Authors: Karen Harter
“So this is
my
funeral.”
He nodded. “Like a wake, only instead of propping you up in a corner and toasting a corpse, I thought you might like to really
be here for it. It’s a shame to give a person all that attention only after they’re dead.”
“Then what? Are you going to push me in front of the train?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I’d have too much explaining to do.”
“Okay.” I reached for the glass in his hand. “Pour.”
He obliged and then raised his glass. “Here’s to the only girl I ever knew who would feel around in the mud for crawdads with
her bare hands.” We clinked glasses. “Remember when we boiled a coffee can full of ’em over the fire?”
“How old were we then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe about sixth grade. You were starting to get little boobs.”
“You remember that? You little perv. I remember you making the crawdads hold up their arms and scream before you put them
in the pot. What else? You’re supposed to say a bunch of nice things about me.”
“Oh, yeah.” He pulled a tightly folded piece of paper from his pocket but didn’t open it. “You were always a good guy to have
on my side during a war. A good strategist. And you could throw a pinecone grenade almost as far as I could.” He swirled the
liquor in his glass. “Then we went to junior high and got too cool to crawl on our bellies in the dirt. We gave up climbing
trees and building dams and took up sports and dances and whatever it is that girls do. Giggling and painting toenails.”
“I never did that.”
“We were still neighbors, rode the same school bus, but I didn’t really see you anymore. You didn’t see me. We just took each
other for granted. Then one day I saw you again. You were holding hands with Tim Weatherbee. You laughed like you used to
laugh with me. It was strange how I felt. It really caught me off guard.”
“You were jealous?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I snoozed, I losed. Anyway, that doesn’t matter anymore. The important thing is that we got a chance to
be friends again before—” He took a swig. “As adults, I mean.” He unfolded the lined yellow paper he had pulled from his pocket.
“Okay. I wrote this little eulogy. Is that the right word? It might sound dumb today. I tipped the bottle a little last night.
That’s when I got this idea, for the funeral and all.”
He cleared his throat. “Samantha Dodd Weatherbee will be missed by all who knew her. She died at the tender age of twenty-five
in the home of her youth and is survived by her son, TJ; her father, Judge Blake Dodd; her mother, Lucy Dodd; and her sister,
Lindsey Matthews. She was a skilled fly-fisher and could exactly mimic the call of a loon. Her dream was to live in a house
with a wraparound porch overlooking the Stillaguamish River. The river was her life. Samantha could tell by listening where
the stream was on its banks and knew precisely where the fish lay in any given hole. She knew the instant that the first cottonwood
buds broke through in spring and the difference between a robin’s morning call and the song for after the rain.
“Those of us who knew her will not miss her frank observation of our faults or her stubborn pride. We
will
miss her passion for the people and things she loved. She loved to hear the wind in the cottonwoods. Sometimes she made anyone
near stop to listen.”
These were things about myself I had forgotten. I watched Donnie’s jaw muscle flinch as he read. He had shaved closely but
missed a spot just under his chin. His blue-green eyes were shaded beneath his wiry brow and hard to read, like a current
sliding under an overhanging bank.
“She was devoted to her son, TJ, who will miss her most of all. He will miss the way she let his tree frogs crawl on her face.
He’ll remember the way she pushed the hair off his forehead, tucked him into bed at night and taught him how to cheat at cards.
As he grows she will not be there to make pencil marks on the wall. Every birthday, every Christmas, she will be the one gift
he wanted but didn’t get. When he dunks the winning shot at his high school game, he will miss her face in the crowd.”
I didn’t usually cry at funerals and I wasn’t about to start. “I want to go home now.” I listened intently for distant rumblings
or the woeful whistle of a train. “You know, if a train comes, I can’t—”
“I’m almost done.” Donnie turned the paper over and smoothed out the wrinkles. “We will grieve for a while, but life must
go on. Eventually the space that Samantha took up on this earth and in our hearts will make room for someone or something
else. We tend to get in a rage over the devastation of a newly logged hillside, but in a year or two the grasses and wildflowers
wave in the sun and we forget. We pick sweet wild blueberries among the stumps. TJ will be loved by those who remain. Samantha’s
parents will pause by her photo from time to time with sad smiles and then go on about their day. I will probably move away
from here. I’ll marry a tall thin beauty who looks great on my arm and she’ll always say the right thing. But sometimes I
will long for a friend who knows me, who will call bull on my self-deception, who is never boring or predictable, and I will
think of Sam. I’ll close my eyes and see the mischief in her green eyes, her wry smile, and I’ll reach for the phone and then
remember that she is no longer in my world.”
