Bobbi Jo's Funeral Procession
Tuesday, June 19 11:00 A.M.
Nora
WE stand and wait for the recessional. The choir is singing a Latin hymn, and the organ echoes in the church. The priest and the altar boys lead the way, swinging the censer and filling the air with the choking scent of burning incense. The coffin comes next, carried by six pallbearers. Bobbi Jo's Uncle Jim, Mr. O'Brien, and Mr. Farrell from down the street, Charlie and Paul and one of Bobbi Jo's cousins. The men are grim-faced and tense. Charlie and Paul and the cousin are pale and scared. Bobbi Jo's mother and father walk behind the coffin, holding the hands of the two little sisters.
Mom whispers, "The poor woman, she looks like she's about to faint."
My hand seeks hers again, as if it has a life of its own. She squeezes it and I lean against her, comforted by the familiar smell of her, her shampoo, a trace of cologne, and Mum deodorant.
Slowly, pew by pew, the church empties. The Boyds stand at the door and thank people for coming. Mr. Boyd seems to be holding his wife up. Tears run down her face unchecked, as if she doesn't know she's crying. The little sisters squint in the sun and fidget as if they can't quite remember why they're here.
The funeral procession forms. Two policemen on motorcycles lead the way, lights flashing, sirens blaring. So many cars, all with their headlights on, driving slowly down the familiar streets of Elmgrove, passing places we used to go with Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. The drugstore. The movie theater. Woolworth's Five and Dime. The record shop. Top's Drive-In, the swimming pool, the park, the lake, Eastern High School. I look at them all as if I'll never see them again. As if I'm dead too.
The people we pass stop and watch the cars go by, their faces solemn in the summer sunshine. Some whisper to their friends. The friends nod. They know whose funeral this is.
We go through traffic lights all the way down Route 40 and through the black iron gates of New Cathedral Cemetery.
Bobbi Jo's Burial
Tuesday, June 19 11:30 A.M.
Nora
AT the graveyard I find Ellie in the crowd, and we stand together while the priest says more prayers. "May Barbara Josephine's soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace and let perpetual light shine on them..." His voice drones, the words run together, they blend with the breeze blowing through the trees and the birds singing in shady green places.
The coffin rests precariously on canvas straps above the grave. The grass buzzes with insects. Birds sing. Squirrels dart from tree to tree. Pigeons strut and peck at the gravel path. Far off across the lawn, I see another funeral in progress. Thunderheads loom up and cast dark shadows. The breeze rocks the coffin. Down will come baby, coffin and all.
The priest leads us in the Lord's Prayer and blesses us all. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."
We make the sign of the cross and say amen.
It's time for everyone but the family to leave. With one last look at the coffin, Ellie and I follow our mothers across the grass to the waiting cars.
"Did you notice that strange guy?" Ellie asks.
I shake my head.
"He was over there." She points at a tall oak and we both look closely. He's nowhere to be seen.
"He had on a suit that was way too big," Ellie says. "The sleeves practically covered his fingers and the trouser cuffs dragged on the ground."
"Did you see him at church?"
She shrugs. "He could have been there."
"Maybe he's a cousin or the son of a family friend."
She shakes her head, stares at the place where she saw the boy. "I can't explain it. There was just something creepy about him. Strange. Like he didn't belong here and he knew it and that's why he was kind of hiding behind the tree."
While she's telling me this, thunder rumbles in the distance and the sky gets darker. A little shiver races across my skin. We hurry to catch up with our mothers so we can go on to Cheryl's funeral.
Sacred to the Memory
Tuesday, June 19 11:30 A.M.
Buddy
I WAIT until the last car drives away, and then I follow the funeral procession to the graveyard, always keeping a few non-funeral cars between me and the others. I don't want anybody looking out the rear window and seeing me.
New Cathedral Cemetery. I've driven past it but never paid any attention to it. Never have liked cemeteries. Now I'm driving slowly through its tall gates, past this little place that looks like a tollbooth. Since it's Catholic, I expect some priest to be in there with his hand out. But there's just some old guy, keeping an eye on things, I guess.
