Mama and me waited in the intensive care waiting room. At about seven o’clock the doctor came in and said Uncle Nate was in a coma. At eight he came back and said Uncle Nate had died about ten minutes before, suddenly—that his heart just stopped.
My arms felt numb, and I couldn’t cry. I was too tired, I think. Mama burst into crying and said it was all her fault. Then I burst into crying. Then I wondered why they hadn’t let us in to see him before he died. Didn’t they know we’d want to see him?
I called Wayside Funeral Home from this little office which the doctor took us to. I asked for Mr. Simmons. He came on the phone and said he’d take care of everything but wondered if there was going to be an autopsy. I asked the doctor and he asked Mama and she said no.
Mama wanted to see him. I didn’t. I just didn’t think I could. I decided I’d wait until the funeral. The doctor took Mama in Uncle Nate’s room and I heard her crying. There were all sorts of people in there. I stared at two swinging doors down the hall. People came in and out.
Two or three times during the drive home—I drove—Mama said that she had failed, that she should have been more patient and that Uncle Nate had never had nobody and always had bad luck and was a good man at heart. I tried to tell her it won’t her fault. She wouldn’t listen.
This was all Thursday. Right away everybody started bringing food to the house. Friday, Uncle Norris came from Charlotte. Uncle Nate didn’t have any living relatives except Mama and Aunt Flossie and Uncle Norris. There had been his wife, but she died in 1957 after they got their divorce in 1952. They got married in 1951.
Everybody wanted to know what happened and Mama told the story over and over. “What in the world happened, Doris?” And “Why in the world do you suppose he did it, Doris?” Mama told it over and over about how he had come home from the war, burned like he was, and with his bad lungs and having those asthma attacks and having to sit still for four or five hours and not able to find a job on account of it, and how she had tried to take care of him all these years and bring him to Christ and that he had finally been saved (she prayed and hoped) in December of ‘71 and cut back on his drinking but hadn’t been able to quit completely and that he had to take drugs to help keep off liquor.
Mr. Brooks, one of the church deacons, came over Friday afternoon and said he had read that the family requested that no flowers be sent. (Uncle Nate liked that Carter family song: “Give me the roses while I live; trying to cheer me on. Useless are flowers that you give after the soul is gone.” And Mama said he wrote down about his funeral one time and showed it to her and it said no flowers, contributions to the Elon Boys’ Home instead.) So Mr. Brooks is wearing his suit—he always wears it—and he’s sitting in the living room asking people if they’d like to make a remembrance donation to the Missionary Building Fund, since it had been requested that no flowers be sent. (Next day, Mrs. Fuller said he said something about the unfortunate truth that people who committed suicide were breaking the ten commandments. I can’t imagine where his heart is.) I’ve never been able to like Mr. Brooks: he’s always quoting scripture and getting mad at people and places: like I’ve heard him run down New York, and Paris, and Chapel Hill. There’s bound to be good and bad people in those places, just like anywhere else. I know if Jesus had been like Mr. Brooks he certainly would have had a hard time finding disciples who would like him. The twelve disciples had to like Jesus or they wouldn’t have stuck with him like they did, through thick and thin. People say Mr. Brooks knows the Bible better than most preachers. I just can’t ever feel any heart about him. When his heart seems to peep through, it feels like a lie. I know it’s wrong to judge him like that but sometimes I can’t help it.
I said, and I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, “Mr. Brooks, Uncle Nate made it clear that he wanted donations to go to the Elon Boys’ Home.” I felt like I had to say it for Uncle Nate—because he would have said it.
“We give to the Boys’ Home—provide building funds every other year,” says Mr. Brooks, “so it’s the same thing.”
“Well,” I says, “I don’t think it is the same thing. I don’t think—”
“Raney, let’s let these people decide for themselves. I think they can—”
“My Uncle Nate is the one who has already decided, Mr. Brooks. It’s his place to make this decision, not these people’s or anybody else’s, or yours. He’s the one who died and had the right to say what’s to be done in the area of flowers and donations. Everybody,” I said. “Everybody please come in here. I have an announcement.” We were in the living room. I had to get this straightened out. And deep down I know what Uncle Nate thought of Mr. Brooks. What most people think of Mr. Brooks. He’ll sit in church and nod his head when he approves and disapproves—like the Pharisees Jesus talked about, showing themselves in church. Two Sundays ago I was sitting behind him and he nodded his disapproval at a real cute skit two girls did right before the service. The very idea: as if the final word resided in him. Then right after that when they made the announcement that three boys were going to read the New Testament from start to finish on the next Saturday, he nodded his approval. I think he had it backwards. Those boys ought to be out mowing some old people’s grass. You never heard of Jesus standing around all day reading out loud when he could be doing something for somebody who needed help.
People came in from the kitchen and stood in the doorways and all around. There was already a bunch of people sitting in the living room. I was nervous, but I was mad. “You all,” I said, “Uncle Nate asked, and the newspaper says, that donations go to the Elon Boys’ Home—no flowers. And I just wanted to repeat that because I think Uncle Nate’s wishes should be followed.” I was hoping that’s all I would have to say. That it would be over with that.
