Lily spaced out for a few comparatively pleasant minutes, but when her attention returned to the gray three-piece suit behind the podium, he said, “And now, we’re going to hear from somebody who holds our dearly departed in a very special place in his heart. I ask you: What can be more tender, more protective and sweet than a big brother’s love for his little sister? Michael Charles Maycomb, won’t you come up and say a few words?”
Mike? Lily nearly dropped the baby off her lap in shock. According to Charlotte, Mike had been intent on making Charlotte’s life as unpleasant as possible from the moment she was born. When Charlotte was an infant, her baby skin was covered with bruises from where Mike used to pinch her when nobody was looking. When she was a little girl, Mike took the axe from the toolshed and chopped her new red wagon into splinters. When, as a young adolescent, Charlotte began to develop at a rapid rate, Mike insisted on calling her “Jugs.” And this was only the stuff Charlotte had told Lily about. No matter what Mike did when they were growing up, Charlotte told Lily, her parents dismissed it with clichés like,
“Boys will be boys.”
Now Mike was president of the Cobb County chapter of the Lord’s Lieutenants, an all-male Christian paramilitary organization devoted to preserving traditional Christian values, particularly as they pertain to the submission of women. Prior to her death, Charlotte only saw Mike at unavoidable family occasions. Once, Charlotte had told Lily, Mike had cornered her and told her how being the liberal she was, she should appreciate the Lord’s Lieutenants because they happily accepted black, Latino, and Asian men into their ranks. Charlotte had replied, “How beautiful ... all races, creeds, and colors united in the spirit of misogyny.”
Charlotte told Lily afterward that she was sure this comment would have really pissed Mike off, if he had known what the word misogyny meant.
And so it was Mike whom the Maycombs had decided would memorialize Charlotte. It was fitting, in a perverse way. They never understood her while she was alive. Why should they understand her now that she was dead?
Mike stood at the lectern in his gray three-piece suit (What is it with the gray three-piece suits in this church? Lily wondered), his ash-blond hair combed over his bald spot. “Charlotte always did love reading literature and stuff like that,” he began, “so I’ve composed a poem in her honor.”
Dear god, no, Lily thought.
He cleared his throat and began. “It’s called, ‘My Sister’.” He began reading in the sing-song rhythm that the marginally literate feel is integral to poetry:
When I was a boy, God looked down and saw me at my play.
He said, “This boy needs a friend to help him on his way.” That’s why, I think, he saw fit to send you to me—
A little baby sister—as sweet as sweet could be.
I used to stand and watch you as in your crib you laid.
As time went by and you grew some, in the yard we played.
More time went by, and I admit, I was surprised to see
The educated lady that you turned out to be.
Now the Lord has taken you, and as we together pray,
There’s something I have never said that I want to say.
Although I’ve never said it, please know that it is true, When I say these three words, my sister: I...
Then a miracle occurred. Well, the closest thing to a miracle this church would see anyway. As Lily held the suddenly restless Mimi on her lap, she detected warmth and movement emanating from the child’s diaper. Hallelujah! Lily thought. The child hath pooped! Now I have a socially acceptable reason to bolt from this debacle of a memorial service.
Just then, Mimi emitted an eardrum-shattering wail. Given the nature of Mike’s poem, Lily wasn’t sure if Mimi was crying because of her soiled diaper or because she was a budding literary critic.
When Lily carried Mimi into the ladies’ room, she was dismayed to discover that it was not equipped with a changing table. Great, she thought, all this talk of family values in this church, and they don’t even give me a place to change a poopy diaper. She changed Mimi awkwardly on the counter, and then noticed that the large mirror above the counter protruded two or three inches from the wall. Instead of throwing the dirty diaper into the trash like a good girl, she slam-dunked it so it wedged between the mirror and the wall. By tomorrow morning’s service, that diaper would be stinking up the place pretty good, and they’d go nuts trying to figure out where the smell was coming from.
Lily reentered the sanctuary just in time to hear the rev suggest that they all join in singing “How Great Thou Art,” since it had been “one of Charlotte’s favorites.” To the best of Lily’s memory, Charlotte’s favorite song had been Patti Smith’s version of “Gloria.”
As soon as the service was over, Ida made a bee-line for Lily. “There’s my little precious!” she squealed at Mimi. “There’s Grandma’s little angel!”
“Gamma!” Mimi sprang into Ida’s arms, and Ida carried her away without even acknowledging Lily’s presence.
Lily watched as Ida showed Mimi off to her church friends. As she watched the bald men and shampooed-and-set women coo over her daughter, Lily was reminded of that scene in Rosemary’s Baby where Rosemary discovers all the wrinkled old Satanists keeping watch over her baby’s black bassinet.
Five minutes, she thought. They can fuss over Mimi for exactly five minutes, but then we’ve got to get out of here before I turn into a pumpkin or a pillar of salt or something.