Not the sudden violent parting of body and being, but the
slow leave taking that occurs when a human being simply wears out. Like a
candle that burns brightly until there is nothing left, flickers valiantly,
then simply winks out; the smoky plume of its life force curling heavenward.
My husband's grandmother was 89 years old and lived a long,
full life. She was born in 1916, and died on July 25th, 2006, in her sleep,
with one of her beloved daughters snuggled against her, just the way they did
when they were little girls.
So many nights she stood vigil at one bedside or another;
through fever, nightmares, heartache and hunger…this time they stood watch over
her, even knowing they could not protect her as she had protected them. Nine
children; six boys and three girls, took turns waiting for the end, not wanting
her to be alone when at last she was called home.
She was ready. Though her mind was still sharp and her blue
eyes still twinkled with life, her body was ready to lie down for eternal rest.
Though diminutive in stature, with all the substance of a sparrow, she was
fiercely independent, capable and strong, even into her late eighties. Her
dignity was affronted by the dependence and frailty that eventually confined
her to her antique four poster bed; the one in which gave life, and the one in
which she left it behind.
She was a woman of strong faith and she was one of the very
few Christians I have known who lived as she believed. She was ready to go to
Glory. She did not fear death, but welcomed it. For her it was not an end, but
a beginning. As one who fears the finality of death and is stricken with terror
at the thought of lying in a cold and lonely grave, her conviction was an
awesome and beautiful thing.
As I stood at her bedside gazing at the diminutive form
nearly obscured by bedclothes, I thought that I would give up every ounce of my
youth and vitality for just a fraction of her faith; a tiny morsel of her
peace.
I knew her for 14 years, but I did not get many
opportunities to talk to her one on one. With 9 children, 22 grandchildren, 35
great grandchildren, and 3 great-great grandchildren, her time and attention
were precious commodities. We usually only saw her at family gatherings, where
numerous people clamored for a seat next to her. I didn’t feel right about
taking time away from anyone who loved her and so, I usually just sat back and
listened. Mostly, she did the same, smiling and nodding as her family filled
her in on the goings on in their lives.
Ennis, her husband, died long before I knew her, but their
relationship was fascinating to me, because her submissiveness to him was so
strikingly at odds with her strongly autonomous character. Once when asked why
she had so many children, she replied "Why Lord a mighty child, a body
just didn’t tell your Daddy no." But this was said with a funny little
self-deprecating smile that led you to wonder just whose idea it really was.
When I think of all the things she saw and experienced in
her lifetime, I am infinitely sad that I didn’t get to talk to her more. I
should have made a point.
She lived through both World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert
Storm and the War on Terror. She lived through the Great Depression. She
watched on the marvel of live television as they announced the assassination of
both Kennedys. She watched the Watergate scandal unfold and Nixon resign. She
watched Neil Armstrong walk on the Moon the month before I was born. She
witnessed the death of Segregation and the birth of Women’s Lib. She voted when
it was still a novel and privileged thing for women to do.
She watched her family grow from one to hundreds. Her
children and grandchildren are a diverse lot. There are preachers and teachers
and policemen and nurses. There are alcoholics, addicts, thieves and wife
beaters. After all, a person can't plant a garden that size without a few bad
seeds turning up. But she loved them all without limit or condition. She didn’t
expect perfection, she only prayed that one day, those who were lost would be
found.
She had a heart attack in June of 2006 and everyone knew it
was the beginning of the end. Though her death was expected and folks sat on
pins and needles for months waiting for the news, the shock wave that swept
through the family at her passing was powerful and destructive. The outpouring
of grief was at once upsetting and awe inspiring. She was so very loved.
We visited only days before she died. Her beautiful white
hair spilled across the pillow as luxuriant as ever, and her blue eyes twinkled
just as brightly. But her body was painfully thin, and her will to fight was
gone. She wanted to see her beloved Ennis. She wanted to at last look upon the
face of the God she had worshipped for so long. She wanted to go home.
At 4:00 a.m. on a sweltering July morning, she did. In
death, as in life, she did not 35countenance any fanfare or fuss. The tiny
flame of her life force simply winked out and curled silently towards heaven
while her daughters slept on.
The Wake.
When we pull up
to the funeral home, I am surprised. It looks cheap and somehow, impermanent. I
expected a brick façade, graceful columns, perhaps a rolling green lawn. But
the vinyl clad building we have parked in front of is not stately, nor
dignified, and it seems to be placed squarely in the middle of a parking lot,
unrelieved of a blade of grass or greenery of any kind. There is astro turf
covering the expansive porch and several straight backed rocking chairs placed
here and there. I’m not sure if they are there for practical or aesthetic
reasons, but they seem wrong somehow. Rocking chairs are for watching the sun
set behind the majestic foothills that grace the landscape here. They are for
lazy Sunday afternoons watching the kids run through the sprinkler. They are
for stolen moments of quiet companionship between harried adults. They are for
living.
Nevertheless, Nanny’s “baby” brother Jack who looks exactly like Santa Claus,
rocks mournfully to and fro. Because of their suspicion that Jack is indeed
Santa Claus (although the oldest had been disabused of that idea for several
years now), the boys are excited to see him. He greets them with his customary
warmth, but the twinkle in his eyes, which lent him that truly authentic air,
is missing. His shoulders, usually straight and strong, sag with sorrow. Though
his hair and beard have been snow white since the first day I met him, this was
the first time he looked old to me. I would realize over the next couple days
that grief paints time on people’s faces; the canvas of our skin becoming a
perfect portrait of our mortality. It strips us of our pretenses and lays bare
the awful truth…that every hour of every day, we are getting older. It denies
us the illusion of forever. Jack is not Santa Claus today. He is a just a grief
stricken old man, painfully aware that his own life grows ever shorter.
But he tries. He asks Brady, “You been a good boy?” My youngest nods his head
vigorously in reply. He turns to Jason, “What about you slugger?” Jason
answers, “Yes Sir.” For a moment, the twinkle returns to Jack’s eye and he
says, “Good, cause ain’t neither of yas too big for a whuppin!” The boys grin
at him, fully aware that he is about as likely to whup someone as he is to put
on a sequined gown and sing “Lady Marmalade.” I begin to grin as well, but stop
myself, aware that as an outsider, I am being scrutinized. I do not want to
seem irreverent or disrespectful.
It’s not that outsiders are unwelcome. But they are rare. Out of thirty-five cousins,
husband is one of only a few who have gone to college, the only one who lives
elsewhere, and the only who married a girl not born and raised in that
comfortable little town. Even those who accept me still wonder about me. They
know nothing about my childhood, my people, my beliefs. They know I’m
“different”, but Southern hospitality dictates that they don’t pry into my
personal life, which means that relationships remain tentative and superficial.
They are warm and kind, but we don’t have much to talk about aside from my
husband, who is our common bond. Conversation falters when the same tired
anecdotes are exhausted.
