All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(45)

We headed back to the funeral home and met up with Dad’s sisters and brothers, who had come from Minnesota. There were smiles and hugs, but they soon vanished. One of the men in black suits summoned us upstairs to see the body for the last time before he was to be cremated. His siblings Joe, Jim, Missy, Lisa, and John walked a couple of steps behind Jill, Meagan, Madeline, and me. I turned around and could see my dad in each of them, the same twinkling eyes. They’d lost one of their own, someone they’d known far longer than any of us had known him. We took the elevator a few floors up and were greeted by more men in black suits murmuring, “So sorry for your loss.” I saw a funeral employee with a mustache and thought to myself, That looks terrible. I wish I could rip it off. I’m angry at everyone, anyone.

We walked into a softly lit room with wooden paneling. I watched my dad’s family closely. They had seen loss before; they’d buried their parents and their sister in the past fifteen years, and now their baby brother was gone. With grace, they knelt down beside him and kissed him and said a prayer. They knew the order of these things. After a couple of minutes, they left the room, giving us privacy. Madeline was the first to talk.

“But that doesn’t look like Dad.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s just so weird. It doesn’t seem real.”

“I can’t,” Meagan croaked.

Madeline walked over to the head of the coffin.

“Come over here. It actually looks like him from up here.” I was skeptical that any angle in this room would make him look more like our dad, but I followed my youngest sibling. As always, she was right. I started to laugh out of nervousness, and they joined in, despite how inappropriate it felt. The laughter led to tears and we three sunk down next to the coffin. I clutched my knobby knees to my chest. I don’t remember where Jill was at the time; perhaps she knew that Dad wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this. She knew his wishes better than anyone.

We three girls sat beside the coffin knowing full well this would be the last time we would be in the same room as his body. We wanted to be close to him but not see him in that state. The men in black suits averted their eyes, but I knew it couldn’t last forever. The service was about to start. The three of us took one another’s hands as we got up and one by one kissed him for the last time. We took the elevator downstairs as the rest of his tribe began arriving.

Jill had lined shelves and end tables of the well-lit funeral home with Diet Cokes, pictures, and, oh yes, old-fashioned reporter’s notebooks. You know the ones with the tan covers and the spirals on top? Version number 651. My dad bought them in bulk from the manufacturer, some genius in Virginia. I asked Jill if I could keep one and she told me she had saved some for us at the house. These were for others. I stared at her. Her perky blond hair had been coiffed, but her eyes were dark and steady. Lines creased her face. They seemed fresh to me.

After what felt like an eternity, it was time for the show to begin. A kind and gentle priest made his way up to the wooden podium, which was lit by a small brass lamp.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. My brothers and sisters, we believe that all the ties of friendship and affection, which knit us as one throughout our lives, do not unravel at death. God always remembers the good we have done and forgives all of our sins.”

I leveled my eyes at the priest for bringing up the notion of sins so early on. I figured it would be a common theme. A baby gurgled behind me, which was comforting, and I tried not to zone out while the priest talked loudly about resurrection. There will be no miracles here tonight, I thought. The priest reminded us to be wrapped up by nine.

We had selected a few people to speak. Uncle Joe was the first to step up. His Minnesota accent was as loud as they come and unapologetic. He thanked the assembled crowd for being there and started out by saying, “It’s tradition in our family—ya know, being so Irish—that we tend to celebrate as we mourn. An integral part of that is to invite people to tell their stories.” He then launched into his own story with the simple line, “Do you believe in resurrection? I do.”

I heard a couple of people shifting in chairs, but the room was silent otherwise. Even the baby understood that it was time to be quiet.

“As Father indicated, he was not a perfect Christian. Back then he was not a perfect anything.” The crowd laughed, grateful for a moment of lightness. “Only exception to that was that he loved fiercely. Even in the throes of his crack addiction, he still loved us. But he made it hard to love him.” The room was once again silent, the word “crack” reverberating. It was most likely not a word that was thrown around a lot at the posh Frank E. Campbell funeral home. My uncle, like his brother, pulled no punches.

After a couple of minutes, Joe stepped down and a familiar face walked quietly up to the podium. My stomach tightened as I saw Dean Baquet, executive editor of The New York Times and the man who’d informed me of my dad’s death. I knew my dad would be thrilled that he was there, but I felt deep sadness. Ever so meta, Dean started off by describing the email he thought my dad would have written him about his own obituary. He mentioned that it might be tart, and he would have liked it on the front page. Dean and the editors knew this and had factored in his wishes accordingly.

At this moment the overhead light was accidentally turned off. Dean continued to speak in darkness. He cracked a joke about my dad perhaps smiling at the fact that the announcement of his death on the site received two million page views. He spoke of the Twitter chorus that chanted at me after his death and recalled his favorites: one from Stephanie Mencimera, a Mother Jones writer who called him “a bundle of genius wrapped up in the unlikeliest of packages,” and Politico columnist Jack Shafer, who called him “a master interrogator [who] used his guise the way an angler fish uses the wriggling growth on its head to attract and then devour other fish.”