The cemetery's huge. Tombstones and angels and Catholic crap everywhere. I hate the idea of Bobbi Jo being in this place.
I find a parking place pretty far from the funeral. Like some goddamn thief, I sneak across the lawn, using headstones and trees as cover. It reminds me of playing war when I was a kid. Now it's Elmgrove against me. Don't let them see you, don't let them catch you.
When I'm close enough to see everything, I stand behind a tall stone cross. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JONATHAN ALLBRIGHT WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON 15 JUNE 1898. FREE FROM LIFE'S CARE, HE RESTS IN THE ARMS OF JESUS.
The priest is still swinging that damn ball on a chain. The breeze carries the burning smell all the way to me. Looks like he's praying, too, but I can't hear the words which are probably in Latin anyway. If Bobbi Jo was here instead of in that goddamn box, she'd probably try to explain what the ball was all about. And why priests talk in a language no one but them and Latin teachers understand. A dead language for dead people.
I notice someone else is watching the funeral, some kid in a black suit a scarecrow might think looked good. He's too far away for me to see his face. I wonder why he's here. Maybe he's the type who likes funerals.
My grandmother read the obituaries every day to find funerals close enough to walk to. Used to drag me along with her when I was too little to get away from her. Of course she was nuttier than a fruitcake. Died at Spring Grove. There's something to be proud of.
I notice a big cloud has covered the sun. I hope it doesn't rain until after Cheryl's funeral.
The crowd's moving toward their cars, the boy's gone, and I hurry toward my car. I hate to leave Bobbi Jo in this place, but I need to be out of here before anyone spots me.
Cheryl's Funeral
Tuesday, June 19 1:00 P.M.
Nora
THE crowd seems even bigger at Cheryl's funeral, maybe because the Baptist church is smaller. And very plain. No statues of the Virgin Mary, no cross hanging over the altar with Christ's twisted body and anguished face looking down at you. No candles to light if you drop a penny in the box. No holy water, no stations of the cross. No kneelers. No pews. Just wooden chairs.
Cheryl's white coffin is in front of the altar, a table covered with a white cloth. Her flowers fill the church with a funeral-home smell, artificial and too sweet, almost heavy. Beside the coffin is the minister, a slim man in a plain business suit. His glasses catch the changing light.
The service begins. No Mass, no Latin, no incense, no organ. Baptists keep things short and simple. Their hymns are in English and everyone sings them. Even I know some of the words. A pianist accompanies the congregation. She sits in front instead of being hidden away in a choir loft.
I notice Ellie isn't singing, she's gotten out her rosary and is praying. I wonder if it's a sin to sing Protestant hymns, but then I remember I don't believe in religion anymore so why should I care what the Catholic church thinks. Sin or no sin, I go on singing when they get to the chorus because that's the only part I know, and I don't even know why or how I know it.
The minister speaks softly of Cheryl's short life and its tragic end. He begs us not to lose our faith in God, telling us God moves in mysterious ways and everything is done with a purpose.
"'For now we see through a glass darkly,'" he says, "'but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.'"
The minister says a few more prayers. The congregation sings "In the Garden," and I join in as if I was raised a Baptist. I find myself wishing Catholics sang hymns like this with a simple tune everyone can sing, not just the choir.
People stand as the pallbearers carry the coffin down the aisle. The Millers follow slowly, hand in hand. Cheryl's brother Davy is about the same age as Billy. It's hard to imagine my brother walking that slowly, so pale and sad. It's not right. It's not fair. Life shouldn't be this sad.
Outside under a cloudy sky, we form another automobile caravan and drive down Wilkins Avenue to Loudon Park Cemetery on the other side of town.
