Liana Hartman, “Colored Glass”
Carlton opened the door.
“Hey,” Xander said.
Carlton said nothing back. His frown deepened as he looked his brother up and down. “What are you wearing?”
“What I have to. You know this. I can’t risk being recognized.”
Carlton stared at him. “I can’t believe you made it,” he remarked flatly. He didn’t seem pleased.
“Yeah, I did,” Xander said with a nod, awkwardly rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Can I come in?”
Carlton obliged, stepping out of the way without another word and waving his hand in a mute fanfare. Xander smiled — more so grimaced — at his brother and shuffled inside. He pulled his hood off his hair, the sunglasses from his nose, and the mask from his face. He shed his heavy jacket like a molting snake. The bundle of clothing was tossed onto a nearby armchair. Carlton rolled his eyes and stormed off to the noisy kitchen. Xander followed behind. Small children ran by him shrieking with laughter and older aunts gossiped on the living room couches, already wine-drunk before the festivities even began.
Xander stepped into the kitchen, about to hug his mom, when a meaty arm wrapped around his neck and yanked him against someone else. A large hand slapped his chest. “Well, lookie here everyone, it’s Mr. Hollywood!” Xander’s cousin roared playfully, digging his knuckles into his scalp.
He pushed away and frantically patted his head. “Watch it, Peter! It took hours to get my hair done,” he snapped.
“Oh, Xander,” his mother sighed with a smile. She came to his side and reached up to fuss his hair. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it?”
“Geez, Ma, did you not hear what I just said?” he hissed, pulling back. “Boundaries, people, we’ve discussed boundaries before!” His sister chuckled from the kitchen table and sipped her drink. Beside her, Carlton was nursing his beer and glaring at him.
“Yeah, what are ya doin’ here, kid?” his father asked, patting his son on the shoulder as he strolled into the kitchen from the living room. “Didn’t you have some big shoot to get to or something?”
“Well, I had to call it off, of course,” Xander huffed. “I’m not gonna miss Grandpa’s ninetieth birthday.”
“I’d imagine your schedule must still be pretty packed,” he mused, reaching for a fresh-baked cooking on the cooling rack. His wife smacked his hand away with a spatula, and he retreated with a guilty grin.
“Sure, maybe,” Xander confessed with a shrug. “Just some interviews about the debut, an audition I wasn’t really committed to anyway, lunch with a few people.” ‘A few people’ being other up-and-coming stars like me, he thought bitterly. He eyed the clock and his mood soured further. Not to mention the convention I’m missing right now. A few kind words from some fans would do me good instead of Carlton’s sass and Peter’s ‘enthusiasm.’ He fantasized what his day could have looked like if he had stuck to his original schedule. Surrounded by people who actually appreciated him for who he was now, not who he was then.
“Xander?”
His mother’s voice dragged his eyes from the clock and he stared at her blankly. “Hm?”
“Did you hear what I said about the card?”
The card…? Oh, right. “Uh, yeah, I’ll take care of it,” he said with a nod, maneuvering around her and towards the kitchen table where his grandfather’s birthday card sat. Several family members idled around it, waiting for their turn to sign it.
His mother caught him by the wrist. “Um, actually, Xander,” she began hesitantly. “We thought maybe you could wait until a few other people go first this year before you sign it.”
He squinted his eyes at her. “What? Why?”
“Oh, you know, just… you’re always one of the very first to sign it, and I think it’d be fair if you let other people go first this time.”
“It doesn’t matter what order we write it in,” he insisted, shaking her off. “Grandpa won’t know the difference.”
His mom wrung a kitchen towel between her hands. “Y-yes, but–”
“Look, I’ll make it quick, okay?” he said soothingly. “Everyone will still get a turn if that’s what you’re worried about.” He turned and pushed towards the dining room before she could get another word out. One of his more distant cousins was handed the pen. She bent over to write something, then saw Xander stalking towards the card and quickly set the pen back down and moved out of his way. He pretended not to notice and snatched it up.
