His mother would have appreciated the sentiment, if she hadn’t been so pragmatic. But before Susan Patrick had passed, she’d let it be known that the funeral wasn’t for her—it was for those she was leaving behind. She was in good hands. “The rest of you still have time to serve,” she loved to say. The last time Jake heard his mother utter those words with her magical smile and a wink, he had managed to laugh. They laughed together amidst the plethora of medical equipment that had filled his mother’s living room—beeping and pumping and hissing—straining to prolong her life.
Yes, his mother would have appreciated the friends, family, and co-workers who came to pay their last respects. The good thing about dying slowly, if there is any redeeming quality in prolonged agony, was the opportunity it gave everyone to say goodbye. It was a morbid reality and an opportunity that perhaps only the loved ones of someone lost suddenly can truly appreciate. Real tragedy struck without warning.
The crowd came to pay their respects, the goodbyes long since expressed. And less for a single exception, there were no surprises, no unexpected faces in the multi-colored streams of light formed by the sun forcing its way through the arching stained-glass windows.
Six pallbearers were more than enough to lift the casket, the container far outweighing its contents. Jake didn’t see his father until he was exiting the church, one sixth of the weight of the casket resting on his left shoulder. Their eyes met, his father nodded, and for a second Jake thought he saw a tear on the cheek of the man he hadn’t seen in over six years.
The procession followed the hearse and its police motorcycle escort through Saturday morning traffic to King James Memorial off Sixteenth Street. Jake’s mother had agreed with the selection of her final resting place, a stone’s throw from Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo. It was nice—as far as cemeteries go—and if that helped to ease the grief of those she was leaving behind, then fine. Personally, she didn’t care where they put her. Her credo was, “Love me when I’m alive, not when I’m dead.”
Most did.
The ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust ceremony at the plot of freshly dug earth was short. Hands caressed the casket in a final unfulfilling gesture of intimacy, roses placed on the white cloth that draped the middle of the coffin like an untied belt. Jake made his way to the casket, gave his mother a symbolic final kiss goodbye, and then broke down sobbing for the only person in the world he really loved.
The post funeral gathering was held at Uncle Steve’s; Jake’s only relative who didn’t require a long-distance phone call. The familiar faces from the first several rows of pews at St. Michael’s now filled the tight, outdated kitchen with its cracked Formica countertops and worn linoleum floor. The women tried unsuccessfully to evict the men who stood around the small kitchen table inhaling chips and dip, circling like vultures waiting for a more substantial carcass. Jake’s mother’s favorite jazz CD played in the living room, loud enough to hear throughout the small first floor of the brick row house.
Uncle Steve, fifty, bald, and feisty, passed out cold Miller Genuine Drafts to anyone who would join him in a pre-noon drink. Mrs. Nelson from two doors down moved her sixty-eight-year-old body like the former salsa dancer that she was, and transformed the dining room table from a bachelor pad pile of magazines and newspapers to a place where people could sit down and eat. Smokers were banished to the back porch by Father McKenna, who was the first to take Uncle Steve up on his offer for a late morning beer.
The doorbell rang and Uncle Steve, bald head glistening from the heat of the kitchen, shuffled toward the front foyer, beverage in hand. A curtain hung over the oval window in the antique door, offering only a silhouette of the tardy guest. Steve peeked behind the curtain, yanked the tarnished brass knob, and opened the door. Cold stares spoke volumes as the silent collision of the past and present soured the already somber atmosphere.
“It’s been a long time Peter,” Uncle Steve said.
“Yes it has, Steven.”
The two men stood face-to-face through the half-opened door and Uncle Steve made no effort to invite the guest into the house.
“Jake mentioned he saw you at the memorial service. Awfully nice of you to come.”
“I didn’t know that Susan had passed. I got a phone call in Hong Kong and caught the next plane out as soon as I heard,” Peter replied honestly.
“Still the world traveler, eh?”
“Some things never change.”
“You said it, not me,” Steve replied with bite.
Miles Davis filled the void in conversation.
“Still in the roofing business?” Peter asked.
“When my body lets me. Bad back, worse knees. Some mornings I can barely get out of bed.”
“Looks like your liver is still working,” Peter retorted, gesturing in the direction of the bottle in Steve’s hand.
For a brief second it was just like old times, two brothers-in-law taking jabs at one another. But time has a way of making strangers out of even brothers, and another moment of awkward silence fell on the two.
“Could we not do this today?” Peter asked. “I just stopped by to say that I‘m sorry for your loss. I know you and Susan were close.”
“Yes we were, but not as close as your son was to his mother.”
“May I come in?”
Steve considered the request but didn’t move. It was a battle of wills between Uncle Steve, a blue-collar roofer with dirt under his nails, and Peter Winthrop, GQ magazine cover model with manicured nails.
“Just for a minute. I won’t stay long.”
“You never did,” Steve replied. He took a swig of his beer, fully opened the door with his left hand, and motioned his ex-brother-in-law into his home.
Peter advanced slowly through the living room, past an old upright piano littered with pictures of people he knew a lifetime before. Uncle Steve followed behind, observing Peter as he took in the ghosts of his past. Peter nodded to an elderly couple on the couch. The white haired husband and wife nodded back at the well-dressed stranger.
Peter stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. Jake was at the back door, talking to a vaguely familiar face whose name Peter had long since forgotten. The crowd ripping through the hors d’oeuvres and working on food preparations took notice of the intruder, held their breaths, and exited the room as if someone had discovered a bomb in the refrigerator.
Jake felt the vacuum created around him and turned toward the far doorway to the kitchen. As the whispers grew in the next room, father and son stood at opposite sides of the kitchen like heavyweights in their respective corners of the ring before a fight. Uncle Steve stepped back to give the two some privacy, while remaining close enough to intervene if they needed a referee.
“Hi son,” Peter offered first.
“Hi Dad,” Jake replied. It felt normal to call him Dad, but it was a title he used without any emotional attachment.
“How are you holding up?” Peter asked, out of his element in the role of a father.
“Been better.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry to hear about your mother.”
“I’m sorry too,” Jake replied. He wondered if his father was as uncomfortable as he was.
A long pause interrupted the stalling conversation.
“I wish there was something I could have done.”
“You could have stopped by and visited her. She was your wife at one point. And the mother of your only child.”