The Funeral
There was a lot to remember, and she patiently lay there like a piece of waxed fruit.
My family has always been fond of funerals. I don’t mean they like it when people die. They just have a morbid fascination with paying their respects to the family and the deceased.
It was in early August when my mother got the call that Miss Maggie was dead.
She had lived a long life and entered her 95th year with a steely acknowledgment that she would not be around much longer. She was right, although she did outlive her original prediction to be gone by the spring.
She had always been Miss Maggie to me. My family was just as fascinated with calling old ladies “miss” and old men “mister” as they were with funerals. Ironically, the de facto sign of respect we used was a person’s first name, not their last. It was never Mrs. Watson or Mrs. Mowbray, but “miss” followed by their familiar Christian name. I have often wondered about this odd breach of protocol found in families where I am from.
The wet heat of August seemed to drip from the sun. The stickiness was unbearable to me. I only wanted to swim or sit, sprawled, like a relaxing dog in front of the large window air conditioner that cooled our living room. But a funeral meant wearing a suit and tie. Unthinkable in the church sanctuary that only had a small window air conditioner perched precariously in one of the red-tinted windows.
Miss Maggie’s skin was waxy but looked as lifelike as makeup would allow. It was unnatural, shocking even because Miss Maggie never wore makeup when she had breath on her lips.
When we arrived at the church, every one of the early attendees was seated as close to the cool current flowing weakly from the struggling window unit as possible. Being late forced us to sit as near the open casket—the front pews—or as far away—the back pews—as possible. My mother, who was not one to sit in the back of the church on any occasion, chose the front. We sat near the grieving family and had an excellent view of the corpse, once affectionately known as Miss Maggie.
Miss Maggie’s skin was waxy but looked as lifelike as makeup would allow. It was unnatural, shocking even because Miss Maggie never wore makeup when she had breath on her lips. I heard a few comments whispered that the undertaker had gone too far. A few women admonished their husbands to make sure this travesty did not fall to them when they were laid out for all to see.
The funeral was flawless, as funerals go. There were no errors on the pastor’s part. Her name, date of birth, and details of her life were correct, and the family nodded in somber ascent at the highlights of her life. All the while, Miss Maggie lay there still and unlike herself. I believed I would be Miss Maggie’s age by the time the funeral ended. Her 95 years begat long stories. She had seen cars replace horses, remembered the world before airplanes, and saw changes like no other generation had seen. There was a lot to remember, and she patiently lay there like a piece of waxed fruit.
Soon, Miss Maggie was carried through the double doors, down a winding path that hugged the side of the church, to the freshly dug and waiting grave that yawned with a terrible finality. Then, slowly, she was lowered into the grave. As the coffin rested at the bottom, her elderly daughter, Miss Mary, sprinkled a handful of dirt over the casket. There was a mournful breath.
Then, to my relief and the relief of a few others, we all went into the church annex for refreshments.
The church annex was cool when we came in from the graveyard. I quickly made my way to the sherbet and ginger ale punch filling a large, ornate bowl on the center of a cloth-covered table. After a luxurious sip, I joined my parents, who were waiting to say a few words of comfort to Miss Maggie’s family. Some well-wishers did so quickly, almost embarrassed by the relief they felt at the end of the funeral. Some lingered, seemingly trying to improve upon the pastor’s eulogy.
When we finally made our way to the family, my mother took Miss Mary’s hand and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.” So far, so good. Miss Mary politely said, “Thank you.” Then, she said something unexpected. With her brow knitted, she leaned in, looked my mother in the eye, and said, “How did she look?” I think my mother twitched but composed herself and, with a gentle voice, said,” Oh, she sure looked dead.”
Everyone’s eyes fluttered open like roller blinds. “She looked good. Very good. I meant to say good,” my mother stammered. Miss Mary lowered her head and began shaking with what I supposed was an offended rage. I held my breath. My father changed colors and cut his eyes at my mother. But instead of rage, laughter welled up in Miss Mary’s throat. She giggled, took my mother’s hand, and laughed. They both laughed. We all did.