Gray Mountain: A Novel(116)

No, we cannot wait for you until September 1. We open our doors in six weeks and things are already a bit chaotic. Word is out and we’re getting flooded. Eight associates have signed on and there are around ten offers pending, including yours. The phone rings non-stop with young lawyers desperate for work—though few, of course, are as talented as you.

The offer: $150k a year and all the usual goodies. Three weeks paid vacation which I’ll insist you take. The structure of the firm will be a work in progress, but I assure you it will hold more promise than any of the Big Law outfits.

We can wait until May 1 for your grand arrival, but I still need an answer by the end of this month. Love, Andy





Mattie predicted a full house, and she was right. During the drive to Madison, she tried to explain why rural funerals, especially those of dedicated churchgoers, draw such big crowds. In no particular order of importance, her reasons were (1) funerals are important religious services, as the living say good-bye to the departed, who by then are already in heaven reaping rewards; (2) there is an old and unshakable tradition that proper and well-raised people pay their respects to the family; (3) country folks are usually bored and looking for something to do; (4) everyone wants a crowd at his or her funeral, so you’d better play the game while you can; (5) there is always plenty of food. And so on. Mattie explained that a shocking death like Buddy’s was guaranteed to draw a crowd. People want to play a role in the tragedy. They also want the gossip. She also attempted to explain the conflicting theologies behind suicide. Many Christians consider it an unpardonable sin. Others believe no sin is unpardonable. It would be interesting to see how the preacher handled the issue. When they buried her sister Rose, Jeff’s mother, her suicide was never mentioned. And why should it have been? There was enough anguish without it. Everybody knew she’d killed herself.

They arrived at the Cedar Grove Missionary Baptist Church half an hour early and barely got in the door. An usher made room for them on the third pew from the rear. Within minutes all seats were taken and people began lining the walls. Through a window, Samantha could see the latecomers being directed to the fellowship hall, the same place she’d met with Buddy and Mavis after Donovan’s death. When the organ started, the crowd grew still and expectant. At ten after four, the choir filed in behind the pulpit, and the preacher took his position. There was a commotion at the door. He raised his hands and said, “All rise.”

The pallbearers rolled the casket down the aisle, slowly, so everyone could have a look. Thankfully, it was closed. Mattie said it would be, on account of the wound and all. Behind it, Mavis was supported by her son, the oldest, and they moved along in an anguished shuffle. They were followed by the two girls, Hope, age fourteen, and Keely, age thirteen. Through the mysteries of adolescence, Hope, who was only ten months older, was at least a foot taller than Keely. Both were sobbing as they suffered through this painful ritual.

Mattie had tried to explain that much of what they were about to see was designed to maximize the drama and grief. It would be Buddy’s last hurrah, and they would milk it for all the emotion possible.

The rest of the family ambled by in loose formation—brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles. The first two rows on both sides of the aisle were reserved for family, and by the time they took their seats the organ was blaring at full volume, the choir was humming loudly, and folks were breaking down all over the church.

The service was a one-hour marathon, and when it was over no tears were left un-shed. All emotions were expended. The mourners had given their all. Samantha was dry-eyed but drained nonetheless. She could not recall the last time she wanted so badly to run from a building. She walked, however, with the rest of the crowd to the cemetery behind the church where Buddy was laid to rest amidst lengthy prayers and a tear-jerking rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” The solo baritone was a cappella, and profoundly moving. Samantha was stunned by it and finally had to wipe a tear.

In keeping with tradition, the family remained in their chairs next to the grave as everyone proceeded by for a comforting word or two. The line wrapped around the burial tent and moved slowly. Mattie said it was best if they did not sneak away. So they inched forward, in single file with hundreds of complete strangers, waiting to squeeze the hands of Mavis and the kids, who had been sobbing now for hours.

“What am I supposed to say?” Samantha whispered to Mattie as they approached the grave.

“Just say, ‘God bless you,’ or something like that, and keep moving.” Samantha said this to the kids first, but when Mavis looked up and saw her she wailed anew and lunged for her in bear-hug fashion.

“This is our lawyer, kids, Miss Samantha, the one I told you about,” Mavis said with far too much volume. But the kids were too numb to care. They wanted to leave more than Samantha. Mavis said, “Please stay and have some supper. We’ll catch up later.”

“Sure,” Samantha said because there was nothing else to say. As she was released from the hug and scooted away from the tent, Mavis let loose with another shriek.

Supper was a “Baptist potluck,” as Mattie called it, in the fellowship hall. Long tables were covered with casseroles and desserts, and the crowd seemed to grow even bigger as two buffet lines started. Samantha had no appetite and couldn’t believe she was still there. She watched the horde attack the food and observed, to herself, that most could afford to skip a meal or two. Mattie brought her iced tea in a plastic cup, and they schemed ways to make a respectful departure. But Mavis had seen them, and they had promised to stay.