“I don’t know why she’s not here. I
would think they were the first ones here,” I said.
“I don’t know either,” said my
brother Dave.
We finished smoking, pulled open
the heavy door and slipped back into the corridor. At the far end, Uncle
Buzzy’s family was gathered outside the parlor. I recognized many cousins, aunt
and uncles. They mingled solemnly in groups of threes and fours. While some
chatted respectfully soft others anxiously eyed the front door. Uncle Bob was
talking unusually fast, seemed lost and out of place. Uncle Dickey was silent,
his face, usually joyous and expressive was now empty, distant. Aunt Maddy
fidgeted with her fingers and dotted her eyes with tissues. It looked like
there was about thirty friends and relatives now. Dave went to my parents who,
standing nearby remained sad and quiet. I stood alone and watched.
I couldn’t believe he was really
dead. Everyone knew he was dying, expected him to soon but the reality of it,
death’s finality rocked the world. The doctors had speculated that he had a
month to live. He lived out the last few weeks with his wife, Carol and their
daughters Debbie and Joyce and sons Frankie and Mikey. The cancer had just
eaten through his body. His appearance had turned pale— his body became frail
like thin glass and he was a shell of who he once was. When he digested food,
his body puked it back up. His memory was mush now and he could barely mutter a
sentence. The only thing that kept him alive was a machine that supplied his
body water and sugar.
I wasn’t prepared to say it out
loud or think it— that he was actually gone. I had been immune to the sadness of the
inevitable because I had expected it. I knew he would be gone soon. I was
prepared for it. Somehow I hadn’t understood that death was goodbye forever and
the reality now slapped me in the face unawares. A few weeks ago I “felt bad”
but now I hurt deeply.
I leaned against the pale white
wall. I didn’t like this funeral home. A thin yellow carpet was worn down near
the front door. Through the glass door, sunlight filtered unnoticeably upon the
carpet like a puddle. The sconce lights along the corridor were dim and
depressingly stark. I felt trapped from any comfort. Across from Uncle Buzzy’s
parlor were two others, empty and still. The atmosphere was oppressive like a
storm cloud and hot.
I was dressed in a black suit
jacket, white shirt and freshly pressed slacks. I was uncomfortably warm and
felt like tearing it off and throwing on an old ripped hockey jersey. I glanced at
my watch and tapped on it. 8:55 am .
More relatives filed in. My dad meandered over to me and stood at my side,
motionless, hands in his slacks pockets.
“Is Aunt Carol here yet?” I asked.
“No… not yet. I’m a little worried.
The service starts in two minutes. It’s supposed to anyway,” he said.
My dad looked nice. He was freshly
shaved, wore a short haircut and sported a new suit and tie. Everything looked
good except that his boyish face had suddenly aged ten years. His eyes too were
no longer joyful and blue; now they were clouded, forlorn and streaked with red
lines. His usually steady gaze had given way to confusion.
Suddenly a big heavy bell tolled.
“Bong… Bong… Bong….”
A tear rolled down my dad’s cheek.
He moved away from me towards my mom. I remained at the wall, unsure where or
why the bell was tolling. Then the glass doors burst open and sunlight burst
upon the carpet making it look new.
“Bong… Bong… Bong….”
Aunt Carol wore a long black dress
covered by a thick grey coat. She cried heavily as she entered, held up steady
by Mikey and Frankie. Deb and Joyce trailed behind them in teary anguish.
“Bong… Bong.”
It was quiet again but for the
hushed sobbing. I had never seen Aunt Carol so helpless. She almost dragged
herself down the corridor, as if something within her body had been amputated,
discarded and lost. Each step seemed to suck out her energy and weaken her will
to live. Though her lips were tightly closed I imagined the nightmarish scream
echoing in her mind like torture.
“I can’t stand this,” she muttered.
She clenched her fists. “I can’t… stand… I hate….”
I felt like I had overheard her
private thoughts and I felt prying, guilty. I wished I hadn’t— especially that
word. The heart is a powerful communicator. It had to speak. The hate was
tangled around her veins and burned in her blood. It weakened her and turned
her spirit like a spit above a fire. She breathed it, unwanting to and choked
on it like smoke. I forced myself to watch the small struggling procession. Death
had robbed her, stolen her one true love and was now squeezing the pulp of her
own life, draining her; death followed her, I swear, I sensed it, as they came
upon Uncle Buzzy’s coffin.
Inside, his face was gaunt and
touched up with embalming make up. I watched death halt momentarily as it
settled over his face again. No make up could veil its presence. It had spoken
in its unmistakably silent voice. I hadn’t understood what it was saying but I
knew somehow that something had been said. I tried to hold back the tears but I
just couldn’t. As my eyes grew wet, I hid my face and wiped my cheek.
Suddenly, I pictured in my mind, my
dad and Uncle Buzzy playing horseshoes in our backyard. They wore shorts, tank
tops and joked like kids at recess; the smoky scent of hot dogs and burgers
filled the yard. Uncle Buzzy would aim at the opposite pole and concentrate on
the angle. His face was serious; when it came to horseshoes he meant business.
“Well Jim… I think you got me
beat,” he said.
“Not until the game’s over Buzz. I
don’t count the eggs,” said my dad.
He aims, shoots and it arches high in the air
coming down with a soft thud in the pit, a ringer.
“One more,” he said.
He aims, shoots and clang. He nails
another ringer for a narrow victory. He raises his fist and laughs. “Let’s see
that money, Jim. Come on, let’s see some green. Hey Mikey! Look at your father
now.”
“That was luck,” said Mikey.
“I can’t believe it. I had you
beat.”
Uncle Buzzy, family kingpin of
horseshoes.
“Mikey wants me Jim. Wants to beat
me bad. He lost ten bucks last weekend. Revenge, Jim. He wants me.”
They both crack up laughing, mostly
because Mikey really thinks he can beat his father. Truth is I can beat Mikey.
As they pick up their horseshoes, Aunt Carol calls to Uncle Buzzy and Mikey
that there food is ready.
“Come on now it’s time to eat. You
can play that silly game later.”
“Your lucky old man,” said Mikey.
“Son, I hope you brought a lot of
extra tissues,” said Uncle Buzzy.
My dad rolled with laughter.
“Yeah right,” said Mikey.
Uncle Buzzy stood there smiling
sarcastically at my dad. He is slightly plump from age but strong and tan. His
brown eyes gleam playfully. His brown hair is brushed to the side in an attempt
to hide a receding hairline. He shakes his head and chuckles. He has an air of
dignity and calmness.
“What can I do Jim? I’m just going
to have to teach that boy a lesson.”
There’s Uncle Buzz, all right—
alive and well in my thoughts.
This was another creative writing
paper. It was untitled other than in the heading where it said Assignment # 8. Originally
I wrote it in third person and it felt robotic so I just switched it to first
person and inserted the real names (names changed for the class paper). Not
sure if it was a point of view exercise or not. Also, not sure why I chose
Buzzy’s funeral to write about. I think I had written it soon after he died
(which the year escapes me at present) and had typed out the scene with my
typewriter. Most likely I found and reworked it for my writing class a couple
of years later. At the time, of all my dad’s brothers, my bond with Buzzy was
the strongest of them all. The families often got together for summer pool
parties at my parents, cook outs and Carol’s amazing stuffed shells at their
home in Waltham Silver
Lake , New Hampshire
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