After The Funeral
by Losgud
My Grandma chose the most inopportune time to die. I was engaged in the lengthy process of lining up a new job that actually granted paid funeral leave, but I was still a few weeks away from giving my notice at my old position. As opposed to the numerous times she'd "died" earlier in my life, come the one true time there wasn't anything exciting I wanted to do with the time off. I was hoping that no one in Personnel was clever enough to say Hey, wait a minute, didn't your Grandmother die a year or so ago? "Oh yea, but that was the time she conveniently died when I wanted to extend a long weekend down in Florida; this time it's for real."
I had a cache of unused Personal Days I was hoping to cash in when I left, a transaction that would likely be complicated by such a discovery. Not to mention the fact that barely a month before I'd used up my vacation time and a chunk of savings to fly with my wife and the baby to visit her. There's all this talk about how deregulation and competition has caused the cost of air travel to plummet just like the airplanes themselves. Well, not if you need to get somewhere at the last minute. You pay like you're flying the Concorde but ride like you're on a Greyhound.
Oh, good old Grandma! All of this sounds evil, but that judgment must be tempered with the understanding that I am from a family famous for their wicked sense of humor. And humor is of course a great tool in dealing with grief. Grandma had a full, wonderful life. She lived to marvel in full cognition at the miracle of her great- grandchildren. Death granted her the easiest of exits, asleep in her own bed. While she'd had to deal with the disruptions of nurses in her house a few times, she'd managed to outwit and elude Nursing Home Hell. She left this life right as she was hitting the cusp where her deteriorating health would have inevitably descended into a diminished body, mind and spirit.
Grandma had one great regret in her worldly existence, and she intended to rectify it in the afterlife. As she confided in me during our last visit, "When I meet up with your Grandpa in Heaven, I'm going to kick his butt clear on down to Hell for leaving me alone for fifteen years."
I probably would have skipped the whole ordeal, but in the long distance call announcing the death, my father also requested that I join him in being a pallbearer, noting that it would mean the world to him.
"You do have a decent suit coat, don't you?"
I accepted out of embarrassment at admitting that I didn't.
"And black shoes, dress shoes, not those..." I laughed. "It's all covered Dad, don't worry. I'll be there, with no shame on your face." I'd worn nothing but black shoes for years. But they were canvas high-tops.
I quickly began assembling my mental outfit. I've never been a very formal guy. Never has a black-tie invitation arrived in my mailbox. Every job I've had has been pretty casual. I was making pretty decent money as King of the Warehouse, but the uniform was jeans and tees. A company emblazoned polo shirt if some bigwigs were due in for a tour. My upcoming position would require the half-step up to shirts with a full front of buttons. I dug around in my closet and found the leather shoes and slacks I'd used to interview for the warehouse job. They were a little worn from age and a brief stint as a waiter. I went out and bought a brand-new white shirt. The coat and tie I borrowed from a friend. I felt like a bride. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. The socks matched all the rest, but I packed a pair of underpants the color of a summer sky.
I got off the plane and immediately began reiterating my ancient knowledge of the public transit system. I could take a taxi, but that would eat up most the cash I had. The shuttle from the airport ran on rails to the subway which would take me to the elevated that would lead me to a depot of buses, one of which--if I could only recall the name of the proper route--would drop me a few blocks from the house.
My head was filled with this as I was navigating the vast network of connecting corridors. Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I grabbed for the bulge of my wallet in my back pocket.
"Good instincts," I heard chuckling.
And there stood Uncle Bob. "Wha-at?"
"I got your flight info from your folks. I guessed you wouldn't have cab fare, and given your sense of direction I knew you'd hop the first train to the south side."
"You bastard you! Thanks."
"No problem," he grinned. I followed his limping form. Bob had the disadvantage of growing up under the shadow of my father's brilliance. A mild bout of childhood polio had left him quite mobile but with shriveled social skills. He finished college and was an intensely intelligent man, but ultimately he fell back into the family business and never moved away from his boyhood bedroom. His presence, really, enabled Grandma to die in her own home.
