Dan's Fridge Door

PLEASE OMIT FLOWERS
An original short story by
Daniel Weitzman

"Your father committed suicide."

"He what?" I sat on the edge of my mother's bed, felt like somebody had just punched me in the stomach.

"He committed suicide." Sometimes, Mom could be so matter of fact. Even though she was just brushing her hair, I could tell this wasn't one of those times. "Okay." It wasn't, but I didn't know what else to say.

"You know what 'suicide' is, Charlie?"

"Yes, Mom."

"I thought it would be a good time to tell you." Great, Mom - just great. "It'll be three years next week."

Time flies when life sucks.

"Take a look," Mom continued, pressing something into my hand, a flimsy photocopy I could only hope was a parting note from the man who had said goodbye to me that Thursday morning as if it was any other Thursday.

Elkin - Robert Ludlow, beloved husband of Denise, devoted father of Charles and Eva, loving son of Karen and Phillip. Services: Park Central: 5 West 74 St., Sunday, March 19 at 12 noon. Please omit flowers.

A notice of his death. Like I needed to be reminded that I didn't have a dad.

"What am I supposed to do with this, Mom?"

"Whatever you want." Thanks, Mom. One for the locker or the bulletin board? I don't think so.

Elkin - Charles Holland, beloved son of Robert and Denise, devoted brother of Eva, loving grandson of Karen and Phillip. And Eric and Annie. A celebration of his ten years of greatness: anytime, anyplace. Please bring large, foul-breathed dogs, chocolate chip cookies and "We love Charlie" rally caps.

Hahahahaha. I could be so funny. Not.

"What's the deal with omitting flowers?"

"Flowers?"

"-In the notice, Mom. Why does it say that?"

"Thing is, Charlie..." Mom wasn't brushing her hair anymore. She was mauling it. "-Thing is ... when there's a suicide involved, things become a little more..."

"-More what, Mom?" I almost spat out the words. Sometimes, you want to know something that you don't really want to know.

"-More ... complicated. Complicated, I guess you could say."

"So, no flowers?"

"No flowers."

"Not even like ... I don't know ... daisies, or something?"

"Not even."

It seemed wrong to leave out the flowers. I mean, bad enough you've croaked yourself - but then nobody can bring flowers to your funeral? Really wrong.

"I'll be sure to hang onto this, Mom," I said, folding the notice into quarters and slipping it into my pocket.

"You do that, Charlie." Mom gave me one of her 'I'm so proud of you' looks, took a break from fussing with her hair to tussle mine. "I would've told you sooner, but..." Mom's voice trailed off. I sat there, not knowing what to do with myself, decided not to do anything. I had the feeling mom wanted me to stick around.

"What do you want for dinner?"

I swear, my mother thinks food fixes everything. Like a good burger is going to bring back my dad. Once, when I broke my arm jumping off the bed, mom asked me if I wanted her to make a peanut butter sandwich to take with us to the hospital. And when she's uncomfortable, like that time she brought home this guy for us to meet, she goes straight to the fridge. That guy's name had been Robert, same as my dad's. Totally freaky. Must've been totally freaky for him, too. Because he never came back again - and I don't think it was mom's "crazy eggs" that kept him away.

"What do you want, Mom?"

"Whatever you want, Charlie."

"I'm really not that hungry..."

"-And I can understand that, given our conversation," said Mom, finally putting down her hairbrush. "Still, you've got to eat ... we've all got to eat."

"I don't know..." The egg notion stuck in my head. "Crazy eggs?"

Mom smiled; boy, was that good to see. "For dinner?" she asked, shaking her head like I was some kind of wild man. Me, the guy who always gets his library books back on time and stays up way late when mom goes out to the movies or something. It drives Ms. Thulin, our babysitter, nuts - but I just can't knock off till I know mom is home safe and sound. The second I hear her key in the door - BAM!- I dive into bed and pretend to be asleep when she comes in to check up on me.

Anyway, there's nothing really crazy about mom's crazy eggs, but that little bit of salsa she adds sure does make the eggs taste better, go down easier. A whole lot easier than mom's little newsflash. I mean, what was I supposed to do with that information? So, my dad had killed himself. Knowing that wasn't about to bring him back.

We waltzed out of mom's room, picked up my kid sister Eva in her room and made it into the kitchen.

