1995, Michigan and Alabama

By Heather Dilly

“Ya know we’re not really kin, you and me,” he said in the thickest twang and a voice that was altogether unfamiliar. He shifted toward me as I shifted away, and his left hand grazed my leg as his right hand found its way to my shoulder.

“I mean, I am yer cousin,” he slurred, “but I ain’t blood.”

As his hand found its anchor on my shoulder and his eyes turned to the romantic, I went blurry. Or maybe, immobile.

In a fuzzy moment, I saw our history. I saw my cousin. I saw Pac-Man. I saw every Christmas. I saw campers and woods. I saw one of the most important people in my life. And then, with a squeeze to my exposed thigh, I saw a predator. All while I smelled the nauseating stink of beer.

“Thing is, we ain’t related.”

Thing is, he was wrongfully right. As I retracted my leg muscles and looked for the nearest exist, I couldn’t help but agree. We were not blood. Certainly not in any capillary way. But if blood was only tubes and veins and gene pools, then that was new to me. I had two adopted first cousins, he the younger of the two, and never once thought that our family tree didn’t share the branch. I even thought my oldest cousin looked a little like me.

But as his eyes glazed over and his hand massaged further, I realized that I was swinging from an errant limb on that tree. And I was alone. I was alone in the basement with a drunken man with paw-like hands who had made it clear that we were not kin.

I was no longer with my cousin. It was time to run. I made a bee line for the stairs with a hasty excuse over my shoulder. Maybe I said I was tired. Maybe I said I wanted to look for my brother. Probably I said that I had to pee. But that was the last time I ever saw my cousin alive. One fleeting moment, in the blur of a sprint, covered in panic, confusion. Apparently it would be my last glimpse.

My guilt would have me believe that I should have heard alarms go off when he picked my siblings and me up at the airport. My guilt would have me believe that the top I chose to wear to the wedding was a bit low. My guilt would have me believe that I was more responsible for the unwarranted date in the basement than I was. A powerful thing, guilt. When matched with booze and secrets, almost indestructible.

When Matt picked us up at the airport, my sister and I had some hesitations. Not alarms really, more just a cloying buzz. Matt had a history of being influenced by the mind altering offerings of the world. It started with beer and than quickly grew to anything he could get his hands on. Although we had been assured that he was now clean and sober, it takes a bit more than assurances when dealing with someone whose track record with rehab was treated as breaks from the underworld of addiction rather than a new way of life.

My brother assured us that things would be fine and, as he was the oldest, we were inclined to believe him. Besides, it was our oldest cousin’s wedding, “John the wonderful,” and the family was converging on the South to take part in the festivities and all with our own fish to fry.

My sister had to sing and was constantly clearing her throat and running scales. My brother had to be the dutiful son/nephew/cousin, up for anything all while choking on the stress from medical school and I, I just a kid, had to decide not to hate everything and everyone. I didn’t like flying. I wasn’t sure I liked my family and I had just dyed my hair black.

So when we all jumped into the car, Matt at the wheel, and heard the familiar crack of a beer can opening, the cloying buzz became an incessant ringing. In all of our ears, I would guess. With every empty deposited in the arm rest container and subsequent crack the ringing grew louder. I can only guess that my siblings counted the mileage with me.

28 miles. CRACK!

15 miles. CRACK!

And all the while, “So, how ya’all doin?” CRACK.

We kept our answers short so as to not further distract our driver.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Doing all right.”

When we finally parked in the church parking lot, you could have heard the earth shake with the collective inhale. I unlatched my seatbelt and the blood slowly restored to my fingers. One can never underestimate the pain of cutting off blood from a death grip on a belt for 45 minutes.

Blood.

“Ya’ll go on ahead. I’ll see ya in there.” CRACK.

He didn’t have to tell us twice. We were gone as soon as the car was in park.

The wedding was lovely … and dry. The reception was held in the basement of the church, and the closest one could get to going a little too far was imbibing in a bit too much punch and stuffing in a few too many cookies. It was a welcomed respite from our earlier drive.

Of course the groomsmen were rowdy. They even sneaked off to the men’s room once, not including Matt, and drank out of flasks with drunken toasts. But all in all, it was as innocent a wedding as I had been to and have ever been since. We sent the bride and groom off and everyone retreated for the night. My siblings and I did not drive with Matt back to the family house. But we did see him there as he was still living in his mother’s basement.

It was a wonderful night, for the most part. Most of the family was stuffed like sardines into my aunt’s house and it felt good. It felt like the old days. Like we were camping again. Like we had to make do with the limited space. But we were quite comfortable on top of each other. We would make do and have fun while doing it.

I wish, more than anyone has ever wished, that the night could have ended on that feeling.

Early on the “kids” separated from the adults and headed downstairs. Matt showed us his new T.V. and video game set up and oohs and ahhs followed. We laughed and told stories about our shared childhood and for a minute we all felt 12.

But then….

Crack. Crack. Crack.

With every beer that was opened I suspect the three of us, my siblings and me, aged a year. With every crack my cousin disappeared. A little at first and then there was nothing left to recognize. My sister wearied and bid us goodnight. My brother followed shortly thereafter. He was just barely out of earshot when: “Ya know, we’re not really kin, you and me.” CRACK!

I am haunted that the last image I have of this man, a person whom I loved dearly, is over my shoulder and hoping not to trip on the stairs in a terrifying escape. I am haunted by the fact that he died a sober man, unexpectedly and accidentally in a farm-related incident. A man whom I did not know, but I suspect resembled the child that I grew up with and so dearly loved. A man, none the less, whom I did not know. I knew the child.

The funeral was difficult, but that is nothing new. I raced down South and tried my best to grieve with everyone else. But I had a secret. I didn’t grieve the unrecognizable man in the coffin. I grieved for my cousin, both older and younger. I grieved for my aunt whose heart, I am sure, will never heal. I grieved the fact that I had lost my cousin years before the earth took him back.

I watched him being lowered into the ground and was horrified that the men were asked to shovel the dirt over the casket. Apparently it is a Southern custom. Being a squeaky clean Yankee I was appalled at the idea. Hadn’t we been through enough without manual labor added on top? But as I watched the men heap dirt into the hole, my brother, my father, my oldest cousin, my uncle, my family, I felt the oddest relief. He was ours. He was imperfect, but he was our responsibility. It was fitting that we should put him to rest.

I am convinced that I will feel the sting of regret whenever I think of that day. I will never forget that my last glimpse of him was over my shoulder, in a panic. And somewhere inside, when my ears take to ringing, I will feel haunted.

Booze, secrets, and now a haunting.

The gifts that keep on giving.

Heather Dilly is a writer/actress currently residing in New York City. She lives with her husband and three cats.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, May 7th, 2007 | Email This Post

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