People begin to arrive in larger numbers, and we congregate on the spacious
veranda. There are many hugs and kisses, much back slapping and hand shaking,
many proclamations over how the little ones have grown. Everyone is dressed in
their very best. For a few this means suits and dresses, but for some, it means
a pair of overallsbaptism unstained by fertilizer or axle grease and pressed
into respectable crispness. For others it means blue jeans stiff with newness
and a starched white shirt with mother of pearl buttons. There are cowboy boots
buffed and shined beneath frayed hems, there are sandals worn with properly
sober frocks. There is not a designer label in sight, but everyone has dressed
with care. Their respect shows in their humble attire.
Nobody is crying yet, though there were plenty of tears shed earlier when
making preparations for the service. The daughters especially have been
assailed by memories as they laid out the trappings of Nanny’s death toilette:
her powder blue suit and bone pumps, her “grandmother” necklace and her wedding
ring, her gold rimmed glasses and dainty gold hoops. They recalled that she
last wore that ensemble for Mother’s Day. They can see her in it, prim and
ladylike, her little bird breast proud of her finery. It is a memory both
precious and cruel; their tears are both joyous and heartbroken. They know they
were lucky to have her for so many Mother’s Days. They wish they could have
just one more.
Though nobody really wants to go in, the brutal heat, which saps the strength
from our limbs and squeezes the air out of our lungs, soon forces us to seek
refuge indoors. Everyone is damp and uncomfortable in their formal,
multi-layered funeral attire. Husband mops his brow and offers me his hand.
Together we go inside, ushering the boys in front of us.
The funeral director approaches and he impresses me immediately. He is a youngish
man, my age or perhaps even a little younger. He has a kind face. He is
solicitous but not fawning; respectful, but not maudlin. And he studiously
avoids all the death clichés that impersonalize “the deceased”. In fact, he
never says “the deceased”. Instead, he refers to her as Nanny, or Your Mother,
or Mrs. Carmichael. I like him for that, and I like him because he looks like
someone I might see at the ballpark coaching his kids, or in the halls of the
elementary school bearing a forgotten lunch box. His youth is a little
disconcerting to some of the older family members. There are some frowns and
whispers. They were expecting someone else; the older gentlemen who helped them
attend to all the agonizing details the previous day. I suppose his age and
experience inspired their confidence. But he, thoughtlessly, has gone on vacation.
I imagine someone in this line of work needs vacation more than most.
This makes me wonder about our young funeral director. How does one with so
much life ahead of him choose to deal in death? The answer of course is that he
probably didn’t. Southerners do love their legacies, which is why ideals abandoned
by the rest of the world still survive and thrive in the Deep South. From bible
thumping to bigotry to bow-hunting and baptism, certain things just are.
Tradition, custom, convention…these are the building blocks from which the
foundation of Southern values is built. Which is why I suspect that young Mr.
Funeral Director’s vocation was most likely a foregone conclusion before he
even drew breath.
The private family viewing is scheduled for five o’clock, and as the hour draws
nearer, the mood grows somber. People drift to the door of the cavernous
chapel, beyond which lies the viewing room, where they huddle, reluctant to enter.
They remind me of a herd of forlorn little sheep, waiting for their shepherd.
They are bleating and nervous, aware of their vulnerability.
The funeral director notices the peculiar little traffic jam, and comes over to
ask if everyone is present. We all look around, mentally counting. There is one
missing, and without even going down my mental list of all 9 aunts and uncles,
I know it is Judson. Everyone does.
Judson’s life has not been easy. Some of it is his own fault; some of it is
just bad luck. There have been a string of bad relationships and short lived
marriages, there has been substance abuse and recovery, there has been one job
after another, until finally there were no more chances for him in a town where
everyone knows everyone else, and gossip is the pipeline by which information
comes and goes. But his mother has always been there for him, strong and
constant; uncritical and undemanding. She always loved him for who he was. She
took him in when he had nowhere else to go, and she never asked how long he was
going to stay. He had been living with her for the past couple years, drawing
on her strength and enjoying the love and acceptance he had struggled to find
elsewhere for so many years. Without her, he is utterly lost.
The young funeral director disappears out the front door and in a moment’s time
returns with Judson. His eyes are dry, his face resolved, his shoulders
squared. Nothing is said, but his despondency bothers me a great deal for
reasons I can’t quite identify.
At last we are ready, and the group moves forward as one in a hesitant
shambling little surge. When the casket comes into view, a few sniffles are
heard, and I am suddenly filled with panic. I can’t see this. I have my own
death issues. The issue is, it terrifies me. I’m not certain I can stand here
and watch people be overcome with grief without dissolving into a panicky mess.
I’m not sure I can approach the casket and look my own death in the face. But I
have to keep myself together for Husband and for the boys, who are nervous and
fidgety like two lithesome little colts; prancing with anxiety. I squeeze my
husband’s hand for strength and he squeezes back. He thinks I am comforting
him.
The two oldest daughters, one of whom is my mother-in-law, have the honor of
approaching the casket first. They were with Nanny when she died, and they took
care of most of the arrangements. It is they who will stand at the head of the
receiving line for more than three hours, kissing, hugging, and thanking
everyone. It is the last thing they will do for their mother and they do it
with pride and heartbreak in equal measure. In a voice hoarse from crying, she
says “Oh Barbara Jean, don’t Mama look purty.” and promptly bursts into tears.
Barbara Jean agrees, and then her tears begin to flow as well. She puts an arm
around Linda Joyce and they sob together, gray heads touching, hands clasped.
The rest of the family closes around them like a wave swallowing a pair of
floundering swimmers. Husband is swept along with the tide of familial grief
and also swallowed up.
The boys and I are left standing on the perimeter of this family throng. We
belong, but we don’t belong. We watch, curiously separate, but deeply affected
all the same. I feel a little abandoned, which is silly and selfish. But this
is the first time Husband has needed me like this and I feel a little cheated.
I feel usurped. I feel unnecessary. I look around and notice that Judson is
hanging back. He too is on the outside looking in. Our eyes meet, and I think
that he understands what I am feeling for some reason. He doesn’t smile, but
his expression is sympathetic.
I feel a tentative hand take mine, and I look over to my oldest son, who is
fighting to remain calm. Even as an infant, he was highly sensitive to the
feelings of others. His sweetly bowed lips would quiver and his eyes would
cloud with concern if he perceived anger or distress. Now the palpable grief in
the room is overwhelming him. He swallows hard and looks at me, imploring me
with his huge hazel eyes. I don’t know what to do, so I just put my arm around
his thin, but ever broadening shoulders and place a kiss on top of his head.
Any other time, this would have been completely unacceptable to him. But
instead of protesting, he snuggles into me the way he used to, all but hiding
his face against my breast. The youngest is struggling too, but in stark
contrast to his brother, he refuses to acknowledge his distress. He stands
stiffly, arms crossed, evading my outstretched hand. We stand, waiting.
When at last the family drifts away from the casket and begins the business of
receiving the mourners, Judson hesitantly approaches the silver casket, which
gleams softly under the recessed lighting. He places his forearms on the edge
of the casket, bows his head and says simply…”Oh Mama. Oh Mama.” His voice is
not that of a grown man mourning his elderly mother, but that of a little boy
saying good-bye to the kisser of boo-boos, the banisher of boogeymen and the
baker of birthday cakes.