"Crazy eggs?" Of course, Eva wasn't about to go along with the plan. Not because she doesn't like crazy eggs - because she doesn't like when my suggestions get some play. It's just one of those annoying kid sister things that you learn to live with. "What do you want, Eva?" I could hardly believe those words were coming out of my mouth; thing is, dad hadn't just cut out on me ... he'd cut out on Evesie, too. So let the kid have what she wants for dinner.

As I watched Eva rack her brain for a dinner suggestion she knew I'd hate, I wondered about her father - and mine. Could you could know a man you've never really known? I mean, sure I'd known dad. But for him to do what he'd done -? - I guess there was a lot I hadn't known about him, too.

What did I know about my dad?

I knew that he played the drums, knew that mom had never been terribly happy about it. Not like he was some professional rock&roller, but he did have a drum set in the corner of the living room; every once in a while, he would plunk down and let some crazy ass solo rip through the house. I still kept his drumsticks on my desk, in a pen cup with a bunch of ballpoints and underliners.

I knew that his hair was really dark - like mine - and that he had a lot of gray in his hair. I sure hoped I hadn't put it there.

I knew that he lovvvvvvvvvvvvvvved baseball. Pitching duels and slugfests, pretty games and ugly ones, night games or day, he was all over baseball. Loved taking me to the park and throwing the ball around. He would pretend to be throwing a spitter, honk all over the ball like it was going to help it dipsy-doodle all over the place. Thing is, dad couldn't throw a spitter. And when he told me he was throwing a curve, it didn't really curve. But I told him it did anyway. Kind of like he would tell me I was a shoo-in for Cooperstown, a first ballot Hall of Famer. Not in this life. I mean, I could play, can play - but no great shakes. I'm no superstar. But that's cool. Sort of.

I knew that he could down a whole milkshake in one long, noisy sip. Chocolate, always. Dad never went vanilla, said it was like a wasted flavor. I've got to agree with him there.

I knew he worked really, really hard. A civil engineer. Most of my friends' dads are like bankers and doctors. Coupla ad guys, lotsa lawyers. You get the picture. But my dad designed bridges, helped to rethink highways and stuff. Pretty interesting. But I have to admit - there were times I'd wished he did something more like the other dads - it would've saved me lots of explanations. And it's not like he had the kind of job where he could just pick up the phone and get all these great baseball tickets. My friends' dads? - there was a lot of that. A lot of money.

We had never really been the money type - that was another dad thing. He wasn't cheap or anything, but he wouldn't exactly run out and get me the latest latest. CDs, videogames, regular games, he would always say, "Enough's enough." Try telling that to your friends when they've got all this latebreaking stuff, and you're stuck with last year's model. I think I know why dad did it, he didn't want us to get like swollen heads or anything. You know, stuck up. And I guess he had a point. I just wish he'd been a little more flexible that way.

And there were other things. Every once in a while, he'd really rip into me. About chores, responsibility, my reading assignments - that kind of stuff. Maybe it was good that he did it, but it still hurt. And sometimes - like if he was really tired, or working against a deadline, or both - he'd listen to me, and I'd just know he hadn't heard a word I'd said. He'd just go to the headnod maneuver - like one of those dip&dunk birds - back and forth, back and forth - with zero registering. And man, did his farts stink!

So it's not like my dad was some saint or something. Still, there was so much about him that I liked. And that other people liked. Mom was like so into him. Not in that gross, lovey-dovey way - though I had caught them making out more than once. She just always seemed so much happier when he was around. They used to talk about being each other's other halves. Okay - that is gross, but it didn't seem so gross when they were saying it.

I remembered Uncle Kyle telling me my dad was just one of those guys other people liked, respected. That he was like a powerful force in a room, but that he wasn't like up in peoples' faces with it. "Magnetic personality" - that was the term my uncle had used to describe him. I remembered making a joke about how I could totally see it - dad, I had said, was so magnetic that I never had enough change to get an ice cream on the way home from school.

Hahahahaha. Like I said - I could be so funny. Like I also said - Notnotnotnotnot.

Grandma Karen was like a library of information about dad. Grandpa Phillip was a lot quieter about their only child, but Grams could go on. About what a great student he'd been. ("A real math whiz.") About how thoughtful he'd been - never forgetting Mother's Day or any of that junk. And she never ever tired of telling me what a great father he'd been: how he'd been there to change diapers in the beginning, how he'd stayed up all night with me when my chicken pox was driving me crazy, how he'd flown back from a job in Cincinnati when I broke my arm. I guess if that kind of stuff makes you a great dad, he was great. But I doubt he could ever be as great as Grandma says he was.

