The Alphabet of Regret: Q is for Quiet

My cousin Amelia languidly stood there, young enough for her mouth to still be filled with innocent words. Looking tired was her form of grief, I suppose. She’d always sung with her mouth a perfectly sweet oval, her voice light as honeysuckle and bright as foil stars turning under a spotlight. That day was no different, save for the fact that the toes of her glassy black flats pointed straight at the head of our grandfather‘s coffin. When she finished her hymn she dropped her face toward the floor and gingerly took the five steps down that led to the the rest of our family.

Though we’d always made a show of humility, my family had always stood on ceremony.  It made sense to me for a time, until it simply didn’t any longer. ‘Pomp’ is the root word for ‘pompous’ and it took me a little too long (for my liking, anyway) to figure that out.

I climbed the steps then, turning to look out over the church stuffed to bursting with people that knew us. Cars had been parked as far as a quarter-mile away; there were that many of them. They stood along the back, along the sides, in the church foyer and down along the ten steps that led to the doors. Not everyone would hear me, but --as I was told later-- the impact of every last word from my mouth would thud through them, fixing them to where they’d each stood.

Mrs. Lovelace’s  fingers began gliding into the opening strains of  ’The Old Rugged Cross’.  It was strange, standing in front of all those people, waiting to sing while openly grieving.  I’d sung at my grandmother’s funeral eight years prior and had remained perfectly composed even though it felt as if my world was canting slowly sideways.  Now I stood strong emotionally, yet everything about me that was visible to the throng  packed into the church (there are so many people here, so many, too many, still not enough to bear witness) was betraying that. When my mouth opened, however, my voice emerged fluid and clear, even as tears made a scalded mess of my face.

I sang two verses, then fell quiet for as long as it took to collect my stomach. Gripping the ancient lectern, I raised my face to those expectantly awaiting me to rain sincerity down on them. I was sincere, alright, and I began to speak.

“Many of you remember me as a child, because I played with your children and grandchildren when we were very small. You remember me the way I was before my mother and father moved us far, far away from this place. The distance kept things locked in my throat that I should have released over the years. I can’t possibly remain silent here today.”

Then I brought the steaming guts of it out; shit and bile --and yes, the wild and acrid tide of fresh blood--  came with them, flowing down over the altar, gushing in wild flourishes down the aisle, splashing over the feet of the people gathered there to pay respects to my grandfather, to mourn with his children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren that were in attendance.

“I remember all of you, too. I recall how you turned a blind eye to the suffering of my grandmother and her children. You all knew. You knew that he was nothing more than a refined drunkard, predisposed to carousing and whoring. I know he has bastard children sitting here in this room, eagerly awaiting a share of what’s left, hoping he set aside a crumb for you.

“This whole town was impacted by my grandmother, her sweetness, her patience and compassion. You failed her, because you were fully aware of how he withered her regularly under his fists, how she took her own beatings as well as every one that he might have meted out on his children had she not stepped between them. Why would you allow it to continue?

“You knew and you turned your heads, you sniveling lapdogs, you graceless cowards. You held your tongues because he held your paychecks. You consigned yourself to a monster and I despise you for it.

“There is no grace in me today; I feel no mercy toward you. I’m hoping with everything I’ve got that you get to gladhand my grandfather for all eternity, perched beside him in Hell.”

The room, then, had changed: Commiseration became consternation became condemnation. I beamed at all of them, my smile beatific and my eyes full of blame. In the calm just before the explosion of voices you could have heard the Quiet drop.

Comments

[Skye]

A perfect portrait of alcoholism.

[TwoBusy]

Blisteringly angry and beautiful. The way it evolves from the fragile and lovely "light as honeysuckle and bright as foil stars" to the rage and physicality of "perched beside him in hell"...

This is like watching a grenade explode in a crowded room.

[Charlie]

This? This is my kind of party.

[Kellly]

Brilliant, love. You write like fire in the belly.

[Susan (Trout Towers)]

Your stories have a way of sweeping the reader along in their current, and then splattering her on the unseen canyon wall.

I mean this in a good way.

[ms picket to you]

And... I quit.

Actually, in truth, I just made a pinky swear with myself to try harder, to do like Jett does. The sneak attack of your writing is like an orgasm in my brain.

[Holmes]

Oh my everloving god. You rock so beautifully.

[Jett]

You are all so sweet to me and --hand to God-- spur me on.

I do love you so.

[Kevin (Always Home and Uncool)]

Girl, you started like sweet spring morning then hit us with an F-5 tornado. Awesome piece.

[Mr Lady]

I've sat here for 10 minutes trying to comment. This time, I really can't. You've left me SPEECHLESS.

I hope you realize how hard, nigh impossible, that is to do.

[red]

i know your trying to sneak up on people, but there ain't no way to languidly stand. you can move listlessly, you can sing listlessly, you can etc. you can't not move languidly.
"My cousin Amelia languidly stood there, young enough for her mouth to still be filled with innocent words. Looking tired was her form of grief, I suppose." this works out loud. on paper, not so much. you can start with your cousin amelia singing from a perfect oval. you want to grab em with the first track. slap em on the side of the head and move on to the meat.

[Jett Superior]

I beg to differ with you. The dictionary does, as well.

I'm not really 'trying' to do anything but take measured, correctly-spelled steps toward the edge before sailing off of it. If a reader happens to be crablegged to my back while I'm doing so, then so be it.

It's about time you showed up here, you old sot.