How To Grieve Among Men

by Oriane Delfosse

Slump on the couch. Stare at the carpet. Pretend to listen. Nod. Ignore the squeaking of the linoleum as a friend paces back and forth, holding his head in his hands. Avalanche, the friends says. Snow like cement. Ice falls from the grooves of his jacket and puddles on the floor. Avert your eyes. Don’t look outside, where the mountains rise straight up out of the earth. Look at your housemates, these four men, still breathing. Bacon grease thickens the air. He cooked it that morning, left his pan in the sink. House Rule #3: Wash  Your Dirty Dishes. A new rule has just gone into effect. Scan the downcast faces to see if they agree. House Rule #7: Don’t Die. 
           
Take your cues from the others. Set your jaw tight. It’s a boys’ club, after all, a place where the marks of past residents (the dartboard made of corks, the bottle cap pounded into the stovetop) are revered. So don’t become hysterical, sobbing and shaking and needing to be held. When you heard, you covered your face with your shirt, ran outside where the cold air froze your snot and tears. Your housemates allowed you that, because you are a girl.

No crying in the living room. Go to the back of the house, to the bathroom or the bedroom. The half-moon of the bathroom sink is speckled with stubble, a million tiny stars. Before, because he was meticulous and manic, the porcelain was spotless. Now, find the energy to scrub it clean. 

Don’t speak his name. Tiptoe around, like he is napping in his room. Don’t wake him.  He might be grumpy. He isn’t napping. But still. Keep the door to his room shut.        

Sound becomes muffled.  Muffle it back.      

A new formality hangs in the air. When you brush elbows in the hallway, the feel of skin on skin is a sharp reminder that you are alive and he is not. Brush elbows, mumble sorry, keep walking.  

Call his parents. Please, they say, take care of his things. Open his door tentatively, as if an animal were hibernating inside. 

Divide up his stuff. Every trace of him is valuable. Take his cowboy hat, a soft grey fleece, his copy of Desert Solitaire. Be civil. Try not to feel entitled by your grief. You are not the first to ever lose a friend. You do not deserve more than the rest. His cowboy hat would swim on your head; it fits someone else. Hide your disappointment. Try not to leave the room, as you all invariably do, feeling guilty, and greedy, and ashamed.

And later, after they are all asleep, slip back into his room. Lay down on his sheets. They smell like sweat and grease and rust. He kissed you once. The others don’t know.

 Go to work, come home. Sit on the couch. Pretend to read. Listen to the leaky faucet, dripping the way it did when he sat on the couch next to you. He could never stay sitting for long. He was fidgety, like a little boy. Don’t fix the faucet. Let it drip. 

Change the name on the phone bill. Cover his rent and tell the landlord he is gone.  When someone says we need a new roommate, nod and agree, even though you know it is too soon for him to be replaced. 

Begin to reminisce. Remember when—? Go slowly at first, judging the weight of his name on the air. Proceed with respect. Don’t talk about his moods, at times dark and gloomy. Highlight the good. Watch his name swell with glory. Ignore the faint jealousy within; a long life rarely results in such reverence. Don’t think this blasphemy. Drink some beers. Make a toast. 

And now, months later, when he receives a phone call, watch the look on your friend’s face when he says, He’s not here. He slams the phone down. The receiver rattles. He says, If they don’t know by now, they don’t need to know. You wince. How little has passed between all of you: you, the living. And when you cry, finally, realize that you are not crying for the dead, you are crying for the living, for yourself, and this house of grieving men.