When he cries, it is with the silent shoulder shaking sobs of a grown up man,
and yet, I feel compelled to take him in my arms as I would a small child, and
shush away the hurt. He is so broken, and my maternal instinct tells me to fix
him. But I don’t touch him. I don’t approach. I simply watch, puzzled about why
his grief more than any other has made me feel so unsettled and sad and vaguely
afraid.
One of his brothers moves to embrace him and then leads him away talking to him
softly. And then it hits me. Judson is the inescapable truth; a testament to
the fact that losing a parent at any age is a savage hurt. That it can make a
person feel small and lost and adrift in a world they have navigated with
comfort and confidence for so many years. A world that is suddenly very big and
very empty when the root of all you are and all you will ever be is suddenly, completely,
irreversibly…gone. With my deep seated fear of death and my mother seriously
ill, it is a truth I do not want to face.
But I have to and I know that, so I lead the boys to the casket where Husband
rejoins us, having temporarily extricated himself from his family. This is the
boys’ first experience with death and he wants to be there with them. I put my
arm around Husband who feels strangely unyielding in his stiff jacket and
starched shirt. We all look down at the tiny form in the casket. “She looks
beautiful honey.” I say softly. It’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s true. I am
amazed by how lifelike she appears. Her snowy hair is glossy, and her skin is
kissed with a gentle, rosy hue. I realize that I am waiting for her little bird
breast to rise and fall with the gentle respiration of slumber. It seems so
wrong that it doesn’t. The boys say nothing, but stand, unbreathing, and I
wonder if they are waiting too. Husband sighs deeply and the boys glance
sharply at him. They are afraid to see their Dad cry. Earlier, in a moment of rare
candor, the youngest had confessed, “I don’t wanna see Dad cry Mom.” I
understood. Husband had always been there for them, strong, constant,
unshakeable and resolute. His vulnerability unnerved them as much as it did me.
At long last it is time for the public viewing. The doors to the room open and
mourners pour through them in a torrent. Soon there are hundreds and hundreds
of people filling the viewing room and spilling out into the cavernous chapel
and the surrounding anterooms. 89 years’ worth of people have come to say
good-bye to this simple country woman. Some are crying, some merely sniffling.
Nanny was 89 years old, and her death was not unexpected. It was not a tragedy
in the way that a life cut short by senseless violence or drunk driving is a
tragedy. But when she passed on, many people felt that a little bit of light
went out of the world. She was not perfect, but she had a rare goodness that
people were drawn to. Underneath the sorrow was an undercurrent of joy; the joy
of having known her.
Three hours later the funeral home is once again eerily hushed. We are among
the last to leave. Husband is speaking to yet another someone who remembers him
from long ago and the boys have already escaped to the van where they are
watching a movie. I stand alone under the stars and exhale deeply. Another
exhalation echoes my own and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke assails me. I
turn to see a dark, shapeless form huddled deep in the shadows and a shower of
sparks as a cigarette is tapped by unseen fingers. The form slowly unfolds and
steps into the weak light of the streetlamp. It’s Judson. He looks beaten;
physically and spiritually battered by the force of his grief. I don’t know
what to say to him. I smile, and try…“Shitty Day, huh?”
He laughs… a short bark of mirthless amusement. “Yeah. Shore was. But tomarra’s
gonna be worse.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. I am dreading it, but I’m sure my dread is nothing
compared to the cold hard ball of anxiety he is harboring in his gut. He drags
deeply on his cigarette and for a split second I wish I had one to calm my
nerves. It’s been a long time, but I still remember the soothing bite.
Thoughtfully he says, “You know, that little un’ of yours…he’s a saht.”
I give a short snort of derisive laughter, much like his. “Yes, he certainly
is.”
“He’s Husband made over you know.”
Nanny used to say that all the time. Her words hang in the air between us.
“Yes, I’ve been told that once or twice.” I reply.
“He’s gonna turn out alright. Mama knew stuff lahk 'at. And now…” his voice
trembled a bit, but he maintained his composure. “…well, I reckon she’s in a
position to make sure.”
He squeezes my shoulder and walks away, leaving me startled, astounded and sad.
I stood there for a long while, breathing in the boggy summer air thinking
about what he had said and what lay in store. The last leg in this life journey
was bound to be a rough one, for Judson and my husband and for all the people
who owed their existence to one tiny, indomitable woman.
The Funeral.
I awake slowly,
as I always do, reclaiming consciousness in degrees. Strangely, I am awake
before the alarm has sounded and for a moment, I am confused. I remember
setting it, but I can’t remember why. The kids are out of school and husband
doesn’t have to work today because…because….ah, yes. The Funeral. The Funeral
is today. In three hours. Suddenly lurching into full awareness, I spring from
the bed, propelled by the sheer number of things I must accomplish to get us
out the door on time. We have a long drive ahead of us.
I wake Husband, and then the boys, poking and prodding and cajoling them from
their downy cocoons. Protesting, they unwind into lanky, shuffling wraiths,
relying on instinct to guide them to the bathroom where, still stupefied with
sleep, they assume that uniquely male stance and empty themselves. The sight of
them in their boxers and socks with hair in riotous disarray always makes me
smile. I am treated to a glimpse of dimpled buttock as Pre-Pubescent One
scratches absently. Once I knew them so intimately; every inch of their flesh
as familiar as my own. Now it is off limits to me; the soft, baby smelling
creases sprouting hair and stinking of almost grown-up.
I realize that Husband has not yet risen, though I know he is awake. I return
to the bedroom and find him staring at the ceiling, blinking, unmoving.
“Hey. You okay?” I ask.
He sighs, his chest rising high beneath the comforter. “Yeah. Just…not looking
forward to this.”
I can’t think of a single thing to say or do to make him feel better. Today,
shoulders that have carried laughing toddlers and borne my tears will bear the
body of his grandmother to her grave.
“Baby, can you pick out a tie for me?” he asks.
“A tie? You have dozens...just pick one.”
“Please?”
The mundane details of life are too much for him today. Nodding, I coax him out
of bed and into the shower. I choose a paisley patterned tie in muted tones
that will match his black suit. I remember that we bought it in Paris on our
honeymoon. I remember how we fumbled with the francs, trying and failing to
seem nonchalant and urbane while mentally converting francs to dollars. I still
don’t know how much that stupid tie actually cost. I place the tie on top of
his shirt which is laid out on the bed with the arms spread wide, like a lover
inviting an embrace.
They all dress quickly and without incident, though the boys are not happy
about having to dress up again and Husband is already perspiring in his shirt
and undershirt, even in the chilly conditioned air inside the house. I shoo
everyone downstairs so I can shower and make-up in peace. I hear my brood
breakfasting and bickering while tendrils of coffee air coil upward from the
kitchen. It is the language of our lives and it is beautifully ordinary.
An hour later I am nearly ready, but I waffle over what to wear. I am usually
very decisive about these things, but there will be many eyes upon us today.
Husband left a long time ago, and when we go back, it is only to while away the
afternoon on his parents’ front porch, sipping coffee and watching the kids
play in the pond, where a concrete negro child in tattered breeches sits
eternally fishing.
