We Are All Such Humans Here

I could tell you about the funeral, a cold day by central California standards, with a wind ripping through us from the south, but the whole day seemed a commonplace exercise. The service was conducted in their Episcopalian church, a sanctuary I associated with brutalist cinderblock, anonymous furnishings out of the Stemper catalogue, and a minister with three chins; he had only recently arrived and didn’t know either of my parents, but he didn’t let that stop him. In front of Frannie and me and the six other attendees, he rumbled about the sure and certain hope of resurrection and the beauty of my parents’ faith, which he’d never for a moment tested, tried, or observed; then he broke the wafers and drank most of the wine himself while the rest of us made do with leftovers. At the cemetery, the wind toppled the pop-up twice until the funeral director threw up his hands and let everyone’s hair fly. At the conclusion of the graveside liturgy, the wind paused and a meager rain began to pitter-patter down.

“Okay,” Frannie said, “I think we’re done, don’t you?”

Not remembering that we had platters at my parents’ house ready for any who might appear to offer their condolences, if not good cheer, because that’s what one does, even if my parents had outlived their friends and, in their respective illnesses, had sequestered themselves from most all of their casual acquaintances.

Was it so surprising that no one, not even the minister or his three chins, showed? I’d be living on funeral meat and cheese for the next week or more if I didn’t find someone to mourn with me.

Ellen called, half an hour after we had returned to the house and taken off our raincoats. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

“Frannie’s here,” I said, “so I’m okay, I guess. You want to talk to her?” At which point I handed the phone to my cousin, despite Frannie waving her hands and the gargle of my ex-wife’s voice telling me otherwise.

I stood outside on the porch in front of the leaded glass front door. My father, who never confessed to being a smoker, had stashed some cheap cigars behind one of the flowerpots, along with a plastic lighter, and I considered that as an invitation if not a provocation, while from the other side of the door, I could hear Frannie commiserating with Ellen about the ill-behavior of men in general and one Fish in particular. “He’s not a truthful person,” I heard Frannie say, “and he never has been. Not with himself anyway.” The clouds continued to spit, a kind of vengeful attempt at rain, and the air remained oddly dry despite all evidence to the contrary on the pavement.

What an awful thing to say, I thought as I blew my own blue cloud into the unpalatable air. Even if there might have been more than a trace of accuracy. Since I considered myself to be basically an honest human being with others, what did it matter if I embellished a little here and there about matters of personal interest? The only person I was punishing was myself.

Across the street, there were two boys, maybe nine years old, who were throwing a football back and forth, weaving in and out of their landscape of inflatables like Gayle Sayers or Barry Sanders. No one they’d know, though, since they weren’t alive to see such greatness in real time. Nor did they know how far their imaginations outstripped the reality that they would face soon enough. They wouldn’t know it for years to come. Let ignorance and fantasy reign! Sharp, prepubescent voices rang through the air, crying victory, the only sound to compete with “Jingle Bells” in 4/4 time.

I was halfway through my father’s cigar, feeling only slightly nauseated when from the Greenhaven house, I heard the front security door open and clang shut and then came the stately, frigate-like prow of Mary Greenhaven carrying a casserole dish under a complicated assortment of potholders and towels.

“You’ve inherited your father’s filthy habit,” she said. “That much is clear.”

“I’m going to let that slide, Mary Greenhaven,” I said. “After all, I buried my parents today, and I’m not up to any more combat. Let bygones be bygones. Restraint, in this case, is golden. My cousin, who’s inside, would be so impressed.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m not going to debate you either, not with a hot dish in my hands.” “Cream of mushroom and tuna?” I said. “A can and a can, because you can. Or are we talking a box of Hamburger Helper?”

She sniffied. “Gruyère Mac-N-Cheese to you.”

“Oh,” I said, “ooh-lah-lah. With bacon and a side-order of statins?”

“Don’t be a—” she pushed the dish into my hands and clamped her lips tight “—don’t be stupid. Don’t worry about the dish or the towels. Keep it, throw them away, whatever’s easiest. From what I’ve heard, you’ve got enough to worry about. I don’t need anything back.”

“Not even my thanks?” I was genuinely touched.

“You’re welcome,” she said and touched her hair, as though that might be a tell, and I should know what she was really saying. “Joe and I are praying for you.”

“I can use all the help I can get,” I said, “and I won’t deny it or pretend otherwise. Even if I am an asshole, and you’re just too Baptist to say so.”

“You are only as you pretend to be,” she said, “but why that’s the case is a mystery to me.”

“You’re right,” I said. “You’re right as rhyme, and god help us all.”

Just then my parents’ front door opened, and Frannie’s head popped out like the weasel in its box. “What’s going on out here?” She had started talking even before she opened the door. “Your ex-wife told me to tell you that she loves you but has no interest in ever being married again. Thanks to you. Which means you really did fuck up, didn’t you?”

“Well,” Mary Greenhaven said, turning on her heel. “There’s more of you.”

“Who are you,” Frannie called, “and why should we care?”

“Neighbor,” I said. “Baptist lady and casserole. A good one, I think, with fancy cheese. And sincere in her convictions, no matter how misplaced. Not that I’m judging.”

And with that word about judgment, my own deus ex machina arrived, Constance and Officer Pelham, carrying an armload of more food and a clinking bag of bottles. They had come, Constance said, because they’d seen the notice in the obits, about the only section left of the local paper.

“Sorry,” Constance said. “We missed the service, but we never miss a reception.”

“But usually,” Jack said, “we’re talking about weddings.”

“It’s not like we make a habit of this,” Constance said. “Not really. I mean it’s not very professional, is it? But you seemed particularly lost.”