Mrs. Fuller—of course—asks, “What about the Missionary Building Fund?” She has a God-given knack.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think so. I mean that was not included in what Uncle Nate told me and Mama. If the Boys’ Home wants to donate to the Building Fund, that’s fine.”
There was this pause. Mr. Brooks was sitting there in front of the picture window with it getting dark outside and Mama’s Gone With the Wind lamp lit over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, thank goodness; he just got up and walked out, mad I guess, and it didn’t bother me one iota. Not one bit. I was tore all to pieces anyway and here he comes collecting money, of all things, over somebody’s dead body.
Daddy was shook up through the whole thing. He mostly sat around not saying anything. Not laughing. Some people laugh and talk like the dead person hasn’t died. But Daddy just sat like somebody had slapped him, and mother told about what had happened over and over and all about how she had tried through the years to get Uncle Nate straight and that she guessed she had failed.
That night we all went to the funeral home. I was worried that Charles would make a scene like with Uncle Newton but he didn’t. He even walked up to the casket and looked at Uncle Nate, who looked like he was asleep. His coloring was real good, in spite of what had happened.
It was all a shock. There was this giant black hole in my life. And it couldn’t all hit me at once. It was like a hourglass was holding things back.
When we’d been back from the funeral home about thirty minutes, Mary Faye came over and sat down beside me on the couch and said she thought Uncle Nate must have been real worried about things to shoot himself. I agreed. Charles came over and sat beside me and asked me where Norris was. I said I didn’t know.
“Let’s take him and Mary Faye for a ride to Hardee’s and see how they’re doing.”
I hadn’t even thought about Mary Faye and Norris. Charles thinks about things like that sometimes and I’m so thankful he’s that way. I know he’ll be a good father because of it.
Norris was in the kitchen eating apple pie. The food was mounting up.
On the way to Hardee’s, Charles asked them how they were feeling about it all. They sai
d they were sad. Mary Faye said she kept seeing Uncle Nate’s face in her mind. Norris said that Jimmy Pope said Uncle Nate should have shot himself in the temple if he wanted to do it right, and Norris said he told Jimmy that if he didn’t have something good to say to shut up. I told him that’s exactly what he should have said.
While we were at Hardee’s, Norris asked us why people commit suicide and Charles explained about not having anything to hope for and having your body hurt real bad. He explained it all. I didn’t have to explain much. He got it just about right. I’m glad we gave them some attention. I think they needed it.
Saturday, the funeral home men drove up the driveway in the big silver gray cars. Mr. Simmons came in the back door and made a little speech about what everybody was supposed to do. Charles didn’t say a word.
Somebody had thrown a Coke-a-cola can in the yard out by the driveway, so before we got in the cars, we had to wait for Mama to go pick it up and put it in the trash around back. I’m glad there weren’t fifteen or twenty. The sky looked like snow and it was freezing cold.
The funeral was about what you’d expect, and was short, thank goodness. I couldn’t rid my mind of Uncle Nate’s face and his starched white shirts with the collar open.
In his message, Preacher Gordon said that Uncle Nate was one of the last casualties of World War II. I hadn’t thought about it that way.
VI
On Wednesday night, eleven days after the funeral, just after we watched this TV show about a little girl’s mother committing suicide, Charles says he thinks that under different circumstances Uncle Nate might not have committed suicide.
“What do you mean by that?” I said.
“Raney, he was very depressed. He needed psychiatric help. But no one in the family seemed to care whether he got it or not.”
“Charles, I don’t think Uncle Nate needed a psychiatric.”
“Psychologist, or psychiatrist, is what you mean.”
“Well, whatever. He was not mentally ill.”
“Do you think he was depressed?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“He was, Raney. Take my word for it. He was. And he was compulsive-obsessive. And severely depressed.” Charles started to the kitchen. I followed him.
“You’re in the family. Why didn’t you do something?” I said.
“There’s no way—you know how much weight my suggestions carry.”
“Charles, you think that just because Uncle Nate got water at the same time every day there was something wrong with him. I’ve heard you talk about that. I don’t see it that way. You stick all these words on there and make it sound like he was some kind of cripple or something.”
“He was. In the end, at least.” Charles was getting out a can of pinto beans and a can of tomatoes to make chili for next day.
“He wasn’t a cripple,” I said.
“Mentally. You know what I mean. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have shot himself.”
“Charles, you don’t know that.”
“Maybe not. But I do know he lived in a society which A) supplies mental health care for its citizens. There is a trained psychologist at the mental health clinic. Counseling services are offered for people with mental problems—depression included—in Hansen County. Your Uncle Nate was a citizen of Hansen County. Now B) your Uncle Nate was a member of a family which does not believe in mental health care. At least that much is true, it seems to me. It’s nothing that can be helped.”
I thought about Dr. Cisco. He knew all about these kinds of things. For sure he’d had training in psychology. And he wouldn’t go list off “A, B, and C.” He would know better than to tear into somebody who had done the best they could all their lives. Anybody would.
