by Billy Coffey
There comes a time in life, as in Christmas, when we must grow up and decide which is more important, the presents or the Presence. I think I’ve reached that time. So it is with full clarity of mind that I ask for no gifts this year. I don’t need things that can be purchased. They won’t make me a better man. Instead, I ask only for the continuance of what God has given me every day.
I ask for friendship in those days of drear (of which I’m sure there will be many) as well as in those days of cheer (of which I’m sure there will be many more).
I ask for strength to see the world in all its cruelty and injustice and still believe that in the end good will triumph over evil, right will overcome wrong, and peace will reign forevermore.
I ask for the understanding that no matter how horribly I may act, there is not a day that begins without my solemn vow to make it a better one than the day before.
And lastly, I ask for the magic to believe that the spirit of Christmas can be found throughout the year, that the giving and sharing of our blessings and our lives draw us not only nearer to one another but nearer to God, and that miracles and angels abound every day.
Meddy Christmas.
15
The Muck and the Mire
Elizabeth was twirling the scissors around her thumb again, but that was only half of what she was doing. I was still trying to figure out the other half. I settled on pondering but then dismissed it for another, clearer word. I had the feeling Elizabeth didn’t really need to ponder, that she knew enough about the world—both the inner and the outer—to not have to pause and turn things over in her mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what to say when she offered me those long pauses, it was more like she was sorting the words she wanted to tell me. Elizabeth guided the story rather than simply letting me tell it. I’d often heard that counselors had such tricks at their disposal. With all their training and expertise, it didn’t take them long to size up their patients. Telling their patients what exactly was wrong and how to fix it wouldn’t really solve anything; in the end, it was the patients themselves who had to discover that. The counselor’s job was more Sherpa than doctor. Elizabeth was my guide, not my director.
“I know why they put pickles in their trees,” she finally said.
“No way,” I snorted.
“Andy Sommerville, do you honestly think all I know is how to shrink heads?” The feigned affront was playful and mocking, and in that she reminded me of the Old Man and how much I missed him despite what he’d done.
“Prove it,” I said.
“It’s more for the kids, really. Parents put pickles in their Christmas trees for their children to find. It’s sort of a contest. The first child to find the pickle gets an extra gift.”
“Sounds a tad consumerist,” I said. “I thought Americans were supposed to be the only ones who could be pegged as materialists.”
“You’re missing the point,” she said. “It isn’t consumerist at all. You wanted to know why it had to be a pickle. That’s easy—because pickles are green. They blend in with the trees, so you really have to look hard to find them. You couldn’t even find yours. That’s the point.”
“The point is to not find the pickle?”
“No, the point is to look so hard for it that you start to see something else. Like what happened to you when you were looking for Rudolph’s. It isn’t about the pickle, Andy, it’s about the tree. The children learn to see beyond the decorations and the lights to the real beauty.”
“So the real beauty…,” I started. Elizabeth lowered her head into half a nod and urged me to put the rest of the pieces together. “…isn’t the lights and the tinsel, the stuff put there by them…” Her head was lower now, as if to say almost there. “…but the tree itself, which was put there by God.”
Nod completed. “Exactly,” she said.
“Huh. That actually makes sense.”
“It’s the same with life, too. Sometimes there seems to be no reason for happiness. Times like now, with you. You need to remember that God always wants you to see the good in life, the real, because it’s there. No matter how ugly things seem, there’s always beauty underneath. You just have to look for the pickle.”
My insides churned in a battle between believing those words or my own experience. It was always easy to tell someone else to look on the bright side of things. To say there was always a silver lining. But when you’re in the muck and the mire yourself, those words grew sharp enough to cut.
“The Old Man never told you what the pickle meant?” she asked.
“No, he never did. Maybe he knew you’d be here to explain it to me.” The first part of that sentence saddened me, the last made me smile.
“Did Santa answer your letter?”
“Some of it, yes. The friendship and the sharing, not so much. Still had the Old Man, though, at least until now. I’m not alone, you see. I talk to people every day. But just because I do doesn’t mean I’m not lonely. I think the loneliest people in the world are the ones constantly surrounded by others. Proximity has no bearing on isolation.” I thought for a bit and then added, “Someone told me that once. He said, ‘Andy, everyone in this town knows who you are, but most of them don’t know what you are.’ And you know what? He was right.”
“Who said that?” she asked.
“Danny.”
“Another customer?”
I nodded. “Was, anyway. He passed on a few years ago.”
Elizabeth said “I’m sorry” in a way I knew she meant it.
“It was a long good-bye,” I said. “Cancer took him. Some folks it takes all at once, others little by little. Danny went little by little. It was hard on him, but harder on his wife. If it weren’t for David Walker, I don’t think she would’ve made it through.”
“And who is David Walker?”
“One of the farmers around Mattingly. And maybe the wisest man in town. Least he was on that night.” I reached into the box for the stack of Dairy Queen napkins that had been thus far minding its own business in the lower right-hand corner. I held them up to her. “He’s the one who gave me these.”
