shorter than her, but not by much. “Remember how you used to beg your mom to let you come over? Even though she said no, you would always call me and tell me to come pick you up.” She searched my face and gave my arm a squeeze, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Do you remember that?” she asked quietly, pulling me into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Connor. I’m so, so sorry.”

After a moment or two of me only standing there with my hands hanging limply by my side, she pulled away. She took a moment to wipe her rosy cheeks and then pushed me towards the door lightly. “You feel free to go upstairs and rest, alright? You must be exhausted.”

Even though I wasn't in the least bit tired, I didn’t argue; eager to get away from the hushed whispers, I quickly climbed the stairs to my room.