CHAPTER 17
Birds made love calls to one another and squirrels stretched in the spring sun. The day was warm and pleasant, a good day to be alive, exactly the kind of day Grandma would have said, “God sure has given us a blessing this morning.” The last place I wanted to go was to see her in a death box.
I stopped inside the door of the viewing room. Grandma was laid out in her casket. She looked natural in the blue dress, like she ought to be able to get up and walk. I wanted this to be some bad dream, but it wasn’t. The reality that I’d never see her smile or feel her hugs or walk into the kitchen to find her busy at the stove again, hit me hard.
Mrs. Wilson took me by the arm and we walked closer to the coffin. “She looks mighty good, Junebug.”
Up close her skin looked waxy, nothing natural about her, like one of the fake women in Miss Adam’s Dress Shoppe. “Wish they’d fixed her hair in a bun.”
Folks began arriving at the funeral home around six, and I took my position beside the casket. Mrs. Wilson stood close in case I needed her. Everybody stopped to shake hands and say something nice. The room was soon full, and the noise of conversation made it feel more like a reunion than a wake. Grandma always enjoyed a good gathering of friends.
After an hour, it became harder to hold the smiles. Mr. Jackson offered to take a break with me. We went around the building and I lit a smoke. He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out his flask, and offered me a drink. The whiskey bit hard going down my throat, but the alcohol settled me. Back inside, Mrs. Wilson suggested it would be proper to mingle with the visitors. I made a point to thank every one of them again.
The wide tile-floored hall outside the viewing room was empty by eight thirty, and I was alone with Grandma. When I bent down close, the inside of the casket had an odd, unpleasant perfume smell. I nervously touched her hair and straightened the collar of her blue dress. I whispered, “You’ll always be in my heart, Grandma, even if my mind gets to the place I can’t see you. I hope that was Granddaddy in the room and you’re with him now. When it’s my time, I hope you’ll come.” I turned to leave, then stopped and went back. I reached into the casket, took Grandma’s gold-rimmed glasses off and put them in my pocket.
That night I felt like an old shirt somebody forgot, left behind flapping on a clothesline at a deserted house. I found myself at the edge of the field again. I disappeared into the darkness, looking for something, but didn’t know what.
On Saturday, I stood in the yard and gazed at a bright blue sky dotted with cotton balls, and thought about a particular Sunday when I was a kid. The preacher had talked loud and long on how Jesus would soon return. All the way home I watched out the truck window, hoping to spot Him riding down on a cloud.
When Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and I got to the church, the single bell in the steeple was ringing. At the door, Mrs. Wilson put her arm around my shoulder. “You ready?”
I tugged on the suit coat. “No, but reckon I’m willing.”
There wasn’t an empty pew inside; the casket was open in front of the pulpit and a few people stood over it and talked quietly to each other. I wondered what would happen if Grandma’s hand suddenly jerked up. Fancy said she’d heard of such things. The deacons closed the lid and placed the flower cover over it. Like every funeral I’d been to, the choir led off with “Amazing Grace” to get as many folks crying as possible. The preacher quoted a lot from the Good Book, said he’d talked to Grandma often about her favorite passages. I thought about the long Sunday afternoons she spent reading her Bible in front of the living room window.
Under the tent-covered gravesite, I chewed on the inside of my lip until blood ran. I hated the idea of being left to rot underground like a bushel of potatoes. I refused to shed tears in public. I had no more family and nobody to share them with.
When it was over, folks stopped to speak as they headed to their cars and trucks. I saw Roy, Clemmy, and Fancy standing at the back of the crowd and went to them. I hugged Clemmy and Fancy. “Grandma would surely appreciate y’all coming.”
“Your grandma was a fine person,” Clemmy said, “and we thought a lot of her.”
“Sure is going to be hard.” I looked at Roy. He reached out his hand, and when we shook I could feel the kindness and sympathy. “Anything you need, you ask.”
A strong breeze blew across the graveyard, unleashing a flurry of whirligigs from maple trees that surrounded the cemetery. It looked like a brown snowstorm. “’Bye, Grandma,” I whispered.
When Mr. Wilson pulled up in the front yard, I said, “I’m really grateful for all the help.”
Mrs. Wilson smiled. “You’re very welcome, Junebug. We’re going to be right here if you need anything.”
That night, I got out a piece of paper and started making a list. There was so much to remember, like being sure I knew how to pay the bill for the electric, and a dozen other things I’d never had to do. How would I ever get along by myself?