Few outside the family have seen him since he left 20 years ago and people
wonder about him in that small town way. Most are merely curious and are
usually appeased by a smile, a handshake, and the reassurance that of course!
He remembers them…how could he forget? But some will be looking for proof that
marriage to an outsider and life in the big city has changed him, made him less
theirs. They look to see if his wife is snooty, his children spoiled, his moral
fiber eroded.
I finally settle on something suitable, my choice made as much for its
respectability as the knowledge that temperatures could soar into triple digits
today. The Southern summer, always fiercely unkind, has been especially cruel
this year. I choose antique mourning jewelry that belonged to my great
grandmother. I fasten the double string of jet beads around my neck, where they
glitter with cold and somber beauty against my pale skin. Nobody will recognize
their significance, nor are they likely to ask. But I wear them only for her.
It is a small, private token of my respect.
We are to meet at the Funeral Home before the service, and when we arrive, the
hearse and the limousine are already idling in front in an effort to keep the
darkly upholstered interiors cool. They are sleek and sparkling in the
shimmering waves of heat that quiver up from the asphalt. The boys are
impressed by their elegance, which contrasts starkly with the utilitarian
building. The youngest wonders aloud if the limousine has a refrigerator and
the oldest rolls his eyes. Husband’s gaze lingers on the hearse for moment
before we step inside. The ornate doors shush-bump shut behind us, sealing us
inside. The interior is dim and cool and soundless.
We are a little early, but most of the family is already present. They are
gathered around the casket murmuring to one another. This is the moment they must
say good-bye. They stroke her hair; they kiss her cool, powdered cheek. They
gaze lovingly, longingly at her serene face, trying to memorize every detail.
One of her silver haired sons gently fingers the wedding ring that graces her
left hand; strokes the veined marble of her knuckle with a calloused thumb. He
whispers, “Hug Daddy’s neck for me Mama.” and then he begins to cry quietly,
plopping tears onto the blue linen of her suit.
When everyone has said their good-byes, Young Mr. Funeral Director slowly, carefully,
lowers the lid. Judson turns away before her face is obscured from view. His
eyes are dry and hard. The raw hurt of yesterday seem to have been tucked away
inside him. The only outward sign of his turmoil is the muscle in his jaw that
continually tenses as though he is chewing something. His son steps forward to
shield him from the awful finality of that tiny, muffled thud. They walk away
leaning against one another, their bodies tilting together like sweetheart art.
A florid man with a handlebar mustache steps forward. I was introduced to him
yesterday at the viewing. His name is Brother Dwight but I think of him as
Brother Walrus. He will be delivering the eulogy today. He is a very large man,
and when he took my hand in his to shake, it was completely swallowed up by the
warm, dry ham of his grasp. He makes me feel very small.
After meeting him, I had asked Husband why they call one another “Brother” and
“Sister”. He explained that it is a sign of respect for their brothers and
sisters in Christ, and how they signify that they have been saved. I find it
pretentious and irritating, which, of course, I shared with Husband. He said
“Baby, not everything Christians do is designed to piss you off.” I am a little
hurt by that. I count on him to validate my irreverent indignation. But he
doesn’t have the strength today and my anger fades at the realization.
In a deep rumbling baritone that sounds like thunder and lightning, Brother
Dwight asks us all to join hands and I cringe inwardly. I am not a toucher or a
hugger as so many Southerners are. I never initiate physical contact with
strangers, and I usually avoid any effort on their part to initiate physical
contact with me. One thing that never grows any more comfortable for me is
dealing with the Southern proclivity for touching, hugging, kissing, caressing.
I try to position myself between my two boys, but the youngest has slipped
away, and I have no choice but to join hands with the small elderly woman on my
right. Her hand is cool and soft and dry, the fragile bones of her hand are
gently gnarled with age, the skin slipping across them like water over pebbles
in a brook. She gives me a small but sincere little smile, and suddenly I find
that I don’t mind holding her hand. We bow our heads, and everyone around me
prays earnestly.
Husband has disappeared without a word, but I know that he has gone to join the
other pallbearers. The casket is rolled to the hearse where he and the other
five stand waiting. Young Mr. Funeral Director makes a small, subtle gesture
and gently, wordlessly, they lift the casket and slide it into the hearse. The
heavy double doors clang shut and the sons and daughters are ushered into the
waiting limousine.
There is a state trooper waiting to lead the procession. As we line up behind
him, I am amazed at the number of cars. There must be close to a hundred. There
are vehicles of every size and shape; some shiny and new, some old and dented.
Husband tries to get close to the front of the procession so that when we arrive
at the church, he can get to the hearse quickly. But several cars insist on
nosing in front of us. Husband is annoyed, but lets them go. It’s really the
only thing that can be done given the circumstances. Behind the wheel of our
sedate suburban minivan, husband is tense and anxious. He hunches over the
steering wheel, peering ahead, trying to gauge how far back in the procession
we are positioned.
When we arrive at the church, Husband shuts off the van and hands me the keys.
He kisses me hurriedly, and rushes to take his place in line with the others.
He is the second oldest grandson, so he is at the front. Young Mr. Funeral
Director and his assistant open the double doors and the men step forward to
take a hold of the casket. It glides out easily and they lift it with only
moderate effort. As they carefully execute a turn to mount the steps up to the
church, my eye is drawn downward by the crunch of gravel. I see six pairs of
feet, six different kinds of shoes.
One cousin wears a pair of gray alligator cowboy boots, carefully polished and
shining. One cousin wears a pair of sturdy black oxfords with thick,
comfortable soles. One cousin wears a pair of charcoal colored orthotic hush
puppies. The oldest cousin wears respectable brown lace-ups with a pointy toe,
and Husband sports a pair of seldom worn Florsheim wingtips. The youngest,
Judson’s son, is barely 20. He wears a pair of battered work boots that peep
out from under the hem of a suit so ill-fitting that it is almost certainly
borrowed.
His appearance is strangely evocative. He was not supposed to be a pallbearer,
but eagerly volunteered when one of the others had to step down. He is taking
his role very seriously, and has taken pains to look respectable... He has no
mother, and for a moment, I feel an absurd urge to dart forward and brush the
shaggy blonde hair from his eyes and smooth away the lines of worry and tension
on his sunburned face. I want to tell him he is doing just fine. Not just
carrying Nanny, but carrying his father as well.
They are a motley but respectable group. Their shoes are different because they
have walked very different paths. But as I watch I see that they all use the
same oddly deliberate heel to toe motion, placing one foot directly in front of
the other. They step gingerly, as if their shoes are filled with shards of
broken glass. At first I think that the disparity in their height and the
weight of the casket is causing their unnatural gait. But then I am struck by
the realization that they are, in unspoken agreement, trying not to jostle
their Nanny inside the gleaming silver casket. In that moment, there is no
difference among them.
Once those boys all ran the hills behind their homes in overalls and bare feet.
They returned home with mud streaked faces and pockets full of worms. They were
gap toothed, freckle faced, and knobby kneed, until one by one they grew up.
