The Joy of Funerals, page 20
“The first thing to note is the typical Italian Angels and allegorical pieces that reign above or seem to protect a specific plot. The details are delicate and finely carved, but many are broken or are missing appendages,” Tom explains. “Footstones and headstones are chipped, beaten by Mother Nature. These monuments were once ornate and ostentatious. Elaboration was the rule. But in 1954 a tornado did horrible damage and many vandals have had their way with them.”
Tom is doing a splendid job. He practically glows with life, a living spirit walking amongst the dead. I catch him gazing at me, probably because I’m most attentive. I try to nod and flirt while he speaks, but I’m afraid of distracting him too much.
“We begin the first ramble at the confederate section, home to 600 men. Here you have very little space between plots. It looks as if the men were stacked on top of each other.”
The sun is beating down on us and my skin feels as if it’s burning. The college girls are drinking Evian water they brought with them from New York. Brian is taking notes and the Goths are still filming. The retired couple is arguing over camera shots and angles.
“Note the typical Southern granite and gray marble,” Tom says, hand extended. “Now, if you give your attention to this plot, you’ll notice it belongs to Lt. Bobby, a terrier. He was the men’s mascot and a cherished pup. His owner, Captain Harris, died on a Monday. The dog took sick and passed away exactly one week later, an hour to the minute that Harris died.”
Everyone seems interested, so Tom continues.
“This is the Woolfolk household where eight members of the family were axed to death in their beds in 1887. Mr. Flint D. Woolfolk’s son, Bill, was charged with the murders. The only one to survive, Bill was found wandering the streets of Macon, bloody and disoriented.”
Tom appears sexier as he leads us deeper into the land. His voice gets creepy and quiet during suspenseful parts.
“Here, a fireman’s hat, coat, and belt, all made of stone, are draped over the headstone of Kit Tobias, the four-year-old son of a fireman.”
The plot is maybe three feet long, outlined by stone planks to show that the resting place belongs to a child.
“The irony of this story is that he died in a fire in his home while his father was at work, unable to save him,” Tom adds.
By the third ramble, which overlooks the Ocmulgee River, the college posse seems bored and tired, the Tim Burton wannabes are running low on batteries, the older couple look like corpses, dehydrated and pale. Even their umbrellas can’t blot out the sun. Brian is taking notes and asking too many questions. I feel like telling him extra credit isn’t being given.
Two hours later, we collapse onto the trolley and head back to the inn, where fresh lemonade, cookies, and mini cakes are waiting for us. We look like wilted flowers in dire need of water.
After dinner, Tom and I stroll the neighborhood and I explain my fixation with cemeteries. I walk close to him, knocking my knuckles into his, hoping at some point he’ll reach for my hand. I wonder what my life would be like if I moved here, just inhabited the simple, slow way of living. I could be a rambler like Tom or I could show historic homes, talk in a Southern accent, and make perfect grits.
This week, I am Shelly, a dental hygienist who works on Park Avenue. My brother is a lawyer and my sister, who is married with two children, Janie and Eric, is a stay-at-home mom. On Sundays, we have brunch with my parents, an art dealer and a book doctor. In Georgia, I can be anyone I want.
Tom has a sweetness about him, an innocent, untainted, American feel. I see all these characteristics in his face as we stand on the stairs of the inn. A light above our heads is all that illuminates us and attracts every bug in the neighborhood. I try not to swat them away while we talk, afraid of ruining the romantic moment.
When he kisses me good night, I close my eyes. The sound of crickets magnifies as I try to hold on to the moment.
Tom doesn’t appear for breakfast, and I feel stood up. I’m sure he’ll surface at one of the historic homes we’re touring, but he remains a no-show. I keep eyeing the door as the woman—who’s dressed in nineteenth-century garb—makes her opening speech. Distracted, I catch every few words, so I know she’s talking about Sherman, the battle of something, and then I see her point to a small black object the size of a softball. “This is the original cannonball that grand old Sherman fired in the 1800s.”
