Nonfiction flashquake |
| "My dad, King of The Volunteers!" sounds like an innocent enough sentence, even laudatory. Ah, but you can't hear the resentment that was in my voice as I stood before my father's casket. My husband had heard the complaint in one form or another for a decade. 
I slapped the air toward the 'Standing Room Only' crowd waiting for their 15 seconds of viewing. "That's why they're all here! They're his 'real' family!" I fumed, "...his little band of Merry Meddlers!" A woman in green dodged my gesture. Her perfume fought for airspace with the flowers of the ninety-three floral arrangements circling the walls. " He won't be doing much volunteering now, huh? That's what they're really mourning! Who's gonna sell those raffle tickets? Who's gonna blackmail me into pushing veterans' poppies, or force me to be a balloon twisting clown at the neighborhood fund raiser?" My husband nodded in time to the increasing cadence of my voice. The crowd around the casket began forming a hole in itself. The funeral director's assistant tapped me on the shoulder, not recognizing me as a principal mourner. "Excuse me, you'll have to move. The Knights need room to conduct the memorial service." My face flashed warning lights, as the train of black suits, plumed hats, sashes and swords approached. My husband cradled my shoulder and pulled me to the side. A mistake! I imploded, sucking the air out of the room. When I exhaled, what came out was low and dangerous. "Damn the Knights," I growled to him, "Damn the Veterans! Damn the Civic Association! I'm not moving! I've been getting out of their way all my life!" He edged away, but I stood firmly in front of the casket, refusing to give up my rights to bereavement, like a dog protecting a bone. The assistant director approached again. My nostrils flared. My eyes narrowed. He backed off. The Knights filed in, cautiously avoiding me. They saluted the body with their swords, perilously close to where I stood like Joan of Arc, daring them to attack. "Oy, oy, oy," my grandmother keened as she rocked alone in the mourner's row. As the Knights began their prayers, an alto B-flat moan built from over near the floral tribute that spelled P-A-U-L in carnations, roses, and some blue stuff. I caught a glimpse of my mother, Lottie, as she sank to the floor, clutching a carefully folded, lace edged, linen hanky to her breast. Her sobs were tearless, her mascara flawless, her diction perfect. Lottie wailed loudly from her spotlight on the carpet, "What will I do, what will I DO?!!" Grandma "oy"ed backup from the saggy floral slip-covered couch. I stood like some crazed freak at the casket. The Knights stopped mid-sentence. The assistant director shoved a bottle of smelling salts under Lottie's nose. She snapped out of her swoon. His eyes bulged in surprise as she smacked the vial from his hand. "Get that damned thing out of my face!" The chaplain pushed past the Knights to the lectern squashed between gladiola spikes. Let us p-p-pray," he stuttered. Lottie rose from the floor and walked to the front of the room as if nothing had happened. She perched with a widow's dignity on the edge of the couch next to her dead husband's mother. Wrapping an arm stiffly around her, Lottie put her mouth near Grandma's ear. I heard her whisper testily, "Shut up, old lady, you're making a scene." My father rested in enviable peace on the satin pillow. For a second I considered the impulse to slam the lid shut. He looked too smug in his new degree of unavailability. I glared at the crowd; some seemed shocked; some amused; a few chatted on, apparently unaware of anything but their conversation. The corners of my mouth twitched. I pressed my lips together tightly and covered my lower face with a handful of linty Kleenex. I teetered on the tightrope between the worlds, still looking for attention from my daddy. |
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