The sky is stormier, full of dark, heavy clouds, but the rain holds off until the coffin is lowered into the grave. I turn away, unable to watch, and see Buddy lurking behind a tombstone. Our eyes meet and he shakes his head—Don't say anything, look the other way. He's pale, sad, worn down like an old man. The breeze has blown his hair into his eyes, destroying his pompadour. He looks smaller somehow, thinner. I glance at Ellie, hoping she hasn't seen him, but she's still praying. The rosary beads click as she says each prayer and moves to the next, over and over again just like the nuns taught us.
When I look back, Buddy's gone.
Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl
Tuesday, June 19 2:00 P.M.
Buddy
DAMN, Nora's looking over here. She sees me. I'm thinking it'll be like that science-fiction movie The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, she'll make some signal to the others and they'll come after me. But she just looks at me. And I look at her and shake my head. It's not like a crime show where the killer comes to the funeral. It's me, the dumb jerk who gets blamed for everything. Buddy did it, Buddy, he's the one, he did it. Except he didn't.
I back away, putting a tall gravestone between me and the funeral. That's when I see the kid in the black suit again. What the hell is he doing here? Who is he, anyway?
"Hey," I call, and he runs. I chase him. Damn, there's something strange about him. I almost catch him at the cemetery gate, but he dashes across the street right in front of a truck. Just misses getting hit. The light changes and I'm not risking my life chasing some oddball.
Like I said, maybe he just likes funerals. What do they call it? Morbid, yeah, that's the word. He's morbid. Like my grandmother.
I walk a couple of blocks and get in my car. Somebody told my mother the Millers and the Boyds would be getting together somewhere for a meal. Apparently that's something you do after a person dies. It's like saying life goes on. It seems kind of odd. Almost disrespectful. Like you're gloating.
I read in National Geographic there's a tribe in Africa who smear themselves with mud when somebody dies. They don't eat and they do all kinds of rituals to purify themselves in honor of the dead. To me, that makes a lot more sense than wearing black and going to a funeral and then having a big meal.
I drive around for a while, passing places we used to go. No radio. I can't stand hearing the songs we loved. Just the empty car and me.
It's hard to believe I'll never see Cheryl again. Never kiss her, never hear her voice. Never never never. No matter where I go or what I do, she'll always be in that cemetery. Is that why cemeteries have fences? To keep the dead in?
All the time I'm driving, up one street and down another, turning here, turning there, going around the block and back again, I keep thinking I'll see her, walking along ahead of me, swinging that purse of hers. I'll blow the horn and she'll turn around and give me that big grin. Hop in, I'll say, and she'll slide over close. I'll put my arm around her, her hand will stroke my thigh, we'll kiss. Where to, babe? I'll say, and she'll just laugh and say I don't care, wherever you want to go, Buddy, and that will be out by the dam, our favorite makeout place. And it will be just like it used to be. Before Ralph. Before the last day of school.
Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl. Your name goes round and round and round in my head like a song I can't forget. I want to kill the son of a bitch who did this to you.
After an hour or so, I drive back to the cemetery. There's a hearse and a long line of cars ahead of me. Another funeral. More sad people. It's spattering rain now, and I'm thinking it's better funeral weather than the sunshine at Bobbi Jo's.
I pass the mourners. The pallbearers, ancient men in Elk uniforms, carry the coffin and set it down. Behind them old people get out of their cars slowly and hobble over the grass. I want to say, Do you know how lucky your dearly beloved is? He lived to be old, he had his whole life, but Cheryl and Bobbi Jo—they just got started, they were kids. Is that fair?
I'm scared I might actually yell this, so I drive on, keeping my thoughts locked up tight. But it's not fair, is it? Anybody can see that. Some people live to be old and others die when they're hardly more than born. It makes me sick.
I drive past Cheryl's grave. They've filled it in already and covered it with flower arrangements and wreaths and sprays and all that dead stuff people give to dead people. I hate those flowers but at least they hide the raw red earth piled on top of her. I drive a little farther, park the car, and walk back. It's raining harder now, but I don't care. I kneel down beside the flowers, smelling that sick hothouse smell. I can't believe all that dirt is on top of her, holding her down, keeping her there, separating her from me forever.