The second house is from 1855 and looks like Tara. The theme to Gone With the Wind plays over and over in my head as I picture myself drinking mint juleps, dressed in a poofy, lacy outfit standing on the porch, a fan in my hand, searching for my Tom to come home—on horseback—and waltz into our eighteen-room estate and make passionate love to me on our wooden bed. I think about this as we exit the house, as we board the plane, as I stand in the baggage area, eager for the Goths and the college girls to reclaim their belongings—everyone one else did carry-ons.
A car is waiting for the college group when we exit the airport. The Goths decide to shuttle it to the subway; Myrna and Fred live on the Upper West Side and cab it home. Brian is taking Amtrak back to Binghamton but offers to drop me off.
We don’t have much to say during the ride home. We agree the trip was interesting and well organized, that we were lucky to have had such lovely weather, that we’re glad to have gone, but neither of us has the desire to return.
As we pull up to my awning, I brush his cheek with mine, a bold move on my part, and thank him for being a gentleman.
My doorman lifts an eyebrow when I enter.
“So, did you get any?” he asks, as the cab drives off.
“Yes. He’s got a tremendous penis, really amazing.”
Andrés hands me my mail. It’s a measly stack—a few catalogues, bills, New York and Vogue magazines. He doesn’t look me in the eyes. I’ve embarrassed him.
I call my mother in the morning to tell her I’ve arrived home safely, but when she answers, her voice sounds odd. It’s scratchy and softer than normal.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Your Aunt Delia died while you were away.”
“What?”
“Massive heart attack. She was sitting in a restaurant, waiting for Jerry. She was thirsty, asked for some water, and by the time the waiter got back to the table she was dead.”
“When did this happen?”
“The night you left.” Her voice is even toned.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“We wanted you to enjoy your trip. Anyway, the funeral is today, if you want to go. Your father is meeting me there from work.”
If I owned a cat, I’d be holding her.
“He wanted to go in for a few hours. Who am I to stop him? Maybe it’s the best place. It will keep his mind busy … ”
“If I hadn’t called would you have even told me about this?”
“Nina,” her voice is impatient, “don’t do this to me today. You know how I feel about your father’s family. I have nothing to wear, and I need to go to Greenberg’s and Eli’s and pick up the desserts.”
“Forget it.” My voice comes out harshly, surprising both of us, and I hear my mother suck in air at the other end of the phone. It sounds like a balloon losing helium. “Just give me the information and I’ll meet you there.”
I go to the office to take my father to the funeral parlor. Everyone expresses their sympathy, many say they’ll meet us at the chapel, then ask if we need any help. I accept their kind words while doing my best to appear upset.
In the cab my father stares out the window, one hand holding the black leather strap attached to the door, the other clutching the Times and the Journal. He hasn’t said much. He’s just thanked me profusely for picking him up.
At Campbell’s funeral home, I have no need for a scarf or hat, no use for glasses. Today, I get to be myself. I can’t believe no one recognizes me. I’m always shocked when not one employee asks why I’m here two or three times a month.
As we enter the viewing room, I expect to see my childhood. I think perhaps time has stopped and everyone will look young and healthy. I’m horrified instead. They’ve either gotten smaller and fatter, or have lost hair in some spots and gained more in others. The vain ones have stopped the aging process altogether. Their faces are tough and tight, their foreheads raised too high. Many are unable to frown or move their brows.
I search out my aunt’s children, David, Robert, and Vicki, but can only find their offspring—toddlers who have morphed into real people. They now range from five-year-old blond, Ralph Lauren-like models, to gawky, acne-faced teens. Some are new to me altogether.
It is in this spot where I want to start over. Reenter the room when I was eleven and we were all here for my grandfather’s service. I close my eyes and remember the memorial, hear the rabbi’s consoling voice in my head, recreate the soft gold chairs my mother’s friends sat in.
I catch David at the entrance, greeting people. I have to keep myself from running over and giving him a hug. It’s hard to be distant and affectionate at the same time.
By the fifth person I’ve kissed hello, I feel as though I’m at a party. Perhaps my aunt is in the bathroom somewhere or is running late, like my mother, and hasn’t arrived.