My school shrink, Ms. Abernanthy - (they made me talk to her once a week for months after dad kicked) went on and on about how kind dad was. She was very specific: not "generous," not "sweet;" dad was "kind." Dunno how she knew, but she knew. She wasn't the only one who thought that way - or said it that way, anyway. Our building super, Mr. Ramirez, used the "k" word to describe dad. And my friends' parents - yeah, those same bankers and doctors - were no strangers to talking up dad, either. Like they really knew him. Maybe there was something really terrific about my dad - or maybe people were just being nice to me. Or both. I couldn't tell. Didn't really want to. Even last week, the guy from the Bike Shop, Derek Somethingorother - told me how lucky I was to have the dad I had. Like, "Sam I Am" - "Dad I Had." I want to say he's still my dad, "The dad I have..." but that's a tough one for me. I know he'll always be my dad. But it's more like he's the dad of the seven year old me. The dad of me now? Sometimes, it's mom. Sometimes, it's Uncle Kyle. Sometimes, it's Mr. Reilly, my Social Studies teacher. And sometimes, it's me. Am I a good dad of me?

Yeah, great. Can't you tell?

"Charlie, go to your room!" "Why did the chicken cross the road, Charlie?" "Charles Holland Elkin - how come I love you so much?" Give me a chance, and I can even sound a little dad-like.

The kind guy with dark hair who played the drums. That was my dad. Okay, so those are just bits and pieces of him - but that's all I've got. Kind of like a puzzle I've put together, or some stupid equation: my memories of him + what others thought of him = dad.

To add to the equation: I knew that his eyes were dark brown - gotta mention the eyes. Every time I pick up a book and read about a character, the first thing they describe is their eyes. I'm not sure how much you can tell about somebody from their eyes, but if it helps you figure out my dad (wait a sec! That's for me to do!), he had dark brown eyes. Not like stars or pools or anything like that, we're talking about eyes. And my dad's were dark brown.

I knew that he hated dressing up in a tie and jacket - and boy, could you tell. His ties were always knotted all wrong; that's where having an other half comes in handy; I can't tell you how many times I'd seen mom come to dad's tie rescue.

I knew that he hated TV, but that he was also the first one to watch it. I knew he thought he was fat. (Soooo not the case. The guy was a stick.) I knew that he liked to do outdoorsy stuff - not just baseball: camping, hiking, biking around the park. I knew that he loved Evesie the exact same amount as me; he always went out of his way to make that point. (Though the time I tripped her and she fell down and chipped a tooth - I think he loved me less. A lot less. Good thing it was just a baby tooth, otherwise the love might have never evened out again.)

I knew that his name was Robert. Robert Ludlow Elkin. And now, I knew that he had committed suicide.

I felt like I should be crying, but I couldn't even begin. I had cried myself to sleep so many times in the last couple of years - couldn't do it anymore. The fact that I couldn't cry almost made me want to cry. But I didn't. No matter how much I knew about my dad, I didn't know enough. Never would.

"Can we go out for dinner?"

Eva's voice brought me back, back to the kitchen.

"On a school night?" Mom looked at me; I weighed in with my vote.

"I think that's a great idea, Mom."

"Have you finished your homework?"

"Most of it," I said, suddenly dying to get out of the house. "I can do the rest after dinner."

"Alright, Ladies and Gentlemen - you've got yourself a deal." Eva whoop-whooped like a little doglet and I latched onto my mom. "Guess I don't have to brush my hair," she said.

"Nope," I replied. Mom liked an answer, even if there was no real question. The past couple of years must've killed her.

"Where to?" mom asked as she ushered us out, raincoats in hand.

"I know, I know, I know!" And I did. Suddenly, it was so incredibly obvious: The Coffee Shop on the corner. Not because I dug their burgers, or because they made a mean chocolate shake.

Because it was right next to a flower shop.

After dinner, I was going to see to it that the three of us stopped in and picked up some flowers. I wasn't sure what I'd do with them, but I knew one thing: they wouldn't be omitted any more.

Okay with you, Dad?