Whisper Me This(68)

As a child, this phrase confused me hopelessly, especially since at least one of the deceased died at the wheel of his pickup truck. When Mom, busy discussing arrangements with the other church ladies, brushed off my questions, my imagination did its usual thing. I still carry in my mind today a picture of Mr. Peterson praying while driving, eyes closed out of respect to God, and accidentally drifting off to sleep. This is a state of consciousness with which I was well versed, something that happened fairly frequently to me during long church prayers.

So I had a clear image of Mr. Peterson falling asleep in Jesus, but my imagination failed at the magnitude of this event called a funeral. I wanted to go, that one time, having some sort of idea that maybe Jesus would be at the funeral and I could actually see him. Mom nixed that idea.

“Funerals are not for children,” she said. It was her case-closed tone of voice, the one I never even tried to argue with. So I stayed home with a sitter while my parents went to say good-bye to Mr. Peterson. When Aunt Del died, my parents flew to Orlando and left me with a friend. At the time of my classmate’s funeral, an event I would surely have attended, we were out of town on a family vacation.

So I’ve seen funerals on TV, read books, but it’s my first time in attendance, and certainly my first time as a direct relative of the deceased. I don’t know how to behave, and a dull anxiety mixes with my grief and fatigue.

My brain refuses to function, and by the time I get Dad put together and Elle rounded up, we arrive at the church a full ten minutes past the time appointed by Edna Carlton.

She is waiting for us in the parking lot, flanked by Nancy and Alison, who has discarded her ball cap and blue jeans in favor of a shapeless black dress. Nancy, on the other hand, is decked out in funeral fashion attire: a slim, perfectly fitted pencil skirt and black jacket over an ivory silk blouse. Her silver hair shines in the sunlight. Mrs. Carlton, between them, wears a timeless black dress and a hat with a net veil that has been in existence longer than I have.

I turn off the engine and remove the keys, but not one of us makes a move to get out of the car.

“When shall we three meet again?” Elle whispers.

A burst of laughter pushes past my barricaded lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand, partly to hide my lapse from the welcoming trio, partly out of guilt. I’ve always thought grief would be one uniform texture of sadness, but mine is so many layers of guilt and anger and now laughter.

I’ve just gotten myself under control and am formulating an admonishment for my daughter when Dad starts to sing, in his tone-deaf way: There were three ravens sat on a tree, Downe a downe, hay downe, hay downe . . .

“Dad!”

We are definitely the crazy car. If the three black crows out on the sidewalk had the powers of Macbeth’s witches, all three of us would turn into toads on the spot.

“I’m just a crazy old man,” Dad says, with an exaggerated shrug. “Who can blame me?”

Then, just as suddenly as he started to sing, his face falls. “I don’t want to get out of the car. I suppose we have to go through with this?”

I reach for his hand. It has gotten so bony over the years, the knuckles red and swollen, the skin fragile and transparent. Elle leans forward from the back and puts her strong, young hand on top. “All for one, one for all,” she says. “And all of us for Grandma.”

We sit there, the three of us, linked by the bond of our hands and our grief.

Mrs. Carlton, tired of waiting or else convinced that we’re too inept to open the doors, takes matters into her own hands. She breaks ranks with her sisters and yanks open the passenger door. “You are late,” she scolds. “If we don’t hurry, you’ll miss the viewing.”

“I’ve already seen her,” Dad says. “She was dead before they took her from the house.”

The scandalized expression on Mrs. Carlton’s face goads my rebellious black heart into action. I get out of the car. Elle follows.

“I’ve already seen her as well. And Elle will pass.”

In my heels, I’m a whole head taller than Mrs. Carlton, and I use my height to stare her down.

“Fine. But you’re still late. Follow me.”

She stumps off into the church. Alison glances my way, takes a step after Edna, then turns back and hugs all three of us in turn. Her body is warm, but the cheek she presses against mine is cool and damp with tears. “We’re all so broken up. Edna means well. Are you ready?”

My throat swells in response to her kindness. “Ready as I’m going to be,” I say, as she steps back.

“This way.” Nancy leads us in a sad little procession, Elle, Dad, then me, with Alison guarding the rear. We walk through a side door into a hallway that smells of old carpet and air freshener and holiness. Thin strains of an inexpertly played organ seep through the walls and the ceiling and up through the floor.

Elle jams a wrench into the works and brings the whole program to a halt when she stops and turns to face me. “What if I want to see Grandma?”

I stare at her, heart in my throat. “You don’t want to remember her this way, Elle Belle. Truly.”

She stares back. Chin lifted, feet planted, centered like a discus thrower. “I’m not scared of feeling things. I want to see her.”

I open my mouth to tell her no, absolutely not, under no condition, and then stop. Isn’t that what I’ve always hated myself? Other people protecting me from what they think I shouldn’t see or know? Things like having a sister, for example.