And that is what the family sees when they watch these grown men carry their
Nanny as cautiously, and as tenderly as they have their newborn children. They
see not men, but dirty, smiling little boys.
“Them boys…” says a voice next to me. I turn to see Judson at my side. He is
addressing me, but he is inside himself as he speaks. His gaze is on the casket
bearing cousins. “We used to give ‘em boys a quarter to faht.” He puts his hand
on the sweaty head of my youngest absently fingering the silvery blonde strands
so like those of his own son. “I don’t know why we done ‘at.” He sucks hard on
his cigarette, flings it to the ground and grinds it out with a loud crunch. He
exhales sharply. “They was good boys.” He pats Diminutive One’s head and then
wearily joins his brothers and sisters in the procession behind the casket.
The boys and I fall in step at the back of the group. The pews are already filled
to bursting on the left side, but the right is reserved for family. The
pallbearers are ushered into the front row by Young Mr. Funeral Director and I
realize that we will not be sitting with husband during the service. Husband
turns around, searching for me. Our eyes meet and I see that he doesn’t like it
either, but our reasons are very different. This was supposed to be my day to
prove that I can be strong for him…that I am good for something besides keeping
his house and rearing his children. So many times I have looked to him to
making things okay. Today was to be my day to make it okay for him. How can I
do that when he is so far away and lost to his family?
Once again I feel marginalized as we are
squeezed to the periphery of this family affair. I know I am being silly.
Nobody has purposely excluded us. They are focused on their grief and
rightfully so. But still it bothers me that we are sitting over here alone.
Even Sister-In-Law, who often takes us in hand at family gatherings to make
sure we are not overlooked, has forgotten about us today. From where we sit,
Husband is almost completely obscured from view. In a room stuffed with people,
I feel very alone.
A small mousy man
with large gold-rimmed spectacles approaches the podium. He is the preacher at
this church. He calls Nanny a sainted
woman. He gives a little sermon about how her family is her heavenly family now
and that only those bound for heaven can be part of that family. He says that
her earthly family comes second to her heavenly family. And then he says that
only those members of her family who are saved will remain in her heart because
they are the only ones she will see in heaven.
I feel very angry at this proclamation. I can’t help but steal a glance at
Judson. I wonder if he is angry too. But his face is stony and inscrutable. Earlier,
one of his brothers told him that the only way to be with his Mama now was to
let God into his heart and be saved. Weary of every hope stealing hardship becoming
a platform for salvation, I thought it an unkind and predatory thing. Later I realized
I was being unfair. The brother was trying to help, using the only tool he had;
faith. But salvation is not what Judson needs at his moment, though I suppose
most of those present would argue that is exactly what he needs. I can’t help
thinking that one of those Southern hugs would probably be a lot more welcome
and lot less difficult to come by.
Finally the mousy man steps down and the soloist is introduced. The song she
will be singing is “Press On, It Won’t Be Very Long”. It’s not a hymn I am
familiar with. A pale, bland woman steps onto the dais and raises a microphone
to her lips.
I don’t know what I was expecting…perhaps some suitably dignified dirge from
the funerals of my childhood…but the sound that issues from that unassuming
woman startles me, rocks to me to the core. That sound comes from the place
inside each of us where we harbor our most sacred joys, our deepest fears, and
our most shameful secrets. It is a sweet, soulful, haunting sound. It makes the
hair stand up on the back of my neck like a lonely train whistle in the
distance, or a loon crying over a moonlit lake. There is heartache, sadness,
loneliness and loss in that mournful wail, but also….joy. Exaltation. The
purity of hope and the certainty of salvation. That sound comes from her soul.
I am stunned by my reaction to a simple country hymn. I am stunned by the ache
that it puts in my belly and the lump that it puts in my throat. I struggle to
put a name to what I am feeling, pushing away the knowledge that what chokes
me, is the bitter green gall of envy. Because it is clear from the power and
the pathos of the words she sings…she has the solace of a convicted heart. She
possesses the one thing I know I will never have.
Suddenly a cry rises up from the congregation.
“Praise Jesus!”
And another.
“YES Lord!”
More voices join in, until the soloist is barely heard above the din of
religious zeal. They are overjoyed by the knowledge that they will soon be
going home to Glory. They echo the words she is singing…"Press
ooooooon, it won’t be ve-ery long"…
“Press ON Lord!”
“Not long now Jesus!”
People are weeping, wailing, praising, rejoicing. Hands wave in the air, faces
are upturned, rapturous. It is like nothing I have ever seen and I sit in mute
astonishment taking it all in. The spectacle is thoroughly alien, somewhat
unsettling and yet, somehow, inexpressibly beautiful.
Beside me, they boys have gone still, their relentless fidgeting ceasing. They
are as captivated as I am by what they are seeing. The oldest glances at me and
then blushes. I don’t know why. I wonder if he is embarrassed for the shouters.
I am, a little. My Yankee reserve finds it difficult to reconcile this overt
display of spiritual fervor. Where I come from, religious ceremonies are
somber, dignified affairs. Reverence is demonstrated through quiet solemnity,
respectful silence and rapt attention. The religious teachings of my youth,
though largely abandoned, still dictate my sense of propriety. Even if so
moved, I would be unable to express my joy so unabashedly. I am a little
saddened at the thought.
The song ends on one long, succulent note. It is held, and then fades away
softly into warbled, whispered nothingness. The hands that have been waving in
the air now drift back to laps and clasp once again into respectable primness.
Brows are mopped. The rapture is quelled.
It is utterly quiet in the tiny church.
Into the quiet, steps Brother Dwight. He is larger than life, and as he mounts
the steps and takes his place behind the podium, I’ll be damned if a
fortuitously placed halogen light hasn’t created a beatific halo around his
head. It’s the kind of cheap parlor trick that one expects from weeping
televangelists on late night TV. It’s not a trick. But I can’t help thinking
that Brother Dwight would be pleased if he knew he was being bathed in
pseudo-celestial brilliance. Cu-cu-ca-choo, Brother Walrus.
Despite his resemblance to a Walrus, he has a dignified air. And as he begins
to speak, I find I am eager to hear what he will say. The first speaker
disappointed me with his finger wagging. But Brother Dwight looks as if he has
very meaningful things to say.
And he does. But not about Nanny. He says nothing about her having borne and
raised nine children. He says nothing about her having been a devoted wife for
nearly 50 years. He says nothing of her many kind and charitable acts. He says
nothing of her mouthwatering fried apple pies, or her lighter than air
biscuits. He says nothing about who she was irrespective of her faith. Nope. I
think it’s fair to say that Brother Dwight sees this funeral not as a
commemoration, but an opportunity. Brother Dwight is here to save souls.
I am monumentally
uninterested. My mind begins to wander, and I begin to remember my own
grandmother’s funeral so many years ago. She died just before I found out I was
pregnant with my oldest. Alzheimer’s stole her dignity and her identity. My
fastidious grandmother would have welcomed death had she been aware of what she
had become. She lost her mind, but her body remained stout and strong. Nanny’s
body had withered and weakened until it simply gave out, but she retained her
sanity and her self until the end. Which is a crueler fate? I, with my fear of
growing old, am equally horrified by both.
