The Funeral

The assistant director stood at the funeral home entrance, door in one hand and a half dozen magnetic flags in the other.  “Will you be driving to the cemetery?” he inquired.

Steve, my best friend in the world and my only reason for coming to this dismal place spoke first.  “Hey, it’s no big deal.  If you don’t feel like going then Donna and I can hitch a ride with Todd.”  Donna is his fiancé, and Todd his older brother. 

I dismissed his comment with a wave and feigned look of irritation. “Yes,” I replied, “I’ll be going to the graveside service.  Do I need to move my car?”

“Well, actually,” he began, “I’m going to need you to pull in, back around over there then…” 

I stopped listening and turned to Steve & Donna.  “I’ll meet you inside.  This may take a while.”  When I turned back, the assistant director hadn’t missed a beat, still yammering his instructions and waving about like some maddened orchestra leader.

Why did it have to be so cold?  Burying a loved one was bad enough, but suffering the Michigan winter only seemed to add insult to injury.  I put my car in reverse and backed slowly up the street into the funeral home parking lot.  Lucky for me the North Branch traffic division was out rousting jay walkers because I performed at least five major violations maneuvering through a labyrinth of ill-parked vehicles and brainless pedestrians.  Some people really deserve to be sent into the afterlife as bumper gunk and undercoating.  I refrained though, barely, and gently placed the magnetic flag onto my fender.  New paint.  Don’t think about it.  Steve lost is dad.  The most I’d be losing is a few layers of clear coat. 

Inside, the lobby was cold, narrow, and held the aroma of old wet wood.  It smelled like every ski lodge I’d ever been to, though I doubted I’d be running into any cocoa wielding snow bunnies.

Forget the bunnies,  I was ready to settle for a familiar face.  I didn’t know any of these people.  It’s funny, but you never experience true isolation until you’re standing in a roomful of strangers.  I turned sideways and meditated on all things thin as I inched my way down the hall.  Did the city officials know that their funeral home was a freaking death trap?

Gack.  A veritable witch’s brew of odors filled the air, attacking my olfactory nerves on all fronts.  It was a noxious assortment of  aftershaves and cheap perfumes, applied in sufficient quantities to saturate its wearer and transform them into walking fire hazards.  At least the funeral home had a no smoking policy.  One flick of a Zippo and the roof could end up across the street.  I took a deep breath and double-timed it to the nearest daylight.

After successfully negotiating the human stench maze, I emerged to find Steve & Donna already seated with the family.  Damn, damn, damn.  Was it appropriate for me to join them?  It didn’t feel right.  As luck would have it though, I turned around and ran right into Todd. 

Poor guy.  He looked like a raw bundle of nerves stuffed into a Sunday suit.  I’m sure the last thing he wanted to deal with was my seating arrangement, but he collected himself long enough to point me toward an empty chair in the corner.  Good choice.  It put me well out of the way, but I could still keep watch over Steve. 

The large turnout surprised me.  For seventeen years, the only thing I knew about the man in the casket was what Steve told me:  he was an incredibly spineless bastard that allowed his new wife to force Steve and Todd out of the house.  Todd enlisted in the Navy.  Steve moved in with his mom, until he finished high school.  Right after graduation, he followed Todd into the service  and never looked back.  It was a bad situation from beginning to end, a betrayal and abandonment so acute it could inspire Shakespeare himself. 

On the other hand though, I’m deeply indebted to the late Mr. Myers.  He was the genesis.  His actions, or more to the point inaction, made it possible for Steve and me to become friends.   So Mr. Myers, for your intangible and unreservedly priceless gift,  I say, “Thank you.”

“I met this girl on the internet, Ralph.  Her name is Donna. We’ve chatted and emailed  for about a month now, and  I’ve even phoned her a couple of times.  I really think she’s the one.”   

Donna, I was told,  lived in a small town about an hour away from Toronto.  Steve was stationed in Florida at the time they met.  When my wife and I went to visit him, we were treated to a week of pining and gooey, sugar-coated phone calls.  Steve never looked happier.

Two lonely hearts, two countries, and a thousand miles of separation.  Add to that the fact that they managed to find each other on a world wide web expanding faster than our own universe, and it makes even the most calloused and jaded renew their faith in destiny.  No power on Earth can impede a fated love.

Donna clung to his arm now in full-on survival mode, suppressing every instinct that screamed for her to bolt to the nearest exit.  What a trooper.  Until today she’d only attended one other funeral, staying for about ten minutes before retreating to the parking lot.  This morning I watched her turn gray when I told her the casket would be open.  I guess they keep them closed in Canada.  I made a mental note to migrate north before I died.

“Please rise.”  And with that, the service began.