Donnie poured us each another shot. “And so, I tell you now”—his hand reached out and brushed my face—“while I can still touch
you. I have loved you, Samantha. I’ll miss you more than you know.”
He held his glass to mine and I returned his gaze before we tipped them back. The liquid ran like lava down my throat.
WHEN DONNIE BROUGHT ME home from my funeral, the sky was already the dark color of the clay banks down by Carter Bridge, though
it was not yet five o’clock. Multicolored Christmas lights outlined the log rails and eaves of our covered porch. Mom invited
Donnie to stay for dinner, which annoyed me because I was exhausted and wanted to be alone. He stuck his head in the oven
and smelled lasagna and the next thing I knew he was cutting garlic bread and arranging the slices in a basket for the table.
The lasagna was not homemade, like his mother’s. Mom had discovered frozen entrées, salad in a bag, veggies that were already
washed and cut, and frozen bread dough that you could slap in a pan, thaw and bake without all the mess. She was in homemaker
heaven. Now there was that much more time for painting muddy cows, lunching with tennis friends and taking TJ to the zoo.
For some reason, neither Donnie nor I mentioned my funeral. He just said we drove down to Dixon and sat by the river for a
while. The Judge nodded approvingly. Mom wanted to know if I had kept warm enough. TJ was indignant that we didn’t bring him
along, but Donnie promised to take him next time. “Just us guys,” he said. “We’ll launch driftwood boats and then go up on
the bridge and bomb them.” Donnie crinkled his nose and shook his head. “No girls, though. They might make us eat the crust
on our sandwiches and be quiet.” He leaned into TJ and whispered loudly, “And if you gotta take a pee, you don’t have to go
all the way to the bathroom.”
TJ liked that idea. His eyes stayed fixed on Donnie all through the meal. When Donnie laughed, TJ laughed. He even ate his
green beans after Donnie piled a second helping on his own plate, proclaiming that he grew green beans in his garden every
summer. TJ said he was going to grow some too. “Green beans and apples and popcorn, cuz those are my favorite vegetables.”
After dinner I crawled into TJ’s bed and read about Curious George and the man with the yellow hat while the Judge and Donnie
played chess on the teak-inlaid board that Matthew gave my father when he was first appointed to the State Superior Court.
This was the first time I had seen the Judge play chess with anyone but his old friend Matt. I figured that by now he would
have Donnie’s queen running for her life but also knew that winning was not nearly as important to Donnie as the privilege
of being in His Honor’s presence. He still addressed my father as
sir
, and whether they discussed the pros and cons of a global economy or a man’s purpose in life, I imagined Donnie greedily
following the trail of my father’s words, gathering each golden nugget of wisdom that fell from the sage’s lips.
Later, Donnie tapped on and then pushed open my bedroom door. “Hey, I saw your light on.” My father walked past him down the
hall and Donnie looked over his shoulder. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Don. I’m open to a rematch anytime. Good night, Sam.”
“Good night.”
Donnie waited until the Judge closed his bedroom door before coming in and sitting on the edge of my bed. “How do you feel?
I hope I didn’t get you too tired today.”
I put my book down and shook my head. Tired? What else was there? I was tired of life going on without me. “It was good to
get my funeral out of the way.” Why did I always say things I didn’t mean?
“Yeah. Well, they’ll probably have another one. They’ll have it down at the Community Church, I guess.” Donnie’s eyes wandered
around my room until they settled on the framed photo on my bedside table of TJ and me eating wedges of watermelon on the
Fourth of July. We beamed at each other, our cheeks bulging like chipmunks’. That was before I even considered death an option.
Now it was just a question of when. Donnie picked up the photo almost absently. “Then all the local women will go into a cooking
frenzy. Mom will bring over shepherd’s pie and crescent rolls. Lots of spaghetti. I remember that from when Uncle Les died.