We got back to the house, and I was the last to arrive. I demanded coffee, but by the time it brewed I barely had time for a cup before I needed to start getting dressed.
"Heavens Tom, don't you look snazzy," Mom announced me as I came down the stairs. Her pronouncement was followed by a muted wolf whistle. "Whoa, big bro, lookin' good!" my sister crowed. I blushed. "Look Ashley, you made your brother blush. I think you should apologize." I was blushing the way you do when you know someone's taking the liberty of pity with you. I felt like a clown. The borrowed jacket was too short in the arms which heightened the fact that I'd bought the shirt a size too big. I felt like I was wearing a balloon under the coat, and the sleeves of it looked like I'd misplaced the cuff links and sewn on some buttons. The slightly frayed pants cuffs sort of matched the fact that I'd never bought a tin of shoe polish in my life. I thought I'd done a bang-up job with the tie, but then mom insisted on retying the knot. Luckily I was too tongue-tied to have to bite my tongue. Ashley was wearing the mourning color, but it was a slinky black number cut well above the knees and strategically tight in all the right places. Spaghetti straps, for chrissakes! I'm sure the fishnets were pantyhose, but they sure looked like the type where, given the dress, you wouldn't have to try too hard to see the garters. She topped it off, or bottomed it off, with a pair of shoes you might choose to call maybe-come-fuck-me pumps. She really was attired for cocktails. Or rather, a quick spin out dancing to find a partner for cocktails.
"Golly, since we all look so nice, maybe we should cut out early and go out and have some fun. Hit the service but skip the cemetery."
"Mom! We're in mixed company."
"Honey, come on, I didn't mean that kind of fun."
"I mean, Mom, these guys got a job to do. If they ditch out, the coffin goes whumpity bump, whumpity bump."
"Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten." Poor mom. Here she was, all decked out and in the big city, just yearning for a bit of the bright lights.
"Okay then," she went on, "we stick around for the dust-to-dust stuff, but please can we forget about the stale donuts in the church basement?"
Dad sort of sat there in his usual way. Pretending he didn't know us.
Wondering who these sick strangers were sitting around his mother's livingroom profaning her memory. Well, no. He generally keeps quiet, keeping his batteries on recharge. The man knows humor, but he saves up his wit to cut people to the quick. But I could see what passes for a smile on his face.
"Sweetheart, I'm no fan of the Old Ladies' Auxiliary, but they are mother's friends."
"No they aren't. She outlived all her friends. The bunch of biddies forced her to be their mentor. She didn't care for them one bit. She told me so numerous times. They've crowned me Queen of the Biddy Brigade; time for me to kick the bucket." Dad roared with laughter.
"Okay, okay. We put in a brief appearance, then we're out of there. Just don't fill up on donuts. After the show I'm taking you to Martine's."
"Martine's!" Mom fairly squealed.
I recognized the name. Fine dining and exotic cocktails and dancing 'til dawn.
"Oh kids," she cautioned, "don't wait up for us!" I took that to mean us kids weren't invited.
"But what show? You can't get tickets at the last minute." Dad reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. Two tickets to the finest show in town. Prime seats too.
"Must have been a gift from the dry cleaners for so many years of faithful patronage," he smiled. That wily old bastard! As for the funeral itself, well, talking about them is the same as suffering through them. The quicker it's over with the better. Piped in music that makes you want to rip the speakers from the ceiling. A cadre of funeral home ghouls standing around in plastic hair and funny suits. The minister of Grandma's church not just stumbling over her name, but doing so while he read it off an index card. The eulogy the usual pastiche of irrelevant aphorisms mixed in with incorrect facts. Fortunately the man didn't strain himself with any great length. Lining up for the viewing.
The modern pallbearer, I discovered, is mostly an honorary position. You lift the coffin onto a dolly, then sort of shuttle alongside it. Riding to the cemetery in those big black cars that seemed to have been retrofitted with shock absorbers meant for a subcompact.
Dad got to ride in the front car with the other primary guests of honor. In our car Mom and Ashley went off about the mouth.
"They never can get the mouths right," Ashley intoned "They botched the job worse than great-aunt Clara's. And hers looked like a piece of r...