Everyone stood up because it’s a well known fact that God can’t hear you sing unless you’re on your feet.  We started off with a few selections from the Methodist hymnal.  Not sure which ones; they all sound the same to me.  I’m usually good for a couple of verses and then a reprise of the chorus.  The organist however, didn’t share my appreciation of the abridged versions, and plinked out every single note.  Toward the end, most of us gave up singing and mumble-hummed our way to the finish.

When we finally sat back down I realized my chair was eye-level with the front of the casket.  This meant that I would have an unobstructed view of the top of  Mr. Myers’ head for the entire duration.  I guess it could’ve been worse.  Todd  could have put me in the front row.

I trolled my pockets for a breath mint and tried to blend into the woodwork.  Why does the act of unwrapping a piece of candy in a silent room sound louder than launching the space shuttle?  Another note to myself:  Invent quiet wrapper.  Become millionaire.

No bald spot.  Steve’s dad is lying there with a full head of hair. 

Where in the hell did that come from? The thought just popped into my brain, unsolicited and uninvited.  I almost laughed out loud.  I’d actually caught myself becoming envious of the guy we were about to eulogize.  It was definitely time for me to throw out the Rogaine and buy a hat.  I nonchalantly shifted my chair so my line of sight fell on Steve and Donna.  How utterly embarrassing.  All I could do was shake my head.

In the midst of my mental chastisement, I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of déjà vous.  Believe me, it’s not a sensation one welcomes in a funeral home.  But the sad reality was that I’d been attending quite a few of these lately,  way too many for a person my age.  Young and old.  Sinner and saint.  Some were devastating, and some were actually a relief.  Any loss can be painful though, no matter the circumstance. 

I’ve come believe that the ceremony and procession we go through isn’t meant for the body in the box, but for the people they’ve left behind.  It’s for the roomful of broken hearts and unanswered questions.  Those are the souls that need comforting.  Those are the ones who need hope and reassurance. 

So whoever steps behind that podium, male or female, Muslim or Buddhist,  better be prepared to pour it out in buckets.  It’s their job for crying out loud, and it’s the only reason they were invited in the first place.

The minister stood and adjusted her microphone.  Female.  Interesting.  I was raised Baptist and my wife, Catholic.  In our little circles, women pastors were as prevalent as pro-choice advocates.  The few we did know, though, were quite dynamic. 

Not this time.

She began with a chorus of ums, ers, and nervous giggles.  This, I’m afraid,  was her “A” material.  Next came a verbatim recital of the obituary, peppered liberally with platitudes from K-mart’s greeting card aisle.  Names and relations were mangled to such an extent that filing assault charges would have been justified.  Steve and Todd were mentioned as, “oh, by the ways”  in the last paragraph. 

Christ, is that a cocktail napkin she’s reading from?   I swear I could still see the margarita stains.   If this hack came with a receipt, I’d  march her fat ass back to Ministers Я Us and demand  a refund. 

A certain song had been requested by the family, some disheartening country ditty about a mountain I think.  What exactly is the proper etiquette for listening to piped-in depression at a funeral home?  Tapping your feet and singing along is definitely out.  Should you stare at the casket or at the speakers in the ceiling?  I decided the floor was my best bet.  That way if anyone asked, I could say I was praying.  About halfway through I peeked up to see what everyone else was doing.  Most were staring at the floor.  The rest were checking their watches.

Everyone except Steve.  His expression hadn’t changed.  Chiseled stoicism.  I always hated playing cards with him.  But damn if he wasn’t handsome today, sitting back straight in his dress blues.  It was the first time I’d seen him in uniform since basic training graduation in 1985. 

He forgot to bring his overcoat.  Today of all days.  Two feet of snow and polar bear wind chills. 

This morning I offered him mine, but he’s a foot taller than me.  All my sleeves stop at his elbow.  I doubt he even noticed the temperature, though.  From what I could tell, Steve was pretty much numb to everything around him.

Meanwhile behind the podium, our master of ceremonies decided to convey a few personal moments that she’d shared with the family.  She talked at length about her visit to the hospital and then regaled us with an anecdote about going over to the house to have coffee and discuss funeral plans.

My God, she doesn’t know the man.   So, why in the hell is she acting like they were  best friends?

This one had me stumped.  What was the harm in not knowing?  People die every day, and I’m willing to bet most of them never went to church.  So just who was she trying to fool?  I’m sure Mr. Myers didn’t care.  As for the family members, she either knew them or she didn’t.  Personally, I could give a rat’s ass if she slept on the couch and drank their milk straight from the carton.

But on she went ad nauseam,  finally ending her virtual tour with a detailed description of a needlepoint sampler hanging on the kitchen wall.  She seemed quite taken with it, no doubt basing her sermon on that homespun bit of wisdom the very next Sunday.