A hand slapped down on the card before the pen made contact with the page. He looked up to see Carlton glowering down at him. “You ought to wait your turn,” he advised quietly.
Xander was taken aback. “I’m sorry?”
“Just do what Mom asked,” Carlton insisted.
“How do you know what she…?” Realization flashed before his eyes. “You told her to tell me, didn’t you?”
“It’s for your own good.”
“You don’t get to decide that!” The room fell quiet. Xander looked around at all the familiar faces staring at him. He cleared his throat and stood upright. “Fine. I’ll just go tell him the old fashioned way.” He turned and marched through the living room, down the hall, — dodging the hoards of screaming kids again — and pushed open the door to his grandfather’s study. “Hey, Grandpa, happy birth…”
The room was empty, the air stale and stagnant. No one had been in here for some time. This troubled him. His grandfather spent more time in his study than his actual bedroom. Normally, the smell of his cologne mingled with the burning of fine quality Indian cigars. Now all he could smell was dust and stationary. Instead of nostalgia, Xander felt a wave of uneasy guilt churn in his stomach, like he had broken the seal of an ancient tomb. He flicked on the light, hoping it would dispel the feeling. The bulb flickered a sickly yellow.
An antique lamp and neat stacks of paper rested on a grand mahogany desk; when his grandfather worked in here, notes would cover every surface, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. He was the only one who could make sense of his method of madness, and he was adamant that there was, indeed, a method to it all. Thick maroon fabric swallowed up the light of the tall, thin window. Only a sliver of orange glow slithered between the crack of the curtains, reflecting off the glass of several inkwells.
Two broad bookcases kept watch over the room, leatherbound texts pressed against each other on every shelf like old soulmates in a permanent embrace. His Grandpa had been a collector, and each book had a story both within it and behind it. Xander remembered being engrossed in the tales his grandfather told on the lengths he went to to garner such an expansive catalog — high stake auctions, distant cities, exotic countries, and so on. To this day, he still couldn’t be sure how many of the stories were true and which were entirely made up. A warm, wooden air of somber earth rested in the atmosphere, more powerful than any intimately constructed set Xander had acted on before.
Something unfamiliar caught his eye — an ample amount of cardboard boxes piled up along the back wall. He frowned and approached it. Labels had been scrawled on the sides in black marker. ‘Old Clothes,’ ‘Journals + Photo Albums,’ ‘School Memorabilia,’ etcetera.
What is all this? he wondered, grabbing the box at the top of the stack with ‘Gifts’ written on it. He placed it on the desk and took a peek inside. It was filled with old presents from Christmases, anniversaries, and birthdays. Xander withdrew a sizable stack of cards and tapped them into alignment on the edge of the desk, then slid them out in a curved shape like a poker dealer. He picked one at random from the selection. There was an intricate snowflake pattern on the front.
“Is this your card?” he joked quietly to himself, flipping it open. It read Merry Christmas! Around it, over a dozen different notes were left in distinct handwriting styles. He searched for a moment and found his own. ‘Happy Holidays, Grandpa!’ he had written. ‘Good job staying on the nice list!’ Beneath the note was Xander’s signature, and he cringed at the sight of it. This card must have been older than he thought. It was clumsy and void of the confidence ever present in his signatures now.
He snatched a birthday card closer to the end of the line and smiled when he was greeted by a much more sightly signature written with its usual grace, though it was still a bit smaller than he typically wrote it. Xander’s smile wavered when he realized he hadn’t left a note this time. Had he not written anything for his grandfather’s birthday? It was just a one-off thing, he assured himself. I’m sure Grandpa didn’t even notice.
He grabbed the next one and was met with a similar sight. Everyone else had left a small phrase celebrating or congratulating his grandfather. All he had left was his name, marginally larger than the previous one.
