Cold is a Language

by Charlie Rogers

The cabin looks exactly as I remember it: cramped, run-down and depressing. As I inch my car over the bumpy gravel, I notice an unfamiliar vehicle—an expensive electric one—parked to the side, and frown. It’s too late to trek back to civilization for a hotel room, so I flip off my headlights and coast in behind the mystery car. The funeral director sticker reveals that it’s my father’s, which is not ideal at all.

I step onto the gravel, shaking my head. I never expected to be here again.

A few weeks ago, my younger brother, CJ, called. “Okay, Tom, you’re gonna hate this, but I’m going to the cabin next month and I’d love you to come.”

“The cabin?” I’d just gotten out of the shower, now fishing through the closet for my favorite flannel shirt. “You’re joking, right?”

As far as I was concerned, the cabin was a place best left forgotten, a nightmare structure from my childhood, and I’d done my best over the past two decades to do just that: forget it. Forget my parents’ non-stop arguments filling the tiny space like a fire devouring all the oxygen. Forget the endless swimming drills in the always-frigid lake. Forget the dark-eyed and huge-dicked boy whose family owned the next cabin over, who delivered me my first heartbreak and then ruined my life. Even my therapist was tired of hearing about the cabin, and now my kid brother wanted me to go back.

CJ cleared his throat as I grabbed denim-stretch jeans from a hanger. “Okay, I’m not gonna bullshit you. It’s Dad’s idea.”

I tossed the pants on the bed. “Is he dying? Please tell me he’s dying.”

I thought of a joke along the lines of who does the undertaker’s funeral? But it wasn’t worth saying aloud.

Two years earlier, we’d lost the wrong parent. I didn’t need to question why Dad was using CJ to mediate a reconciliation. He’d kicked me out twenty years ago and we haven’t spoken or seen each other since. Even if he had my cell number, he’d know better than to try using it.

“It’d mean a lot to us if you’ll come too.” CJ cleared his throat into my ear. “You’ll get to see the kids.”

I hadn’t seen my niece or two nephews in months. “You’re bringing Sarah-ann and the whole brood?”

CJ coughed. “Yeah.”

“Seven people in that tiny shithole? And one of them is Dad? You’re insane.” I snorted as I chucked my towel across the room. “You know what? Fine.”

Now it’s the day before my father’s birthday—which happens to be Valentine’s Day, not that I have anyone to celebrate with—and I’m trying to sneak into my least favorite place on the planet. Since Dad beat me here—we were all supposed to arrive tomorrow morning but I opted to be clever—the key isn’t hidden in the old planter, leaving me two other options.

I could pound on the door, probably waking my already ill-tempered father, and be stuck conversing with him alone. Our last face-to-face conversation was when I was seventeen. Someone outed me to him and he disowned me. I punched him in the face and quickly learned why I’d never tried such a bold maneuver before, earning myself two black eyes and a broken nose. When I went to live with Mom’s parents after that, they suggested pressing charges but I thought I was being an adult by owning up to throwing the first punch. I even believed the ostracization was my fault, at the time.

It wasn’t. My father simply wouldn’t tolerate a gay son, and that was that.

My other option is to try the old trick with the broken window latch in the second bedroom, the one me and CJ used to share. I leave my luggage at the door and tiptoe halfway around the house before I realize I’m not a kid anymore and don’t need to be stealthy. I hear my father snoring—that hasn’t changed—as I pass the master bedroom, declining any temptation to peek in at the sleeping beast, and reach my room. As I hoped, the latch is still busted, so I pry the window open and hoist myself in.

I forget, of course, about the drop from the window to the floor, and that I’m not a lithe sixteen-year-old anymore. I crash headfirst onto the creaky wooden floor, the rest of my body tumbling in after like a pile-up on the interstate. I stifle the temptation to curse at the top of my lungs—if I was planning on waking up Dad, I could have pounded on the door and saved both my neck and my pride—even after discovering that the impact snapped both earpieces off my brand-new glasses. They’re progressives that I mostly need for reading, but they weren’t cheap. I allow myself a muttered “fuck” and dust myself off, leaving the remains of my designer frames on the floor like a murder scene.

I tiptoe into the hall and through the living room, to retrieve my luggage from the porch. As I reach the door—

A light flips on behind me.

My shoulders slump with a frustration I’m incapable of hiding. I turn.

There he is, my father, clutching a baseball bat, in his tighty-whities.

“Tommy?” He moves towards me like we’re about to hug, and I hold up my hand to halt his approach. “You’re not supposed to—”

“I couldn’t get a hotel for the night,” I lie, eyeing him up.

My father always had a lean, athletic build—he was a swim coach, after all, and never hesitated to leap into the water to shame us with his speed and strength—but now he’s piled muscles onto his frame like he’s planning on competing in an over-fifties bodybuilding competition. His face—small, tight features crowded around flinty eyes—is about the same, but almost too much the same, like he’s undergone plastic surgery. The good kind, but still. Not the man who used to slap me for being too vain.