Something brings me out of my reverie. Something has changed in the air. There
is…expectation and it is electric. I look around, wondering what I missed and
why it seems as if everyone is holding their breath.
I realize that the timbre of Brother Dwight’s voice has changed. Before, it
was as deeply soothing as a wooly blanket on a cold
winter’s day. But now…it has risen an octave, and there is an edge to it that I
don’t quite understand, until I realize that he has adopted that strange and
comical cadence that I always thought of as the hallmark of disingenuous piety
and profitable conviction.
“Dearest brethren-a. We are gathered here on this fine day-a, to honor this
woman-a. She was a strong woman-a. A good woman-a. But most of all, she was a
GOOOOOOOOOOOOODly woman-a.”
The exclamations started anew.
“Yes Lord. PRAISE Jesus!”
“AMEN Brother!”
The spotlight was making sweat pop out on Brother Walrus’s brow, and his
postulations were causing a deep red flush that spread from the flesh
overflowing his collar to the very roots of his slightly thinning hair. He
mopped his brow and continued.
“But although we are saying good-bye-uh…we will not MOUUUUUURN for this
woman-a. We will rejoice that she is with her father in heaven-uh. We will
rejoice that she has gone home to GLORY-UH!”
The chorus of hallelujahs grows more fervent. Some people leap to their feet
and sway to and fro with heads bowed and arms raised. Others clap. Some bounce
up and down on the balls of their feet.
“You all know how much salvation meant to Mother-ah. You know how she longed to
be called to serve in his heavenly kingdom-ah. You know she is sitting at his
right hand-ah. Do not weep for her-ah, for she weeps for you-ah! She weeps to
think the souls of her loved ones have not been committed to the Lord-ah.”
Oh, here it comes, I think to myself. He is going to fish for souls at a
funeral. I am incensed. The boys perhaps feel me tense in the pew, for I sense
both of their heads swiveling in my direction and I feel the question marks in
their eyes. I look around, but nobody else seems similarly affronted. In fact,
they are beaming and…expectant.
“I am going to invite anyone…anyone here-ah, who has not taken the Lord as
their savior-ah, to come forward right now-ah. Speak the words-uh, and commit
your soul to JEE-zuSS! Come now…and let the Lord into your heart-uh! ”
I raise my eyes from my lap to find Brother Walrus looking straight into me.
His eyes are alight with a righteous fire, and they seem to burn clean through
me, searing my heart, stealing my breath. I have the distinct feeling that the
pew behind me is smoldering and wisps of smoke rising from twin char marks. I
raise my chin in defiance and hold his gaze, though I am trembling with an
emotion I can’t name. I fear it is guilt. I fear it is fear. I manage to
maintain eye contact, but I can’t suppress the shiver that runs cold fingers up
my spine. I see him see it.
Suddenly, Brother Walrus’s eyes are torn from mine by a shout from the back of
the church and the sound of heavy footsteps. A large man with a grey brush cut
and thick glasses lumbers up the aisle, calling out.
“Yes Jesus!! I am here Lord! Take me to your bosom Lord! Wash away my sins!”
He prostrates himself at the foot of the podium behind which Brother Walrus
stands. His forehead is touching the rough carpet and his large, soft buttocks
are all that can be seen of him from where I sit. But I can hear him sobbing
and begging for forgiveness.
I hear a whisper from the pew directly behind me. It’s the woman who had smiled
kindly to my boys when we sat down, murmuring to her husband. “I thought Duane
Sprague was already saved?”
Her companion grunts. “He is. The damned fool just likes making a spectacle of
hisself. Gets saved every hodanged time he sets foot in a church.”
She tut-tutted in dismay, but otherwise said nothing.
I want to laugh. I wanted to leave. I want to demand that Brother Walrus
explain to me why I should let his Lord into my heart. I want to ask him how
his God can punish the good and reward the bad. I want to ask him how his God
can let ugliness like child abuse, poverty, war and famine blight the beauty of
the world he has created. I want to ask him why I should worship a God who
discriminates. Why I should worship a God who puts conditions on his love, and
holds salvation hostage.
But I merely sit and watch the drama unfolding. Again, I am stunned. Duane
Sprague wails loudly and dramatically. He says he is not worthy, and Brother
Walrus wearily assures him that all he has to do is ask and forgiveness shall
be his. Duane Sprague wails some more. My youngest puts a hand in mine and
rests his warm and sticky cheek against my arm. He looks up at me with his
enormous blue eyes and says in a stage whisper, “Mom…I thought you said we had
to be quiet in church.”
The lady behind me makes a small sound of amusement, and her husband chuckles
outright.
The tension is broken, but I still feel a little as if I am sitting in the pew
naked. I feel raw and open, like a wound from which the blood still flows. I
cross my arms in front of myself and try to remember that Brother Walrus is
just a man. He is not my judge and jury. He is not my conscience. He is not my
damnation or my salvation.
In the pew occupied by Judson and his brothers, there is a stir. Judson has
slumped down in the pew and crossed his arms in a posture that is decidedly
similar to my own. His brother Henry hovers over him whispering fervently and
gesturing emphatically towards the front of the church. It isn’t hard to
surmise what kind of emotional blackmail is taking place in that pew. Suddenly,
I am profoundly grateful that I am not sitting over there. I wish I could help
him.
I notice that my mother in law is angry. Her lips are compressed in a tight
line and her shoulders are stiff with outrage. Barbara Jean puts an arm around
her unyielding form and whispers to her. Linda Joyce shakes her head
emphatically and then begins to weep, crumpling into her sister's lilac bosom.
Barbara Jean glares at Duane Sprague with malevolence. He has eclipsed the
mourning with his theatrics. It is the height of disrespect, and he will pay
for it later in the form of cold shoulders and ignored greetings. People in
SmallSouthernTown do not take such transgressions lightly.
Alas, nobody but Duane Sprague comes forward and with a sigh, Brother Walrus
concludes the service. I suppose that fishing for souls in a town that already
has a goodly number of Christian folks can be a fruitless and unsatisfying
endeavor. For a moment, I feel sorry for Brother Walrus. I wonder if he fears
coming up short on Judgment Day.
The mourners file past the casket, which, after some discussion, has been
re-opened for the service. Some of those who have come to pay their respects
are terribly, terribly old, and I wonder what they feel when they look into
that casket. One woman, whose back is bowed over a walker, and whose skin is
translucent with age, is visibly upset. The tears stream down her face
unchecked as she speaks to Brother Walrus. He takes her chin in his large blunt
fingers as if she were a small child and speaks to her tenderly. I don’t think
it is simple grief that causes her tears. She scares me. I know that sick and
slimy fear. And I know the feeling of impotence that comes with it. Death is
something that will claim us all. It makes me feel weak kneed and panicky.
Finally it is the
family’s turn. My boys have been sitting an awful long time and they are taut
and quivering with pent up energy. They need tree climbing and bike riding on a
day like today. Though it is unbearably hot, it is tantalizingly sunny. I
inhale deeply over the top of my youngest’s head, expecting his usual smell of
sun, green things, damp earth and sweat. Instead, he smells of starch and shoe
polish and conditioned air. My oldest notices me smelling his brother and
wrinkles his nose with unspoken distaste.
