Peas Full

Dad died last week. Or maybe it was last year. I don’t remember. I remember when the phone rang. It lit up the counter, buzzing like an angry bee. Even if I hadn’t been washing dishes, I wouldn’t have answered. It rang six times before going to voicemail. I didn’t listen. I watched the voice to text crawl across the screen.

Hello, Cyril. This is Elena from Applegate Nursing Home. We regret to inform you that your Father fried peas fully in his sleep last night. Your Brother colon has arranged awake for next week and has asked me to pass this on as he can’t reach you.

Colon, er Colin was full of shit, but at least he had handled it so I could go on with my day, imagining Dad frying peas in his sleep. It made me hungry for stir fried rice. The Chinese leftovers, like clockwork, lasted seven days. I didn’t open the fortune cookies.

No dishes this week. A tiny miracle. A notification popped up on my phone. “Wake at 6”. I’d much rather sleep, but it’s what he wanted. I went next door to Matt’s house for my suit. His Mom died last month.

The air smelled like stale cigarettes and rosemary as I brushed past the plants his plants. The door opened before I could knock.

“Cyril! I didn’t expe—”

“Hey, Matt. Get ya on the way out?” I didn’t wait for a reply. “Listen, I was wondering if you still had that old suit lying around. I--”

He didn’t ask questions. Just disappeared into his house briefly before returning, black suit, black tie, white shirt in hand. One of the cuffs was stained with what looked like ketchup.

“Thanks.”

That’s one of the things I like about Matt. Simple. No nonsense and no small talk. Just mutual understanding.

I had about an hour to kill before the wake. Suit sorted, I headed to the beach.

I parked near the boardwalk, surrounded by cars with matching day passes stuck in the corners of their windows. I didn’t have one, but no one checked. A gull pecked at a fry in the next space over. I thought briefly about offering him the leftover ketchup stain on my cuff.

I walked towards the beach, the rush of the waves and children’s gleeful screams growing louder in my ears. The sand burned through my shoes. I fished in my pocket for my sunglasses.

A young boy with dirty blond hair and a face full of freckles smiled at me, revealing a missing front tooth. He shoved a small shovel into the sand, digging a moat aside a line of neatly arranged piles of sand. I was surprised to see turrets. He started building his defensive strategy young. Smart.

A family nearby was struggling with their camera, trying to fit everyone into frame. The youngest lapped at his ice cream that ran dribbling down his hands. He smeared the brown cream on his face before promptly dropping it into the sand. He cried. The Father bent down to comfort him. This is what people do when something is lost.

A woman with oversized sunglasses held out her phone. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

They arranged themselves carefully. I took her phone and kept it at arm’s length. Just enough distance to keep them in frame but not keep them too close. I kept the upturned ice cream cone in the corner.

“One more,” the Dad said.

My phone buzzed. Colon.

Where are you? The wake started twenty minutes ago.

I typed back: On my way.

I wasn’t.

I lit a cigarette. The smoke curled upward. The families packed up their perfect day, shaking sand from towels, loading coolers into cars. The beach emptied.

By the time I arrived at the funeral home, the lot was full. Through the window, I could see Colin working the room, accepting condolences with the practiced grace of someone who knew how these things were supposed to go.

I lit another cigarette, took 3 deep drags, and flicked it into the landscaping.

Inside, people moved in slow circles around a casket I couldn't see from the doorway. Colin appeared at my elbow almost immediately.

"Christ, Cyril. Where the hell have you been?"

"Beach."

"The beach?" His voice pitched higher. "Dad's wake and you went to the beach?"

I shrugged. The suit jacket felt tight across my shoulders. "You said you had it handled."

Colin's face did that thing it used to do when we were kids and I'd broken something. Red crept up from his collar. "People have been asking about you. Mrs. Hindulak from next door. The guys from Dad's bowling league."

"What'd you tell them?"

"That you were... processing."

Processing. Like grief was a computer program with predictable outputs.

"I should go pay respects," I said, mostly because it seemed like something I was supposed to say.

Colin nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Good. He looks....”

Peas full.

Dad looked like Dad, but smaller. Hands folded in a way he never would have chosen. Someone had combed his hair differently. I stood there for what felt like an appropriate amount of time, waiting to feel something other than the air conditioning on my neck.

Mrs. Hindulak appeared beside me with a tissue box.

"He was so proud of you boys," she said. "Always talking about Colin's promotion and your... well, your independence."

My independence. That's what they called it when you stopped answering phone calls.

"Thank you," I said, because that's what you say.

The next hour passed in a series of handshakes and half-conversations. People told me stories about Dad that sounded like they were about someone else's father. The bowling league captain clapped my shoulder. “180. Best score in year, just two days before he died.”

"Went out on a high note.” "You should be proud."

Should be. There was that word again.

Colin found me by the guest book, where I'd been standing for the past ten minutes, watching people sign their names with practiced funeral penmanship.

"The service is tomorrow at ten," he said. "St. Mary's. Will you..."

"Yeah."

"Good. That's... thanks." He paused. "You know, Cyril, if you need to talk or anything..."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

I looked at him properly then. Red-rimmed eyes. Eyes mussed. He'd been crying earlier, probably in the bathroom.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine."

The parking lot was half empty by the time I stepped outside. The sun was setting, painting everything in that golden hour light that photographers love. Perfect again. Always perfect from far away.

I lit another cigarette and watched the last cars leave. Colin came out, tie loosened, looking exhausted.

"You coming to dinner?" he asked. "Sarah's making Dad's meatloaf."

"I'm good."

He stood there for a moment, keys jingling in his hand. "Cyril..."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I took a drag and blew smoke into the still air. "See you tomorrow, Colin."

He drove off. The funeral home's sign flickered, leaving only ‘FUN’ lit against the dark. Dad’s kind of joke.

I finished the cigarette and started walking. Six blocks to the beach. The families would be gone by now, but the waves would still be there. Some things you could count on.