I tell her I couldn't come to her funeral, no one wanted me there. I tell her I wish it was me that was dead, not her. I tell her I'll always love her, I'll never forget her. Nevernevernever...
I try not to think about Ralph, he didn't come to her funeral, I looked for him, he definitely wasn't there. The son of a bitch.
I reach under the flowers and I scoop out a handful of dirt. I dump it on my head, I rub it into my hair, I smear it on my cheeks. And then I sit there and let the rain fall.
Mister Death's Brother
Tuesday, June 19 5:00 P.M.
HE ought go home now—it's late, almost five, and it's raining—but he's scared of his brother. He knows he shouldn't have gone near the funerals, but he doesn't think anyone noticed him sitting quietly in the back of both churches. Funerals are like weddings, there are always people there that other people don't know but think belong there. Maybe they're relatives or family friends, who knows.
His brother can't understand, but he had to be there, had to see them one last time. He needed to know how he feels about the dead girls. Is he glad they're dead? Or is he sorry? Would he do it over again or would he stand up to his brother and say No I won't, I won't do it and if you do I'll tell. Would that have stopped him? Probably not.
At the funerals, he didn't feel as bad as he thought he would, but he still feels like maybe they shouldn't have done it. Those girls will be dead forever. He and his brother took their lives. Took them. Stole them. They can't give them back. Once you're dead you're dead. And nothing can bring you back to life.
But in a way, they deserved it for laughing at his brother. They made fun of him, they said he was a jerk, they told him he was ugly, they even said he was a fag. Not just that night but other times. Cheryl, especially. She made fun of him at school and made him miserable and didn't even care. It was all a joke to her, something to laugh at.
The other one, though. Bobbi Jo. Maybe she didn't deserve it. She was kind of nice when she wasn't with Cheryl.
His mind spins this way and that way, and he realizes he still doesn't know how he feels. Except for one thing. He wishes they hadn't done it. Him and his brother.
He walks so long, up one street and down another, block after block, always on side streets where nobody will see him. Once or twice he sees Buddy's car and ducks out of sight. He hopes Buddy hadn't recognized him in the graveyard.
Why d
id Buddy chase him? What would he have done if he'd caught him? Does he know it was him and his brother who did it? He shivers, more scared than ever.
The rain keeps falling, the day ends, dark comes, he's still walking, walking, walking. He doesn't have a watch but he knows it's late.
He wanders down the path and into the woods and stops under the tree his brother hid in. Ahead is the footbridge. He pictures the girls walking toward him, laughing and talking, wearing their pretty summer skirts, swinging their purses on long straps. The sun shines on their blond hair. Pretty girls. Blue-eyed girls.
He wonders if he should have run out of the woods and told them to turn around and go home. "Run," he could have cried, "run for your lives." But they would have laughed at him, and his brother would have shot them anyway and maybe shot him too for messing up.
They were pretty, those blue-eyed girls, but they were mean. No one has the right to laugh at someone because he wears the wrong clothes or combs his hair the wrong way or has pimples. He touches his own cheek, feels the rough skin, the pustules of acne, just like his brother's face. You can't help having pimples.
But still, all those people in the churches crying. So many sad people. He had no idea so many people would care. They'll get over it, they'll forget—but will he?
All that blood, the way they looked and felt, limp and heavy, their eyes looking at him but not seeing him or the sky or anything.
Dead blue eyes, their pretty skirts bloody, their pretty blond hair bloody, their pretty faces bloody, especially Cheryl's. Oh, she looked bad. He dreams about her every night, coming toward him, her face almost gone, her blouse and purple skirt red with blood, she's like a zombie. When he dies, she'll be waiting for him. She'll get him then, she'll drag him down to hell and leave him there. And she'll be laughing. Yes, she'll have the last laugh.
Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls Page 11