“Tommy—” He steps closer. I don’t know this person.

I shake my head. “Save it, Dad. I’m not here for your bullshit or your birthday. I’m here to see my nieces and nephew, that’s it. And I’m Tom now.”

He sets the bat on the nearby table, and the hollow thud it makes tells me it’s plastic, comically useless for self-defense. “They’re not coming. It’s just your brother.”

What is going on here? Some sort of intervention? Because I sorted my sobriety on my own, and if they’re going to try to pray my gay away, I’m grabbing that plastic bat and bashing skulls.

Before I’m able to spit out my rage, another man emerges from the master bedroom. He approaches my father and speaks in a soft voice. “What is it, Harry? Is this your other son?”

The stranger is shorter than either of us, dark-complected, mid-forties. While nowhere near as muscle-bound as this current iteration of my father, I imagine he also spends a significant portion of his income on gym memberships and workout supplements. Unlike my father, he has soft eyes and is frustratingly handsome. I find myself flooded with irrational loathing.

I catch a flash of panic on my father’s face. “Yes. This is Tom. Tom, this is my friend and coworker, Quinn.”

Quinn offers me a hand, which I begrudgingly shake. I’m surprised my father’s brought along a traveling companion, a work associate, but beyond my initial shock at seeing a stranger, I really don’t care for the details of my father’s life as a widower. Nor do I need another mortician in my life.

“Nice to meet you—”

I cut him off and step onto the porch. I fill my lungs with the clear night air and wonder how long I have to wait before they slip back to bed. I sink onto my roller bag like it’s a portable stool.

In bed, I peer down at the shattered corpse of my glasses still on the floor, and pull a deep breath, hold it a moment, then exhale as slow as I can. My therapist tells me I use my trauma as both a weapon and a shield and I tell him his tie doesn’t match his shirt, but I know he’s right. I’m here. False pretenses or not, I’m here. Dad’s dragged me back to this place for a reason, and I might as well find out what it is.

I’m trying to remember anything good about Dad. My therapist tells me I should do this every time I start to dwell on how difficult he was, to remind myself that he’s another human being with flaws, same as me. What I come up with is half-hearted. He worked hard to provide for us—not that I got to benefit much once I was disowned—toiling long hours as a mortician at his uncle’s funeral home. Though Mom would always justify his gruffness by saying he has to deal with grieving people all day. As if that mitigated his casual cruelty.

On the other hand, he was an impossible-to-please taskmaster who wasn’t afraid of corporal punishment, and I’ve tried to argue with my therapist that he was psychologically abusive, without success.

He’s just a person, same as me.

I close my eyes.

Streaming sunlight wakes me, and I find myself in a calmer mood. It helps that the cabin is silent, suggesting I’m the first one awake. I’m hoping to totally avoid new-muscle-Dad and whoever-Quinn until CJ gets here.

The morning air carries a bite—it’s mid-February, after all—but I don’t bother dressing as I leave the cabin. It’s freeing not to care who sees me in my underwear. While I’d have loved to start off the day with coffee, I didn’t want to risk the noise brewing it might make. My plan is to rouse myself with a dip in the lake. I remember how icy the water always seemed in August and can’t imagine what it’ll be like in February, but at least it’ll wake me up.

I’m two steps into the yard when I see my brother’s car rolling up the hill. For a second, I consider running inside for some clothes, but if my brother is indeed arriving alone, I really don’t care. We shared a room for fourteen years and more hotel rooms than I could count during our travels before he met Sarah-ann. He’s seen everything about me.

He parks behind me and tumbles out of the car like it’s an overstuffed closet. He offers me a grin and a lazy wave, and I’m thrilled to see him, but I’m not letting him off the hook without at least a little performative rage.

I shove him—not hard—back against the hood of his car in lieu of a hug. “You little liar.”

He bounces back and demands the embrace anyway, and I’m happy to oblige. Then he sinks back against the car with a weary sigh. “Sorry. Are they up?”

“So you knew Dad was bringing someone? Who is this guy?” I settle beside CJ, the hood ornament between us. I didn’t realize how chilly I was until the warmth of the engine touched my backside. Too late to run in for clothes now, but I’m extra glad I never made it to the lake.

“Listen, Tom. Dad really wants to tell you this himself.” CJ kicks at the gravel, crunching it under his cheap sneakers. “Quinn’s a nice guy. He works with Dad at the home. But—”

“Why is he here? I didn’t think you and Dad were close.”

CJ laughs. “Jesus, let me talk. I had lunch with Dad a month ago. He wants to be more involved in the kids’ lives, so he reached out, and what am I gonna say, no? That’s when I met Quinn. That’s when—”

He stops.

I know what he’s going to say, same as the birds know when an earthquake’s coming.

CJ clears his throat. “He came out to me. He’s gay, Tom.”