Steve and I have been friends longer than I’ve known my wife, and I can count on one hand the times we’ve talked about church or religion.  I was the one who always brought it up.  Steve would humor me for about thirty seconds and then say,  “I grew up Methodist.  Please change the subject.”  Never one to take a hint, I’d poke and prod until I’d stepped in four or five huge piles of shit.  Then I’d open wide and stick both feet in my mouth.  Now whenever I get the urge, I just remember the earthy taste of soiled shoe leather.  Then we talk about sports.

That said, I have no idea whether or not the late Mr. Myers attended church.  The same goes for his family.  If they didn’t, our lovely minister handled it all wrong.  Her attempt at personalization came off sounding shallow and contrived.  But if they were members of her congregation, and the best she could come up with was coffee and a trip to the hospital…  God help her.  An immediate defrocking and an old fashioned flogging in the town square would be lenient.

Did you know that there’s a comment section in the back of those guest registries?

Wedding, anniversary, or funeral, I’ve always just scribbled my name on a blank line to let everyone know that I showed up.  Apparently though, there’s a place toward the end of the book to jot down a condolence, congratulation, or whatever the occasion deems appropriate.  Steve’s half-sister, Jamie, used one or two of these pages to record a fond, yet very personal memory of her dad.  

Right on cue, our dear minister decided that it would be wonderful to share it with everyone in attendance.  As she turned to the back of the book and began reading, I kept wondering if she’d bothered to ask permission, or if this was one of those impromptu show-and-tells.  Either way, she was shoving Steve’s sister into an emotional minefield.  I donned my flack jacket and braced for the explosion.

Jamie wrote about a fight she had with her mom and getting her car privileges taken away.  Mr. Myers  found her and gave the keys back, saying, “No daughter of mine is going to walk to school.”  

Boom.  I could hear the poor girl’s heart shatter from across the room.  She dropped her head into her hands and began sobbing uncontrollably.  The outcome had been as predictable as it was cruel.

Ten years ago I buried my grandfather.  I loved him dearly, and I keep his pipe  on my desk at work to remind me of all the good times we shared.  There’s one memory though, that I try not to dwell on too often:  This young preacher was working his way through seminary school and struggling to provide for his new family.  A need arose, substantial home repair as I recall.  Without hesitating, my grandfather opened up his wallet and paid for the work.  Twenty-five years later the same  preacher fondly recalled this selfless act while presiding over his funeral. 

It’s a great story, and summarizes my grandfather’s philosophy of life quite well.  But every time I think about it, I don’t picture his big heart and giving nature.  Instead all I see is his cold, lifeless  body lying in a pine box.  After all this time, I’m still unable to separate the story from the funeral.  Thankfully, it wasn’t a personal recollection of mine, so I didn’t lose anything in the association.

Jamie did, though.  By reading the memory to us, the minister took an intimate and cherished moment between father & daughter, and ground it into funeral fodder.   And the damage didn’t stop there.  When I looked over to Steve, I felt my heart sink. 

I saw the pain in his eyes.  This doting father whose love for his daughter was so undeniable and unconditional had been the same man who tossed Steve to the curb with the rest of Friday’s trash.  So much for comfort and reassurance.  This was turning into a service worthy of the marquis de Sade.

Don’t misunderstand, Steve holds no ill feelings toward his father;  they were able to make peace before he died.   Still, there’s a twenty-year void of lost memories between them.  Steve wont have the guilt albatross around his neck, but regret is just as heavy and burdensome. It’s even worse when someone thoughtlessly beats you into unconsciousness with it.

“I’d like to close my message with a little poem.”

Great, more Hallmark plagiarism.  Oh well,  a poem never hurt anyone.  Right?

Wrong.

When she opened her mouth, what fell out can only be described as unadulterated, malicious incompetence to the highest degree.

“It’s entitled, A Boy and His Daddy.”

WHAT?? Is she really that stupid or is her collar choking the oxygen flow to her brain?

“Ahem.  There is no greater bond than the love between a boy and his daddy…”

That’s all I remember.  From then on I heard nothing save the violent eruptions of my own rage.

I watched, stunned.  The stoic veneer of Steve’s expression crashed to the floor and he collapsed into Donna’s arms.

Apparently oblivious, the minister continued to spew her poison, occasionally coming out from behind the podium to administer a few gut kicks or drive another dagger into Steve’s chest.

By then, all I wanted to do was grab hold of that fucking collar and twist until her eyes fell out.  

Finally, mercifully, her lips stopped moving and everyone began reaching for their coats.  This I prayed, was the end of the nightmare.

It was, but casualties were high.  It had been a carnage of emotional devastation on par with the Normandy invasion. 

The sudden adrenalin surge left me shaking.  I didn’t want Steve to see me like this, so closed my eyes and took a few breaths.   He needed my support, not my outrage.  I’d punch a few holes in the wall when I got home.

The ushers began dismissing us one row at a time, and everyone lined up single file to pay their final respects.  I opted out, content to remember Mr. Myers in death as I had in life:  an invisible stranger.