We ate pasta for weeks.”
I pictured everyone I knew gathering to grieve over Hungarian goulash and green bean casserole. They wiped their mouths, leaned
back with a collective belch, pushed back their chairs and returned to their daily routines. “Ask your mother to bring lobster
and caviar instead. Somebody could bring steamed clams and garlic bread. I might even come back from the grave for that. And
macaroni and cheese for TJ, of course.” I made light of it, though it now seemed to loom as an inevitable event. I felt the
weight of the earth on my chest, pushing me into the bed, pressing me down, down into the rich river valley soil. As if trapped
in a satin-lined box under a sealed lid, I screamed inside like a claustrophobic, beating and clawing, begging to be let out.
But to Donnie I must have looked as calm as a lake on a windless morning. I yawned. “Are you coming over tomorrow?”
“No.” He stood deliberately and walked toward the door. He must have removed his denim overshirt while playing chess out by
the blazing fireplace. His muscular chest and shoulders showed through his white T-shirt. “I’m not coming by tomorrow or the
next day or the day after that. I’m not going to watch you die, Sam. Today was my good-bye.”
There was this long look between us and I thought he would come back to my bed and touch my face. I wanted him to hold me
in his strong arms, to be close enough to smell the cottonwood of his skin. I think I wanted to cry against his chest and
then feel him tenderly kiss the tears from the corners of my eyes. But he didn’t move. “Thank you,” I finally said.
“For what?”
“For being my friend.”
He nodded. “Good-bye, Sammy.”
The door closed behind him. It latched quietly, like I imagined the lid would close on a coffin. Quietly, reverently, permanently.
I
’M EMBARRASSED TO SAY that I was not one of those people who die graciously, like that sweet Southern belle Melanie in
Gone with the Wind.
The reality of my pending death was just more than I could bear. I found my soul too heavy to budge, so I wallowed in sorrow
in a darkened room. When TJ came to see me, I clung to him as if each visit might be our last, breaking down and weeping twice
in his presence, which I had vowed I would not do. Upsetting my son was the last thing I wanted; it’s just that to me it was
like TJ was dying. He would be lost to me forever whether it was him or me. I would no longer see him stepping with stealth
through the tall grass, head down, searching for frogs. I would no longer hear his sweet voice singing made-up songs or feel
the smoothness of his perfect brown skin. I would not witness the journey to manhood and beyond. I was mourning the loss of
my son.
I suppose I was thinking a lot about myself too. About how I would be leaving this world without having accomplished anything
important (except, of course, for TJ) and, worse yet, not having become someone. Here I was still floundering, just getting
my game piece on the board, and someone’s shouting, “Sorry!” Game over.
I took some comfort in thinking that Tim would deeply regret what he’d said. Refusing to forgive someone and then having them
die on you is a horrible burden to bear. I tried to picture him standing alone at my graveside and imagined what he might
say. But in the end, it really didn’t matter. If he couldn’t love TJ, he couldn’t love me. When he said that, something had
clicked off inside me. I finally knew that we were done—and in some strange way it was a relief. I had done what I could to
restore us, but he would not—could not—forgive.
Donnie had not been kidding when he said good-bye. He didn’t visit; he didn’t call. I tried to phone him a few times but he
wasn’t home, and after that I talked myself out of it. He had obviously meant what he said and really, I didn’t want him to
see me in this morose state. I was still coughing, even when I sat upright in the bed. I didn’t do a thing with my hair or
face. I just sat there most of each day staring at the TV the Judge had moved into my room. It was better that Donnie remember
me with at least some signs of life and dignity. Let him remember me laughing, fishing with him and TJ, singing the oldies
while he worked on his truck.
But I missed him. He was the one person I felt knew me to the core—and mysteriously he liked me anyway. And I knew
him,
I was sure, better than anyone—despite the seven-year interruption in our relationship.
My mother bought me a new mint-green chenille robe. Sometimes she played cheery music and insisted on opening my curtains.
Lindsey offered pep talks and manicures and once got me to play a game of hearts. But it all seemed so pointless. What did
anything matter anymore?