16
Paper Napkins
The funeral home was typical—stately and bricked on the outside, muted tans and ivories on the inside, and flowers everywhere to remind all who entered that life continues on. The smaller rooms that ringed the main parlor were decorated with Victorian furniture and arranged for as much comfort and seriousness as possible. Most of these rooms were empty save for the few mourners who had broken off from the pack to either gather themselves or make sure their skirts and ties were straight. Smartly dressed parents made small talk with quiet whispers and faint smiles while trying to keep their children under control.
Most of the town was in attendance that night, some of whom I hadn’t seen in a while. It is both tragic and reassuring that death seems to fold its wings around friends and draw them together in one place. Tragic because it sometimes takes such a thing to reunite people. Reassuring because we realize that though time and circumstance could separate us, we would always be there when it mattered.
In the large gathering room was the evidence of one man’s mark upon the world. His children and grandchildren formed a parallel line to the casket in front of them. Each of them, even nine-year-old Jackson, offered the same stoic resignation as the clay shell of the man lying in repose behind them had offered in each of his seventy-seven years. The Layman family was holding their own in true Southern fashion. On the outside, anyway. They felt they had to be strong for the friends, acquaintances, and kin who had assembled to say good-bye for now.
His name was Daniel Alexander Layman—Danny to his friends, and I was proud to be one of them. Never could you have found a better, more decent man. You always hear that the world is going to hell and things are a lot worse than they’ve ever been before. I doubted that because I knew Danny. It was people like him who kept the darkness from snuffing out the light. When he died, Earth got a little dimmer and he
aven grew a little brighter.
I picked my way through the crowd, pausing to say, “Good, and you?” to those who asked how I was doing and “He did, didn’t he?” to those who remarked on what a good life Danny had lived. Then I made my way through the line of relatives and offered my condolences.
Helen was not among them. Was not even by the casket framed by roses, tulips, and sunflowers, Danny’s favorite. I spied Jenny McCray, the manager of the funeral home, standing guard near the big archway that separated the gathering room from everything else. I said hello and then asked her where Danny’s wife was.
“In the next room,” she told me. “She’s holding up. She’s the first to say Danny’s in a place where the cancer isn’t. But I think that faith’s a weak one.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Oh Andy,” she said, “you know me.”
I did. Forty-four was a young age to be running a business that dealt in death, and being forty-four and a woman in such a profession was almost unheard of. Jenny turned all that on its ear. She had the business sense—savvy, if such a word would be appropriate—of your average middle-aged male funeral home owner, but with the softness of a lady’s touch. Say what you want about the equality of the sexes, there were just some things women did better than men. Jenny was proof of that.
“A person can learn a lot about life by working with the dead,” she whispered. “Helen’s deepest fears have just been realized. It’s hard for some people to allow their hearts to intertwine with another’s. There’s so much to gain, but there’s so much to lose, too. Helen gave all of herself to one man, and that man’s gone now. Know what I mean?”
I could have said more. A lot more. I could have told Jenny right then and there that if anyone had written the book on deepest fears and the unequal balance of gaining and losing, it was me. But instead I just whispered back, “Yes.”
Jenny was called away and we said our good-byes. I stood just outside the room and took a few moments to figure out what I would say once it was my turn to say my sorrys to Helen. I understood the fact that no one grieving ever really hears what’s said to them at the time. Still, I thought Danny would want me to say something to her. Something to help. I owed him that.
The day we buried my grandpa, my grandmother sat me down in the front pew of the church before everyone arrived. That was a tough day for me. It had been years since they’d taken me in—raised me, really. But it still felt like death hovered around me. First my parents, now him. I think she knew I was feeling that way.
She took my hand and held it in hers, then she said, “Andy, the world’s like a cocoon and we are the tiny caterpillar inside it. The caterpillar isn’t meant to stay in there forever. God has better things in mind. So He lets the caterpillar grow inside that cocoon to the point where it just gets too big. It breaks free and finds it was a butterfly all along. So don’t be sad for the cocoon—be happy for the butterfly.”
That, I decided, was what I would tell Helen. That was why I was there. Danny was in that other world now, that better place where the cancer wasn’t, and he’d been ready to go for a while.
Helen sat as stately as I had ever seen her, on the edge of a plush red couch that stood in contrast with her black mourning dress. Her posture was ramrod, her gray hair in a perfect beehive. Aside from dabbing her eyes when they filled with liquid good-byes she was motionless, staring at some unknown spot in the carpet a few feet in front of her.
Two men were with her. The Old Man stood behind Helen with his hand on her right shoulder, gently patting it as she tried to swallow her sobs. I watched as his fingers melted into her and then reappeared again. Helen could feel nothing, but still that shoulder seemed a bit higher than the other. I wondered if some part of her could feel his comfort even if she didn’t realize it. Was that the way it worked for everyone else? Were our senses dull to the presence of the holy Others around us, but our spirits not?