“Charles, I do not see how you can say that—how you’ve got the nerve to stand there and say that, after all the care my mama gave Uncle Nate over the years: after all the meals she cooked him, all the shirts she washed and pressed. . . .”
“That’s just it, Raney. Who gives her the right to decide that’s what your Uncle Nate needs—needed. Needed most.”
“Charles, she’s his sister—family. That’s where her right came from. And he was her brother and she loved him enough to take care of him.”
“Maybe that’s just what he didn’t need. Maybe what he needed was to take care of himself.”
“Charles, he couldn’t.”
“Maybe he could. Have you ever thought about that?”
“Charles, don’t be ridiculous. Maybe you should talk to Mama. Since you know so much. Maybe you should tell her all this. All she did, after all, was to look after her brother when he came out of the war, disabled, to help him as best she could. If she had your magnificent college education and knowledge about mental health then maybe she would have done different. But tell me this Charles: what would have happened to Uncle Nate if it hadn’t been for Mama in the first place?”
“I don’t know, Raney. And neither do you. That’s what I was just talking about. Maybe he would have lived a longer and healthier and happier life than he did. Who knows?”
“Charles, why didn’t you do something. You’ve got all the answers. Now you’ve got all the answers. Charles, I can’t believe you’re saying all this.”
“Listen, Raney. I haven’t said I have all the answers. I have tried to say things. God knows I’ve tried. And I give up. I couldn’t care less. Your family is a brick wall. I couldn’t care less. Why should I waste my time beating my head against a brick wall?”
He was standing there holding a pack of frozen hamburger to fix chili with, getting more and more intense. I was so mad I couldn’t stand it. I knew it was coming. We had had a big argument every day—four days in a row. My cheeks got hot and my chest hurt and I felt ice water between my skin and rib cage. “Charles, I can’t live with this! You think Mama murdered Uncle Nate!”
“No. No. Now, Raney, don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t murder. It was a whole family’s refusal to look for alternatives to a . . . a way of life. To read—to become educated about a problem staring you in the face. Given the self-righteousness of . . . of fundamental Christianity in this family, your Uncle Nate didn’t have a chance.”
Something snapped in my head, like a dam had broke loose, a dam that should have broke loose long before. I walked straight to the bedroom, got out the big suitcase and packed. It took ten minutes. I went straight to the phone and called Aunt Flossie and asked her if I could come to her house. Lord knows I couldn’t call Mama with all she had on her. I felt determined and clear. Charles had just burned himself right out of my mind. There was nothing there but ashes. I did not have any idea where I would go after Aunt Flossie’s. I could decide that later. I finished packing.
“Where are you going, Raney?” said Charles.
I was standing there holding the suitcase. I hated him. “You heard me talking to Aunt Flossie.”
“I don’t want you to leave. You don’t have to leave over this. I was looking at the whole thing from a psychological, maybe socio-psychological, perspective. That’s all.”
“Psychological? Charles, that’s not even something in this world. I will not live here and listen to you call my mama a murderer. It’s that simple.”
“Raney, I didn’t call your mother a murderer. I only said that—”
“Charles, you son of a . . . you son of a. . . .” I couldn’t hold back. I put the suitcase on the floor. “You son of a bitch. You stand there and try to weasel out of something you just said as clear as day. That’s the way you are. You’ll throw out all this garbage psychiatric crap and then say bad things about somebody’s—your own wife’s—mama, and family, all at the same time and then when somebody points it out, you try to, to, to, take it back, and then say you didn’t. Anybody can come along after something like this has happened and look at it different and get real superior about what should have happened. You just think you know everything, Charles. Well, you don’t know so much. You better know you’re gong to be eating that
chili all by yourself, Charles. You better know that. You better know that.” I had to cry.
“Raney, you need to settle down. We’re all to blame, as a society, including me.”
“Charles! You don’t even . . . all you can do is blame somebody.” I picked up the suitcase. “That’s all you know how to do.” I walked straight out of the house, got in the Chevrolet, and drove to Aunt Flossie’s. I hated Charles. If he had all those things in him that he was saying I didn’t want to live in the same house with him. I couldn’t.
Aunt Flossie met me on the front porch. We went on in and she took me to her second bedroom.
“I was just getting out a towel and wash cloth. The bottom two drawers on that chest are empty and if that’s not enough room, clean you out another drawer. There’s space in the closet. Make yourself at home. You can stay here as long as you need to. Go and come as you please. If you want to talk I’ll be happy to listen.”
The telephone rang.
It was for me: Charles. “Raney, I want you to come back,” he says.
“Charles. . . . Please leave me alone.”
“Raney, I’m sorry. I think I was just upset about the whole thing. We need to talk about all this.”
“Charles, I have my own family. I have my own family to talk to. Besides, what can I say to you, Charles, that would ever make one difference about one thing on earth.”
This was serious business. My insides were tore all to pieces. My heart. I had this damp, clammy feeling because I was afraid it all might have gone too far, that we might not be able to climb back up out of the gully. I was pulled and pushed two different ways at one time and I didn’t know which one to go with.
“Charles, I’m going to stay here at Aunt Flossie’s until I get my mind straightened out and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call.”
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