The pallbearers, sitting in the front row, go first. I watch husband approach
the casket and I wish I could be at his side. A cousin puts a supporting arm
around his shoulder. They stand, together, solemn, unmoving. Judson’s son,
whose mop of sun bleached blonde hair stands out among the older more grizzled
heads, begins to cry silently, his shoulders hitching gently under his too big
suit coat. The cousin with his arm around Husband puts his other arm around the
young man and pulls him close. He pulls Husband close as well and they stand in
a small, tight huddle of woe.
These men are so different, their lives divergent. And yet, standing there,
they are as indistinguishable as they were in the days when they wore denim
overalls instead of business suits; sneakers instead of work boots. Today they
are all boys once again.
They turn to exit the church and I can see now that Husband has tears running
down his cheeks. His eyes are red and his hold on composure is tentative. I
feel his grief in my bones the way I feel his presence in our home when he is
not there. I can do nothing, so I extend my hand into the aisle as he passes.
His palm skims mine, clutches briefly, desperately, and then slips away. He is
gone before the warmth from his body has cooled in my grasp. I feel a bitter
sting behind my own lids. His tears wound me.
A glance tells me that they have wounded my boys as well. They are both crying
soundlessly, salty drops plopping onto the sharp creases I have ironed into
their pants. I draw them close to me and whisper to them not to worry. “Dad is
okay…he’ll be okay.” My sister-in-law is now coming down the aisle. She leans
heavily on her sweet, strong, silent husband and then suddenly stumbles, blind
with tears, weak with sorrow. He quietly catches her, bolstering her with his
body, buoying her with murmured tenderness.
We do not go look at the body again. When it is our turn we simply slip out of
the pew and head toward the back of the church where Husband and the others
have congregated. They are no longer crying. Though still somber, they are
smiling. One of the cousins says,
“You member that time Nanny caught us beating on her rose bushes with sticks?”
They remember. They all smile.
“Yup. Stripped those suckers bare.”
“Lord, she tore me UP that day!”
“YOU! I couldn’t hardly sit for a week.”
“Why’d we do that…you member?”
“Naw. We was just kids. I reckon we was jes trying to find something to do.”
Judson’s son, much younger than the rest, listens intently, but with a furrow
in his brow and a small frown on his lips. “She whupped you?” he asks,
disbelieving. “Nanny?”
One of the others cousins snorts with laughter and says wryly, “Shoot son. With
that many grandkids runnin ‘round, Nanny and PawPaw was always whuppin somebody
for somethin. And they like to deserve it too. We was nothing but a bunch of
heathens runnin’ wild.”
Another cousin chimes in. “Yeah, but she always gave you a treat after. Some
biscuits with sorghum syrup or some fried apple pies. Damn. Them pies….” His
lip quivers a bit at the memory.
Husband says, “I’m tellin’ you what…I never had pies as good as hers. Mama’s
pies are good, but they can’t hold a candle to Nanny’s. Don’t tell Mama that
though!”
They all laugh. It’s a good sound.
Yet another cousin speaks. “You ‘member them ‘maters Nanny used to grow in her
garden? They was might near as big as cantaloupes. I don’t know how she grew
them things so big. She used to say, ‘Them ‘maters has got the Lord’s goodness
in ‘em.’"
“Yeah!” says another. “She make you ‘mater sandwiches?”
They all nod and a collective “Mmmmhmmm” ripples through them.
Husband says, “What about that time we rolled that culvert down the hill?”
“Soooooon….I thought Nanny was going to have a stroke!”
“Well, it woulda served us right if she did. What kind of hodanged foolish
thing was that to do? We coulda all been killed. If that thing had rolled over
one a us, we’d a been dogmeat.”
“She didn’t whup us ‘at time.” Says one cousin quietly.
“Nope.” Says another, “Too scairt, I reckon.”
“Yep. She was eat up with what migtha happened.”
“Poor Nanny. We was jes too much for her.”
“Shoot. We wasn’t neither. She knew how to handle young ‘uns.”
“Djou get a whuppin’ when you got home?”
“Hell yes. Daddy might near took the skin offa my backside.”
There is a chorus of general agreement and exclamations about the length and
severity of the various forms of corporal punishment that each of the miscreants
had received.
Husband says, “Daddy didn’t whup me.”
The cousins look at him with surprise.
“He just told me how disappointed he was that I would put Nanny through such
thing. He said she would have blamed herself forever if one of us had got hurt
or killed. He told me she was at home prayin’ her little heart out, askin’ the
Lord for forgiveness for not watchin’ over us better.”
The cousins nod and murmur their sympathy to Husband. They know how that game
is played and they know how much disappointment can injure the soul of a
naughty but deeply penitent little boy. It was a harsher pain than any hickory
switch could impart. It was a deep down gut sick guilty kind of hurt.
Husband continues. “I went to apologize to Nanny the next day. I was cryin so
hard I could hardly get the words out. It took me an awful long time to say my
piece.”
He pauses for a moment, remembering. The cousins urge him to continue. “Well.
What’d she say??”
Husband smirks. “She said, ‘Praise Jesus and deliver me from these willful
chil-dern Lord!’”
They all laugh until the tears flow again, but this time they are tears of
mirth. They sober quickly as Brother Dwight approaches, and wipe their eyes,
sighing. But he does not glower or scold them. Instead, he smiles beneficently
and his eyes twinkle above his glorious moustache. I imagine he knows that
Nanny would rejoice to see them laughing. I imagine he knows how much people
need to laugh on a day full or mourning and sorrow.
Though I was angry with him earlier, I realize that he is not an unkind man. I
begin to realize that much of what he does is a performance of a kind. Sunday
after Sunday, he is called upon to deliver the hellfire and brimstone they
expect of him. They are a demanding audience. Brother Dwight claps them each on
the shoulder and asks them if they are ready. They nod and file after him, once
again respectfully subdued.
The Final Good-Bye.
The drive to the
cemetery is long. Nanny wished to be buried in Alabama next to her husband Ennis.
They were both born and raised there. It is home. In the van, the boys lose
themselves in mindless diversion on the twin screens that are velcroed to the
seat backs. I am deep in thought and husband is weary with the day’s emotion.
We don’t speak for a long time, but it is a companionable silence. After a
while, Husband breaks the silence to ask, “Why so quiet baby?”
“I just…I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.” It’s a wholly
inadequate expression of my astonishment and awe at what took place, but it’s
all I can muster at the moment. He is puzzled, of course.
“It was just a funeral.”
“Yes, but….”
I struggle to explain why, exactly, this was such a profound experience for me.
There has been nothing comparable on my side of the family, no basis for comparison.
He can’t understand how completely and thoroughly foreign I have found it. And
I can’t explain that although it was startling, disconcerting and
uncomfortable, it was also beautiful, uplifting and inspiring. Have I ever
witnessed such fervor? Have I ever witnessed such joy? Have I ever witnessed
such abandon? Never. Never. And my Northern reserve balks at all of it while
also being thoroughly envious. It’s a dichotomy I am at a loss to explain. So
instead, I pose a question of him.