The Old Man looked to me and held up his other hand, not as a wave but to tell me to wait a bit. A younger man sat to her left. His black suit and tie matched Helen’s dress. Very dignified. He clutched a worn leather Bible and spoke softly to the silent widow.
Pastor Charlie.
Danny and Helen had spoken much of their pastor, who had taken over the Presbyterian church in town after Nolan Kalling had retired a year earlier. Their congregation had grown since then, and for good reason. I’d heard Pastor Charlie speak at a revival once, and he was a sight to behold. Doctor of Divinity from Dallas Theological Seminary, plus master’s degrees in counseling and philosophy from the University of Virginia. He was without a doubt the smartest person who called Mattingly home.
Pastor Charlie was earning his reputation that night. I took the Old Man’s advice and stood close enough to hear but far enough away not to be seen. Pastor Charlie tried to comfort her by sharing bits of scripture and counsel. Helen would nod an inch or so at his words and keep staring at that spot in the carpet, which marked the boundary of all she could comprehend.
The Old Man remained as he always had, an active observer to the passive reality around himself. He would lean over into Pastor Charlie’s face as he offered his wisdom and then watch the words as they entered Helen’s right ear, as if he were gauging how far they penetrated. He looked at me and offered a sad shake of his head. After a few more minutes of trying-but-not-quite-doing, Charlie excused himself to get some water. He whispered a last little bit of comfort into Helen’s ear as he walked away.
Pastor Charlie wasn’t the only one not quite connecting with Helen. A steady stream of visitors came by to speak with her, each with their own words of wisdom and sympathy. And Helen would nod and smile and stare with them, too. She looked like she was being forced to endure something even worse than the death of her husband.
The Old Man patted Helen on the shoulder one last time and walked over to me.
“How’s it going over there?” I whispered.
“Not too good. Pastor Charlie’s doing the best he can, but the words can’t cut through the pain. You wanna have a go at it?”
I pulled at my tie and tried to breathe. “Thought I did,” I said. “Don’t think so now. If he can’t say anything to make her feel at least a little better, no way I can.”
“I don’t follow you,” he said.
“That guy’s got more college in him than I have schoolin’ altogether,” I answered. “He’s a preacher, for crying out loud. I can’t compete with that.”
“Guess you’re right,” the Old Man said.
I looked at him.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m not here to make you feel better. I’m just saying you’re right. He’s different is all.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Or maybe I am.”
“Tell you what. I’m gonna walk back over there and keep Helen company. You hang here for a little bit. We’ll see how it goes.”
I shrugged and said “Okay,” but by then my mind had been made up. Helen would have to learn about the butterflies on her own.
The Old Man walked back across the room—through people rather than around—and resumed his post at Helen’s back. Resigned to the situation, I sucked in the first part of a long sigh. And almost choked.
Something smelled.
Bad.
I turned toward the direction of the funk and found David Walker by the door. From the scent seeping from his clothes, he must have come straight from his fields.
He saw me and raised his chin in the universal sign of hello, then made his way over. “Hey Bo,” he said to me.
David knew my name was not Bo, but we both knew David couldn’t remember yesterday, much less anyone’s name. So in the interest of politeness and to save time, David called everyone Bo. And everyone obliged because we all liked David very much, even if the porch light in his head was usually off.
“Hey David,” I said.
He offered a hand that was stuffed full of napkins from the Dairy Queen down the road. We both stared at it, perp
lexed, until David realized he had extended the wrong arm. Then he offered the other, this one caked with dirt and sweat. I shook that one.
“How ya doin’?” I asked him.
“Fair,” he said. “Shame about ol’ Danny.”
“It is.”
“How’s she holdin’ up?” he asked. He looked in Helen’s direction. She didn’t see him, but the Old Man did. And smiled, both to him and to me.
“She seems okay,” I said. “You know how tough Helen is. But she’s hurting inside, I can tell you that. Pastor Charlie’s been trying to help her through the night, but he just doesn’t seem to be helping much. Guess there’s hurtin’ that words can’t get through.”
“Uh-huh.” David looked at her for a few more seconds and then turned back to me. “Okay Bo, I’ll see ya around. You have a good ’un.”
“All right,” I said, too late and to no one. David was already walking over to Helen. He removed the ragged John Deere cap from his wet head and bowed like he’d just been granted an audience with the Queen.
The Old Man bent over, studying David first, then Helen, then David again. Then he straightened and looked at me with an approving smile. Twenty minutes passed. Neither David nor Helen moved, and not a word passed between them.
Pastor Charlie returned to see his seat taken and decided to try comforting other members of the Layman family. After a dozen or so more people had failed at getting through to Helen—and after I decided I didn’t have much to lose—I made my way over. The caterpillar/butterfly thing? I knew that wouldn’t work. I chose the normal over the profound.
“Helen,” I said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Helen did exactly as I thought she would—she nodded and smiled and stared. As did David. The Old Man, too.
I turned to go, pausing at the entranceway to say good-bye to Jenny. I saw David rise to leave out of the corner of my eye. As he did, Helen reached out and touched his arm. And then she did something she had not done the entire night.
