MAMA'S BOY
by
G. Alexander Virden
Copyright 1993 all rights reserved
I'd never been to a black funeral before. Whether that's important or not, I don't know. It’s just a point of origin. I’ve only been to two other funerals, unless you count the one we had for the cat, I watched get run over, when I was ten. Actually it was my cat and I cried for two days, as one does when one is ten. We buried him on the beach, behind our house on the York river, with a thick slab of driftwood for a headstone. After that my father never let me have anything big enough to cry over again.
The first adult funeral was for my father’s mother, who didn't much care for me, or anybody as far as I could tell. I felt nothing when I looked down at her pale, chubby, painted face. She looked the same. If she had sat up, and told me I was worthless, I wouldn't have even flinched. Frankly it always amazed me the woman was able to shut up, long enough, to be buried.
The other funeral was for a man who, when I was struggling to make a place in the world, found me a job and told me not to give up. All because he overheard me talking to his son about the problems I was having. Two weeks later, he walked out to the tin shed behind his house, drank a bottle of Jim Beam, put a shot gun barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I don’t know the whole story, but it had to do with Vietnam and things governments should never tell a man to do. Still, that close to the end, he had cared enough about life to help me.
The funeral was a short, somber, ceremony, with a spit and polish marine guard. They fired three volleys and came to attention. A young soldier, with no battle ribbons, played taps and I wept quiet and heavy tears.
"She was a strong woman." The minister's hand trembled as he raised it to punctuate his sentences. No verbal response came to his proclamation, but I could feel it in the nodding heads and rocking bodies, around me. I looked at Cassy. She gave me a wink and squeezed my hand.
A friend had asked me to this funeral. I didn’t know his mother, but I could tell from his voice, on the phone, I needed to be there. From what they said about her, she was one of those dinosaurs of the human race that still faced adversity with pride and defiance. Even the misunderstood, unstoppable, disease that claimed her. He, my friend, was the dinosaurs’ baby, who clung and stood by his mother and always had his mother standing by.
In a gold frame, on a table set below the altar, was an eight by ten, black and white photograph of the woman. She had a handsome face, long straightened hair, and an expression that could be read twelve rows back.
"She was a loving woman." A wail rose and cut through the amplified voice of the minister. It came through the 8th Street Baptist Church like a crushing wave sweeping through the isles and flowing over the tide worn pews. A few turned back to see where it had come from; I looked to the front row hoping to see my friend with the rest of the family. Hoping he wasn't making that sound.
Down the isle he came. That sound clawing at the spine until you’re ready to pull out your flask and take a high tilt slug, right there in the church. Two older women with determined backs and stiff faces walked on either side of him. Black, Wayfarer sunglasses, covered his eyes. His body seemed to struggle with itself beneath his sports coat, his shoulders shifting and jutting up at odd angles not meant to be. As if he were doing a slow beatnik dance during a coffee house jazz session.
Seated he continued to cry. "No, God, no.". The other women came to him, gripping his arms, while he stamped his feet and shook his head in denial. The minister sat and two older women came up: one sitting at the organ, one standing to sing.
"Just to see his face . . . " Her voice filled the air and calmed my spirit, but he continued to cry like and open wound. I had only heard that sound once before. It was on a snow-covered lava flow, in a desert, outside Idaho falls, Idaho. I spotted a jack, melted into the snow, except the black tips of his long ears. If he hadn't blinked, I wouldn't have seen him. He was too far for my old Marlin 12 gauge, the pattern would be the size of a house by the time it got to him. I fired anyway.
I've never heard a dying baby cry, but I know the sound. I should have shot him a second time when I got closer, but I wasn't thinking. That sound gabbed my sanity like a rubber ball and it ricocheted around inside my skull as if fired from a forty-four. I stumbled across lava rock, covered with four feet of snow, all the way up to that jack. Then broke the stock of my shotgun, beating him to death. I had to make it stop. I had to make him stop. For ten days I heard that screaming every time I closed my eyes. Now, without hesitation, I can pick up a wounded animal and snap its neck like I’m opening a bottle of ketchup.
The sound of his wail coming by, brought me back to the church. We got up and followed the group, of three, to the back and out onto the steps. We stood with him. Not knowing what to say, we said nothing. His husband came over and thanked us for coming. I nodded my head, mumbling some response, and Cassy hugged him.
A man, who seemed calmer than most, but wouldn't go in the church, came over and put his arm around my friend. They went for a walk in the parking lot and my friend stopped crying and listened to him. The moment he turned and faced the steps again he burst open with a raging torrent.
An older woman came and took him by the hand. She was lean and wore black, rhinestone studded, cat glasses. Her hair was straightened and curled under and it looked as if you could break pavement with her chin. She clamped down on his wrist and said.
"Hush your crying." Her voice was low and as firm as the grip on his wrist. "That's no way to be. Don't go wasting your pain. You've got to be strong, not selfish, pouring your troubles over those who've got troubles of their own." The change, in her, was imperceptible to the eye, when he refused to go into the church, but it was there, you could smell it.
"Don't you see there's other people hurting here? Can't you have the decency to let them feel their grief, without showering them with mine?" I wondered if she realized, what she had said, as I watched her haul him down the isle and sit him with his people.
When the service was over, I had to walk up the hill and smoke a cigarette before we went to dinner. Though the initial looks of curiosity had faded as the dismal occasion took its steps, I still felt uneasy being so obvious an interloper.
The first blunder came as soon as we arrived. I went straight to the stairs, unaware that no one had entered the church yet. The words, not spoken directly to me, cut me down like a linebacker.
"Isn't the family supposed to enter first?"
Feeling foolish and like an invader I took Cassy’s hand and led her a short distance from the church until invited by an usher. Everyone seemed to know what was going on except me and through the service, I never quite shook the feeling that I didn't belong.
After a dinner of cornbread and chicken we said goodbye and I told my friend we would pick him up at his house. We went to the first hole in the wall, we could find, and put a hundred down on the bar. We didn't talk. We drank and smoked cigarettes until I felt numb. Then we picked up my friend and took him to the family gathering.
The drinks were stiff and the mood as light as possible. All except the mother of the mother. A parent should never have to out live her child. Escaping her was impossible. No matter how much she appeared to be strong, I could feel her presence hanging in my chest and on my shoulders.
As I shared drinks, and broke bread, I began to feel a part of things. The man, who wouldn't go inside the church, walked past me at some point, my bearing had begun to fade. His eyes were red and hooded and he smiled at me.
"Feeling better now." Was all he said before he moved on. I nodded my head. I was too, because I was no longer an invader. I felt, at least for a moment, I belonged.
THE END
Ozarts Inside Ozarts Grand View Stories By the Baron