The same was true for the next card. Once again, his signature had grown, taking up more of the page and forcing the notes around it into awkward, squished scribbles. He didn’t leave a note in any of them. Xander flipped open every card and watched his name flourish like a weed blocking the sun from other plants. Like a growing tumor, pushing organs out of place.
“Looking for something, John Hancock?” Carlton quipped, suddenly appearing in the doorway. Xander jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to face his brother. “Something other than your own name, I mean?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Xander snarled. “I’m trying to tell Grandpa happy birthday.” He looked Carlton up and down. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Since you opened the box,” he yawned. He stepped into the study and closed the door. “Besides, you’re looking in the wrong place. He’s not in here.”
Xander scoffed and crossed his arms, resting his hip on the desk. “Yeah, I can see that.” He gestured to the cardboard boxes. “What’s all this stuff?”
Carlton squinted at him, stuffing his hands into his jeans. “Are you serious?”
“Yes I’m serious! What’s up with the boxes?”
His brother was quiet for a moment, his tense expression softening. “Grandpa’s dying, Xander,” he said quietly. “We’re packing up his things, getting ready to clear out the house so whoever he leaves it to can move in.”
A strange panic seized Xander’s heart. “Well, he’s not dead yet,” he objected. “What the hell is wrong with y’all? He just sees his life packed up in boxes every time he comes in here? You want him to think his family is just a flock of vultures waiting for him to die–?”
“He doesn’t come in here anymore,” Carlton cut in.
“What are you talking about?” Xander exploded, throwing his hands up. “This is his favorite room. This is where he spends all his time.”
“He’s ninety, for Christ’s sake. He’s practically bedridden. What would he even do in here? He can’t turn the pages of a book, he can’t even hold a pen in his hand anymore–” His voice cracked, and Carlton fell silent, his body trembling. Tears spilled from his eyes that Xander hadn’t noticed in the dim lighting.
Xander stepped forward. “Carlton–”
“And you have the audacity to lie?” Carlton went on. “To our mom? To everyone?”
“What are you talking about?” Xander demanded.
“You wouldn’t be here right now if that shoot hadn’t fallen through,” his brother accused. “You’re full of it saying that you wouldn’t miss Grandpa’s birthday. You wouldn’t lose a night of sleep over missing it.”
“That’s not true–”
“Isn’t it?” Carlton demanded. “I called your agent. The shoot you were meant to be at right now was canceled. That’s the only reason you’re here right now.” He huffed and swiped at his eyes. He dug around in his jacket pocket and withdrew a birthday card. He held it out to his brother. “Just give me your damn autograph,” he growled.
Xander didn’t look down at the card, keeping his hands by his sides. “What is your problem with me? Why is it that whenever I show up to family gatherings, you’re always on my ass about something?”
“Because you don’t show up to see your family!” he shouted, throwing the card to the floor. “You show up to greet your fans!”
“What?” Xander laughed, exasperated. “Carlton, what are you on about?”
“You’re not part of this family anymore!” he went on. “You’re not the brother I grew up with.”
Xander stood in shock. Then his arms slowly crossed over his chest and he stared coldly into his eyes. “Then what am I to you?” he asked flatly.
“You’re just a name now,” Carlton said quietly, breathlessly. Xander flinched. “You were my brother, and now you’re just a name.”
“I am more than just a name,” Xander snapped, growing defensive. “And I am still a part of this family.”
“Are you?” Carlton laughed brokenly, more tears threatening to spill. “You’re never around anymore. You never talk to anyone. Do you even still see us as your family? Or just a houseplant you need to water?” Xander opened his mouth to defend himself, but Carlton lowered his voice and pressed on. “Look, you’re a successful actor, and for good reason. You’re talented. Your career isn’t ending anytime soon. But if you don’t change… If you don’t start putting us before your ego…” A pitiful laugh escaped his throat. “Well, there won’t be an ‘us’ to come back to.” He turned and opened the door, before casting one last withering look over his shoulder. “Grandpa is worth more than your name.”
