September 19, 2016 | Occasus | Issue 6 | Fiction

Giraffes Don't Like the Cold

I regretted the decision to let my nine-year-old brother plan our mother’s funeral the moment his phone call interrupted my one-night stand.  

“Giraffes are a must,” he said firmly, “but I don’t think the $6.72 I have left over from buying my season pass at Ultra-Force Laser Tag will cover the cost of trainers for them.”

I tried to muffle my groan of annoyance by holding my shirt sleeve over the receiver, but he definitely heard the girl snap at me that her name was Shannah, not Shelby, followed by the apartment door slamming.

It took her twelve minutes to find where she parked her tragically generic Toyota Prius—I watched her with my elbows grazing the cold metal of the balcony, and put the phone on speaker while I twisted the end of my cigarette into a pot of long dead daisies. I lit another.

"Giraffes?"

"Giraffes," he repeated, "I'll have to settle for wild if I can't fit the trained ones in the budget."

"I don't think giraffes are allowed to roam around graveyards, Nick," I said. Neither of us had ever even seen a real giraffe.

"That's just it though: she isn't being buried in a graveyard," he answered matter-of-factly, "I'm building her an igloo...well, me and Dad are. When I ask him. I haven't asked yet."

An igloo—I sighed. Dad’s eyes wouldn't have diverted their attention away from the empty side of his king sized mattress if the house were aflame and his kid had asked him to dial 911. 

"What about summer time?" I asked, "When it melts?"

He paused, taking my point into careful consideration.

“I guess I have all of fall and winter to figure that out,” he said, “but if I can get one of the giraffes to stay there and stand in front of it, they are pretty tall you know, everyone who walks by the
house will sort of be looking at it instead of the igloo. Like a reversion”

“Diversion,” I corrected, “And giraffes don’t like the cold.”

“We can wrap it in some sweaters—some thick wool sweaters, like the green one of moms. She…well she doesn’t really need it…”

He trailed off, and we both sort of clenched our jaws down into the thickness of the air as if an exhale could cause us to fall.

The sweater had an ugly reindeer on it that resembled a coat rack. She wore it to dinner on the holidays two years ago—the first time I had come back in the three years prior. I recalled a silence, not unlike the one Nick and I were sharing over the phone, when our plates were left cold and our eyes failed to meet and we chewed our cheeks until we tasted blood. Our gazes only shifted from the floor at the scratching of each swipe my brother made as he wiped the wilted daisy petals off of the dining room table. I excused myself for a cigarette, but not before hearing the muffled, “He ruins everything,” escape my father’s lips.

It might’ve been the last time I saw her. I can’t remember.

“No,” I said finally, “I guess she doesn’t.”

Nick’s shuffling around sent a wave of feedback through the speaker; he was probably trying to write our key conversation points on his hand in pen. His voice faded in and out amongst the static.

“You could maybe bring some sweaters back from your adventures though. Dad says you go questing a lot”

“I think you mean sequestering” I said.

“It’s settled then. I’ll tell the funeral home our order tomorrow morning” He yawned.

“Why giraffes?”

“What?”

“Why not horses or something?” I asked, “I’ve never even seen a real giraffe.”

"Exactly," he said, "I thought you might want to."

After a series of exchanged yawns, we said our goodnights, and I spent the next six hours with my laptop cursor hovered over the purchase button for a window seat on a Friday morning flight.
I stood at the back of the room when I arrived at the visitation, and watched Nick thank a bunch of people he didn’t know. The funeral home décor was flat and aged; obviously someone—most likely our grandmother—intervened in the planning before any igloo operations could receive a go-ahead.

Each speech dragged on in a lengthy collage of tissue clutching and buzz words like “missed” and “better place”. The air turned thick again, and all I could think about was how uncomfortable my mother would’ve been in that coat rack sweater. My fingers grabbed through the space of my jacket pocket, reaching for a cigarette. The box was empty. 

I only let Nick know I had arrived once the speeches were over, when we locked eyes from my place in line behind faces crusted with the imprints of dried tears, and I placed a stuffed giraffe on the coffin amongst the daisies.

SYDNEY BROOMAN is a second year student completing an Honours Specialization in English Language & Literature and Creative Writing.