I try to tone down my enthusiasm but, I’m on a high, from the people, from the word family, and from how good and awful it feels to be here. No matter what happens, no matter how terrible and aloof they might be, they are still relatives. And in that fact, I’m comforted. It comes over me like a quiet hush.
Since my mother’s running late, my father and I sit in the viewing room. I tell my father who’s who, giving sound bites and short bios as my mother would, as if we were secret agents. “That’s Lenny,” I whisper to him as a tall man in a hat sits down next to us. “He’s married to Anita. He works for J.P Morgan.”
My father pats my leg. “You’re a good kid, Nina.”
I play with the bracelet on my wrist, think of Helen, wonder if Marty’s ashes ever turned up. My thoughts jump to his wife, Faye, and what Marty could have told her about me and our sessions. Then I wonder if I can call her and get Helen’s number, perhaps send them each a bracelet.
I haven’t seen Vicki, Robert, or my uncle yet, and I keep my eyes on the door until they enter.
My uncle is a broad, hefty guy with an unusual angry, teddy bear quality. Today, however, his eyes are bloodshot and he moves slowly. A shuffle. Vicki trails behind, talking loudly on her phone, dark glasses over her eyes, tissues in her hand. She’s dressed in a green suit that’s too tight and too short. She looks as if she’s falling out of it. I want to cry at how bad she looks and must quell my desire to take her by the hand and lead her into Ann Taylor, which is across the street, and buy her an outfit that fits. I want to greet her, tell her how sorry I am about her mother, but she’s too absorbed in her call to notice me.
My father and I stand when my uncle approaches, and I watch the men hug, patting each other on the back. Then my dad starts to weep. It’s a terrible sight. His whole body shakes. His face becomes ruddy and his jaw drops open, as if he’s having a stroke. Falsetto moans follow, like those of an injured animal caught in a trap.
We sit in the third row from the front. Orchestra seats, up close and personal. I stare at the red carpet that has white snowflakes embroidered on it, an odd choice for a temple.
Five minutes later, my mother saunters in. This is after nineteen people have asked me where she is, why she’s not here, and what in God’s name she could be doing. She dons her funeral pearls, and they bounce off her chest as she hurriedly walks over to us. As she bends down to kiss me hello, I smell fresh shampoo and realize she’s had her hair done. The pearls just miss hitting me in the eye.
My father doesn’t want to speak, though I encourage him to utter something, anything. A last good-bye, a missed moment, but he refuses.
My oldest cousin, David, tells of the wonderful relationship his parents had. A stay-at-home mom whose main concern was for her family. Delia was involved in the PTA, directed plays for the kids at school, and was always available. He adds that his father, who traveled constantly for business, would fly or drive home so he could sleep in his own bed and wake up next to his wife every night. “Best friends,” he concludes, shaking his head side to side.
This is a lie. I know for a fact she and my uncle were having problems and spoke endlessly about getting divorced. But David gloats and praises the relationship, the connection he had with his mother, the honor of being the firstborn.
He tag-teams with Robert, who is accompanied by his wife, Abby, and they stand together at the podium looking like a statue on a wedding cake. Both share stories about my aunt, about how gracious and accepting she was, making Abby feel like part of the family. Abby adds that her mother died when she was little and years later my aunt filled that role for her.
Vicki brings up the rear, talking openly about their turbulent relationship, about the heavy partying, the loose behavior, the unreasonable demands she felt her mother was making, and has only recently come to appreciate. At forty-one, she feels she was just starting to understand her mother and enjoy her company.
The grandchildren speak next. David’s three kids, then Robert’s two. They cling to each other as they walk to the stage, clutching letters written in their own handwriting. My little cousins take such care of each other. They hug as one finishes and the next delivers the speech, mirroring their parents’ actions. When one comes down from the podium, another gets up to meet the first halfway. Robin takes a hand to Jodi’s face, brings her close and soothes her for but a second. There is no differentiation between David’s children and Robert’s. The lines have smudged regarding who belongs to whom. Two sets of mothers, two fathers. They will always be taken care of, will always have people to call in emergencies.