I wish there was some dramatic punctuation to that revelation, a riot of migrating swallows, spontaneous thunder, but there isn’t. Only silence, stretching around us like an icy lake.

“No.” Of course it’s true. Dad and Quinn emerging from the same bedroom in their underwear. But I flash back to that day twenty years ago: what I saw etched in Dad’s eyes was revulsion.

“Please don’t tell him I told you.” CJ’s eyes grow wide, still afraid of Dad’s temper.

I shake my head then nod to reassure him. I feel betrayed that he knew and kept this from me, bringing me here for a blindsiding, but I’m not going to tumble down that rabbit hole. CJ is not the enemy.

I leave him to collect his luggage. Before I’m inside, I catch a glimpse of my father, through the screen door, with Quinn. They’re standing by the sink. Dad’s making coffee. Quinn rubs his shoulders. Dad reaches back and they interlock hands.

I open the door, quiet as I can, but its hinges whine and Quinn sidesteps away from Dad like they’re teenagers. Dad turns to me with a cheerful smile and in the morning light he really looks like a completely different person. It’s not all the muscles or the buzzed, silver-stubbled scalp. He looks happy.

“I’m making coffee. Almost ready. You sleep okay?” He fixes me with a hopeful expression, but speaks too quickly, betraying nerves I’m unused to seeing.

“CJ’s here.” I circle the table and step between them to retrieve a mug from the cupboard and discover they’ve migrated somewhere else. Either Quinn or Dad—or both—carries the faint scent of recent sex and suddenly the overpowering smell of brewing coffee stirs nausea in me. I step back, realizing I need to yank off the bandage. “So why am I here, Dad?”

The door slams as CJ rolls his luggage into the room.

“Well—” Dad looks about to panic, his knuckles tightening around an empty mug. “Listen, Tommy—Tom—I said terrible things that day. I was scared for you—”

CJ’s moved towards the hall so he can catch my eye. Don’t, he mouths.

I lunge forward, driving my face into his, near enough that I can feel the heat and anxiety emanating off him. “Horseshit. You projected your self-loathing onto me, a child. Now you accept yourself… so I should accept you too?”

The coffeemaker dings, an incongruous chirp.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Dad sets the mug on the counter, and reaches for me. I let him grip my shoulder, his warm fingers softer than I remembered. It’s comforting, but comfort’s not enough.

I pull away, claiming his mug as my own. “Twenty years. You threw me away, and for what?” I reach around Quinn to grab the carafe and fill my cup. “You think there’s anything you can say that will make me forgive you? Really?”

Dad looks hurt—good—and CJ shakes his head at me as I storm into my room. I have no idea what Quinn’s doing and don’t care.

“You told him.” My father sounds betrayed, not angry. “This is why—”

“C’mon, Dad. What did you expect?” A minute later, CJ joins me in the room but won’t look at me, clearly annoyed.

“Hey.” I wave to catch his attention. “I’m sorry, I just—”

CJ shakes his head. He drops his luggage on his side of the room, settling onto the bed to face me. For a second, we’re kids again, before I’m reminded yet again of what happened. “I’m on your side. You know that. But I remember sitting in this room with you, you were all excited, telling me about some boy you liked. Like I was meeting a new person. The secret was eating at you, you told me as much… Don’t you see how different he already is? Can’t you just try, a little?”

I bite my lip and nod. “I got lucky with you.”

“Damn right you did.”

I dress before returning to the kitchen. Dad and Quinn sit side by side at the table, facing the sink. It doesn’t take more than a second for me to realize Dad’s crying. I freeze. I’ve never seen him cry.

I take the chair across from them.

“Dad. I don’t think I should have to apologize to you, but I will say that I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday.” I swallow hard, remembering all the birthdays I spent separated from my mother and brother because of what he did. But CJ wants me to try. “Is that enough? I’m still here.”

My words only make him bawl more, and when Quinn holds him tight, I realize what I’m feeling isn’t anger, it’s jealousy. He can’t form words, though he keeps trying, every attempt devolving into more sobs. Quinn looks up at me and nods as if to say thank you, that helps.

I finish my coffee and go outside, straight down to the dock, over its decaying, uneven boards. I pause a moment to slough my clothes then walk straight off the edge.

The cold is a language unto itself. It’s a million whispered voices, murmuring in the near distance, a single voice screaming in my skull. I kick to push myself deeper under the surface, imagining that if they came out searching for me now, there’d be no trace at all. My legs instinctively curl up and kick out. I glide through the water, twisting and pushing away from the dock, the shore, the cabin. I go further, flames bursting inside my chest, away from my family, both real and imagined, and away from my memories, both good and bad.

The land is scary and the air burns, but underwater, I am only me.

I rise again to the surface, filling my lungs with air. The cabin stands quiet, surrounded by towering woods, as it always has. In a moment I’ll go back there, shivering and alive, and maybe we’ll try again.