Steve hadn’t moved, still paralyzed with grief.  I found a spot a few rows behind him and stood quietly, unsure what to do.  I should have been up there, grieving with him.  Instead, I shoved my fists into my coat pockets and bit the side of my cheek until I tasted blood.

What I really wanted to do was track down the sorry excuse of a minister and beat her purple with that bible she never bothered to open.  God, I hate that woman.  If she runs her church the way she ran this service, she’ll easily convert more people to atheism than Madalyn Murray O’Hair.

“I went up to the hospital to see dad today, and ran into my stepmom.  She hasn’t changed a bit.  The whole time I was there all she did was whine about how bad she had it and how dad’s illness was affecting her.  Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I just left.”

There’ve been a few events in my life that I’ve found difficult to classify.  Most have bordered on the absurd, some surreal, and others leaned toward morbidity.  But they all have one thing in common:  I’m glad I was there when it happened.

Holy crap! Is she trying to climb into the casket?

I’m not going to question her motives or sincerity.  But there was the widow Myers, draped over her late husband, bawling at the top of her lungs.  The whole place froze in disbelief.  When she actually started to climb in though, two large gentlemen came to the rescue and scurried her over to the side.  It was time to leave.

I followed Steve & Donna into the hallway, and gave him a hug.   He looked even worse up close, still inconsolable.  I have no idea why I thought a little brevity would help, and I can’t remember what I said.  I do know that it was ill-timed and inappropriate.  I’m just glad everyone within earshot had sense enough to ignore me.  

Steve excused himself and stepped into the bathroom.  He’s always been a private person, never one to carry emotions on his sleeve.  I could tell that his inability to pull himself together was killing him. 

When he returned, he asked if Donna could come with me to the cemetery.  He was going to ride over with Todd.  Of course I said, “yes.”

Everyone started to leave, so Donna and I headed to the parking lot.  Ford makes such a great heater.  My car was warm in no time, making the wait tolerable at least.

On the drive over I couldn’t help expressing my feelings toward the service.  Okay, I ranted.  A lot.  Donna humored me and took it all in stride.  She’s a very good listener.

She seemed so different to me than this morning.  It was like seeing her with new eyes.  I’ve liked her from the start, but Steve is the brother I never had.  My wife and I can be very protective sometimes, and we wanted to be sure that Donna was right for him.  What I witnessed today erased any doubt.  Steve had finally found a good one.  Donna would be a welcomed addition to our little family.

She asked me what to expect at the cemetery.  I told her that this was the easy part.  Just a few words and then a final prayer.  As we were talking, something caught my eye.  There was a dog on the side of the road rummaging  through a garbage can.  I thought it was a Dalmatian until we passed by.  He had all the right markings, but his coat was at least three inches long.  I have no idea why this stuck in my head.  Maybe it was from all of those Highlights magazines I read as a kid (What’s wrong with this picture…).  Anyway, the distraction took my mind off the day’s events for a few moments.  If I run into that dog again, I’m going to buy him lunch.

So many people came to the cemetery that Donna and I had to trek past at least thirty cars before we reached the gravesite.  We found Christine, Steve’s mom, and huddled together to keep warm.  I could see Steve standing under the canopy, shivering from the cold and riddled with emotion. 

Remarkably, the minister kept her final words on point, and the closing prayer brief.  When she dismissed everyone for the last time, Donna made her way under the canopy to be with Steve.  The lady was definitely a keeper.

The only thing left was dinner at the reception hall.  Potluck I presumed, but isn’t that the case with all family gatherings?  Steve decided to ride with his mom this time, so Donna & I scurried back to the car and fell in with the rest of the convoy.  Thank God.  By then I was completely lost.  Left to my own devices, we would have ended up in Chicago.

I stayed at the hall long enough to use the bathroom and make sure Steve would be okay.  He gave me a hug and told me to go home.  He and Donna were going to visit his grandmother so they’d be leaving shortly, too.  So, I said my goodbyes, and then headed for the door. 

The ride home gave me time to unwind and mull over everything that had happened.  I’d seen my best friend bury his dad today, and then get emotionally tortured for his trouble.  Ugly circumstance and thoughtless people did everything in their power to drag him into hell.  But there was Donna, holding on with an iron grip, refusing to let him drop a single inch.

I had no idea what the rest of the day would bring.  Personally, I was opting for a quiet corner and a beverage laced heavily with alcohol.  If I had to guess, Steve was probably hoping for the same thing.

I didn’t get the chance to ask, though.  Right after visiting grandma, he and Donna turned off their phones and drove as fast as they could toward the Canadian border. 

Wherever they disappeared to, I knew I could stop worrying.  He was in very good hands, now.  With a little time and a lot of Donna, Steve was going to be just fine.