“Why did Brother Dwight ask for people to be saved??”
There is indignance in my voice, and of course, he hears it. He is no stranger
to my many indignances. They are as much a part of me as the color of my eyes
or my deeply irreverent nature. But he does not know why I am indignant.
“It was a funeral baby.”
He says this as if that simple statement explains everything to me. But it
doesn’t.
“Yes. It was a funeral. Not a goddamned revival meeting!”
I hadn’t meant to speak so venomously. But the words are out there and I can’t
snatch them back. Husband is accustomed to such outbursts, especially when it
comes to matters of religion and faith. He says softly, “It’s the way things
are. It’s the way she would have wanted it.”
There is nothing I can say to that, and we both fall silent again.
At last, the long line of cars slows as the church comes into view. It sits
atop a hill, small and unassuming, surrounded by gently waving grass, brightly
colored wildflowers, and hundreds upon hundreds of graves. Some are sunken and
choked with weeds. Some are fresh, the grave markers still slick and glinting
in the bright sun. I can see the awning that has been erected over the family
plot. We all turn in, tires crunching on the gravel strewn drive that leads up
the gentle slope. As we park and unfold from cars, trucks and vans, the heat of
the afternoon sun strikes like a hammer. It is brutally hot. I would not be
surprised if it was a hundred degrees or even more.
Most of the family is in a hurry to get to the graveside. Everyone wants a front
row seat. Except me. And Judson. We hang back, both of us tense and dripping.
His son turns to look for him, worried, I know, that this will be the worst part.
The leaving behind. But Judson waves him on, the picture of nonchalance. He pulls
hard on his cigarette, steeling himself for what is to come.
Beneath the dark
green canopy that shields mourners from the harsh and unrelenting sun, the air
is stifling in a way that can't be described to those who've never experienced
a Southern summer. It's a solid thing, with weight and heft. It lays upon a
person like a moist blanket. People fan themselves and pull deep breaths,
hoping for the merest wisp of fresh air. There is none to be had. And the
saccharine scent of the roses that cover the casket in a lush layer is so
thick you can taste it, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. I swallow
again and again trying to rid my palate of the cloying sweetness, but it's no
use.
Judson and I stand at the back of the crowd. I don't think he can
stand the sight of that chasm beneath the casket. I can't stand the viscid
feeling of the air beneath the canopy. I feel as though I am struggling to
breathe, though I can actually do so perfectly well when I pause to
draw a deep, deliberate breath. I drape an arm over each of my boys despite the
heat. Their skin is slick at the nape and their hair pasted in damp
spikes to the pale slices of skin revealed by their recent shearing. Judson
stands beside us, smoking and silent. The smoke doesn't waft away on the
breeze, but merely hangs in a bloated cloud about his head. It
is making me feel quite ill, but I say nothing.
From my position at the back of the crowd, I can see the damp patches on every
back above the red velvet of the straight backed chairs. Men mop and ladies
blot; all to no avail. With everyone crowded together beneath
the canopy, the temperature rises steadily and there is
simply no hope of staying dry. I'm sure my own back, though not
pressed against crushed velvet, is sporting a sizeable damp patch as well. I
can feel the sweat trickling and tickling in multiple streams all over my body.
I did not think to bring a handkerchief, so I have nothing with which to
halt their maddening progress. My boys are wriggling surreptitiously,
clearly having the same problem. Judson sweats heavily beside me, but does not
mop or wriggle. He is as still as one of the many statues in the graveyard
behind us; his expression every bit as stony.
Finally Brother Dwight takes his place in front of the casket. His color
is high, and his glorious mustache has wilted dramatically. Most of the
men have shed their jackets, rolled up their shirt sleeves and loosened their
collars, but Brother Dwight still wears his vest and jacket. He mops
his brow frequently, but still sweat falls onto the Bible he holds in his
hands. He wipes the drops from the pages with his handkerchief, while
blinking ferociously against the new drops that have already formed on his
brow. His remarks are brief, there is no call to Glory. It's hot as
hell, and it seems that is too hot for salvation.
She was a good woman, God will welcome her. She is going home and we should
rejoice. Heads nod and a few half-hearted Amens are offered. It seems the heat
has stolen the zeal from these mourners. A hasty but heartfelt prayer is said,
and then it is time for the final good-bye. The heat makes people unwilling to
linger, but there is no wish to leave their little Mother just yet. Her
children touch the casket reverently. Linda Joyce and Barbara Jean hold
one another in a damp embrace as they whisper their goodbyes. The men
clasp one another by the shoulder and wait with heads bowed as their wives and
sisters mourn. Her sons are stoic. Because as heartbroken as they all are over
the loss of this remarkable woman, their grief is tempered by hope. They
are convinced they will see her again. It is as beautiful as it is baffling.
"Good bye Mama. I'll see you in heaven."
"Good by Mama. God keep you 'til we're together again."
"Good by Mama. Go with Jesus. We'll be with you soon."
"Good by Mama. You're goin' home now."
"I love you Mama. We'll all be together in Glory soon."
Each person passes the casket and takes a rose. It's a somber procession, with
many tears and few words. I usher my children towards the van, so husband and
the rest of the family can have their last moments with her. We make the long
trek up the hill to the graveled parking area without speaking. I turn on the
van and crank the dial on the air conditioner to the highest setting. The boys
settle in, instantly soothed by the air that streams warmly from the vents.
While husband lingers, talking to relatives, I stand outside the van, watching
the crowd thin. I do not want to witness that leave taking. I do not want to
watch that casket being lowered into the ground. So instead I admire
the stately lines of the small white country church, the graceful green
hills into which it is nestled, and the neatly tended graves that dot the
landscape around it like children around a mother's skirts.
Despite my resolve not to, I glance back at the gravesite. Judson stands
alone in front of the casket, one hand on the glossy, varnished surface,
head bowed, shoulders shaking with sobs I can see and feel, but not hear. A man
in overalls turns a crank and the casket begins to sink slowly into the ground.
Judson's hand and body follow the casket until he is kneeling. The casket is
flush with the ground for an instant, and then slips quietly below the earthen
threshold. Judson's hand doesn't leave the casket and for a moment I fear he
will tumble in after it. But he doesn't. His hand leaves the casket and curls
into a fist, which he cradles against his chest like a broken wing. I see
his lips move and I know the single word he has he has uttered..."Mama".
Husband suddenly reappears at my side.
"Let's go, Baby." his voice is thick and weary.
"What about him?" I ask, inclining my head towards Judson, still
kneeling at the gravesite below.
Husband looks for a long moment.
"He's not ready to leave her yet." he says.
Nobody is ever ready, I think, to leave their Mother in a hole in the ground.
But all of us have to. All of us will. Even Jesus can't make it any easier. For
all I don't know about faith and conviction, I am certain of
that fact.
"But he needs..."
"He needs his Mama, baby." says husband softly.
As we watch, Judson gets to his feet. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.
His shoulders square, and then he begins the long slow climb up the
hill. The words of that sweet, soulful hymn from the service come back to
me.
He has decided then. He will....Press On.