I catch my mother crying and feel suddenly very much alone.
Afterward, we regroup, and I’m reintroduced to my little cousins, who don’t remember me. I am who? The cousin they never see. Their faces show faint recognition; they turn to their parents for confirmation, for added information.
“You remember Nina,” David says. “She taught you the spoon trick. For your sixth birthday she sent you an Eloise doll.” It’s a slow, foggy process. They want to remember me but can’t.
I’ve missed much.
The cemetery is cold and the walkway is littered with colorful leaves. It’s extremely breezy and the rabbi has to yell over the wind. He’s a good-looking man who is too stiff and uneasy with the position of power he holds.
“Delia wasn’t one for words, so we’ll keep this short and simple as she would have wanted,” the rabbi says. It feels as if we’re doing a Reader’s Digest version. Everyone seems uncomfortable, myself included.
Earlier, there was a big discussion about where my aunt wanted to be buried—in the mausoleum with my grandparents, or alone in the plot my uncle bought. After much debate we watch in silence as she’s lowered into the ground by the silver pulley system. Three Spanish groundskeepers oversee this process. They’re dressed in Hawaiian floral shirts, which remind me of the fallen leaves, and jeans. The contrast is an odd mix to our sea of blacks and blues.
The rabbi concludes by explaining the shoveling procedure. Our first mitzvah is coming here, to help escort the dead to their final resting place. The second is to drop dirt on the grave as a way of letting the soul leave peacefully.
Mounds of dirt, which sit on sheets of asphalt with three shovels standing upward, are on the left. The rabbi takes the first scoop and we line up in order of importance. No one delegates or directs; people seem to have an innate sense for cemetery etiquette. My uncle is at the head, followed by my cousins, their spouses and children, my father, me, my uncle’s brother, his friends, and more family from my uncle’s side.
Each of us takes a turn.
The sound of shovel to dirt, dirt onto coffin, back to mound of dirt, builds into an odd rhythm. Familiar, yet non-placeable. My hand grips the round handle. The heaviness of the shovel compounded with the dirt is empowering. The feeling magnifies with each scoop of soil I take. “Rest in peace,” I say under my breath as the clumps fall into the hole. “Who were you?” is what I ask when my second scoop drops on top of my first.
I watch the line move, notice the smattering of dirt that clings to the men’s pants as they walk away. Proof of their involvement. When the last person has gone, David and Robert resume the work, appearing like a mechanical assembly line. Vicki ventures forward and takes the remaining shovel and the three move in silence. Dirt. Drop. Dirt. Drop. She is masculine and muscular, half man, part woman, maneuvering in an unspoken competition with her siblings. Someone asks if she wants to stop but she refuses. She is intent on scooping up every last bit.
We go to my aunt’s home and I breathe in the Perlman/Wasserman smell. It’s been over a decade since my last visit. Like Campbell’s, the Wassermans haven’t redecorated in eons.
As I hang my coat up in the closet, my grandfather’s shiva flashes before my eyes. I remember being here and serving drinks and cold cuts, offering coffee to some of my mother’s friends, picking up dirty napkins and empty paper plates and bringing them in to my aunt’s kitchen.
Vicki is on her third drink by the time I hit the living room. My uncle is yelling at her to slow down on the vodka as he reaches for the bottle of Johnny Walker and pours himself a drink. I find David and Robert in the den watching TV, their children playing with Legos and cars on the rug next to them. The wives congregate in the kitchen. Friends and family are sprinkled throughout the first floor.
I want to say something and almost clear my throat to gain everyone’s attention. I have worked on this speech since I was twelve and have never found an appropriate time to use it. Now is wrong, too. I can’t spew about how hurt I am. I can’t tell them I have never been made to feel like a member of this family and won’t someone please explain what I did that was so awful for me to have been excluded all these years. Party after party that I was not invited to. Get-togethers and weddings and showers and bar mitzvahs and holidays and school plays … but there never is a right time to deliver my rehearsed words because I am never with my family when it’s not a funeral.
