The Sweet By and By

by Todd Johnson

  The preacher is going on now, earnest seeming enough. If I had been paying attention I would have probably heard him say, “Friends and family of dear Bernice Stokes.” That’s a reasonable way to start a funeral. Cameron and Greta Stokes and their two children are opposite me in the pew across the aisle. I wave to the little ones, who wave back even though they have no idea who I am. That’s how children are. Wave at them, and they wave back. Greta stares straight ahead. She is wearing a hat. She is trying to look like the idea of what she thinks a well-bred Southern wife of a man who has lost his mother looks like. Bernice’s son brings a handkerchief to his eyes, then his nose, in one continuous gesture. He is sweating. It seems to me that he’s been sweating every time I’ve ever seen him.

  I am digging in my purse, which I am aware has always been a distracting and very time-consuming habit of mine, but I feel like I will die if I don’t find a mint or piece of hard candy, my throat is so dry. There is a woman standing behind the pulpit now with a fountain of curly blond hair and very pale skin except for a red inflamed area at the nape of her neck, reading from the Bible. I don’t recognize what she’s reading. I’m not sure it’s from the Bible; I must have misunderstood. It sounds more like poetry, and something makes me think I heard it in a movie. Could be; Bernice loved old movies. Hell, half the time she thought she was in one. Aside from that, all she wanted to do was talk. The talk got progressively nonsensical and childlike as time went on, but so do most things the more you dwell on them, so it never bothered me. Bernice was only being Bernice.

  The morning after she passed away, Rhonda closed the beauty shop and came to me to ask if I thought Bernice’s family would mind if she did her hair for the funeral. I said, “Rhonda, that is so lovely, I know Bernice would have loved it, but she would also probably insist that you did Betsy Ross’s hair too.” There wasn’t as much hair on the bulldog as there had been on Mister Benny, but she had always obliged Bernice by putting a little shampoo on the short hair and around the ears.

  “You’re talkin about that bulldog? Since when does it have a name?”

  “Since I suggested it, and don’t ask me why I did.”

  “Well are they gonna bury her with Betsy Ross then?” Rhonda asked in all sincerity.

  Thinking of the daughter-in-law, I answered quickly, “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well that’s not right. People get buried with all kind of things pushed in down by their feet. My great uncle got buried with a fishin pole.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes it is, and the funeral home was glad to do it too. The man there said one time he buried a lady with a saxophone.”

  “Well as I said, that’s not going to happen. Actually, I think Bernice would want you to have old Betsy, you took such good care of her every week. And may the Stars and Stripes forever wave.”

  “You don’t think her family might want her? Maybe for the grandchildren?”

  “Rhonda. Honey. I believe you have met Greta Stokes and so I think you already know the answer to that question. Consider yourself lucky, Bernice used to keep whiskey up inside Mister Benny until she got caught. No telling what you might find. I’m sure she got herself a regular stash winning poker games with Alvin and the rest of them. You and Mike might be able to have yourselves a full-blown cocktail party.”

  Rhonda laughed, but I could see she wasn’t through crying yet. As it turned out, Greta Stokes couldn’t have cared less what arrangements were made. She didn’t go with her husband to pick out the casket or flowers. She went to Hudson Belk and bought a new outfit for Bernice to be buried in. “Something appropriate,” she said, because “there is not a thing fitting to wear to a dog fight in that closet of hers, not to mention that everything is stained with God-knows-what and wadded up like trash.”

  I feel tired. I hear the door open in the back of the sanctuary, and I turn as discreetly as I can. Lorraine is standing in the aisle, scanning the congregation. The usher tries to hand her a service bulletin but she slips quickly past him and situates herself on the end of a back pew. It’s not like her to be late, I had wanted her to sit with me and Ann, but I swear I don’t know how she does everything she does anyway. At least she made it. She nods when she sees me looking at her, and I feel like I can rest. She had to be here, and now she is. I cup my hand to Ann’s ear and whisper, “Lorraine.” That’s all I need to say. I want to lie down, but I’m not sleepy. Lorraine gave me a second cup of coffee this morning even though she’s supposed to keep a watch on my caffeine. I need to move around or something. I can’t concentrate.

  The preacher is standing again, saying some thank-yous on behalf of the family. There’s an awful lot of noise up there, can’t anyone else hear it? The organ is playing, but what’s coming out isn’t organ music. The sound at the front is louder now, it’s deafening. The organist is smiling, but what I hear is Hank Williams singing “Why Don’t You Love Me Like You Used to Do?” The preacher does not notice. How can he not notice? The choir is sitting still, no one is moving. The bottom half of the casket is cracked open. I cough and I see a leg. Bernice has kicked open the casket lid. I’m too old to be here. I need to lie down. Bernice is sitting up now, she’s laughing, sort of dancing in the casket with her arms over her head. “Now that’s what I like,” she cries out. “You can give me Hank any day of the week. He makes me feel sad and happy and wild all at the same time. That’s what a funeral needs to be. This is me. This is what I like!” She is out of the casket now, straightening the bottom of her dress. I turn to my daughter Ann to say something. She sees nothing. She is listening intently to the preacher whose mouth is moving, even though no words are coming out. I start to stand up. Ann turns and puts her hand on my arm. “Do you need to go out?” she whispers. She means, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” because that is what she always assumes when I try to leave any room. A skinny usher with two white carnations on his jacket stares at me. I can tell from his face that he thinks I may be feeling ill, dying, as far as he knows. I settle back down. I will not draw attention to myself. I’m obviously not well. This is my damn medication. I’m going to kill Lorraine. She is supposed to watch Mathilda. She’s giving me too much, I know it. I’ve always known it. I’ve become so used to pill-taking that I don’t even know what’s me and what’s a chemical reaction. I’m going to hide. I take the church bulletin from the pew in front of me and hold it close to my face. People probably think I’m upset. I am.

  “I don’t like this dress, you know that, don’t you?” Bernice has picked me out of the congregation. “You were supposed to be in charge of what I’m to be buried in, so please explain to me why I have this thing on?”

  The preacher is going right on preaching, and here she comes, walking straight down the aisle as pretty as you please. She’s coming toward me; there’s nothing I can do about it. I try not to look up at her but she keeps on talking. “I have never liked powdery blue, or any powdery color for that matter. They look like the kind of pajamas that sick people wear. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not sick.” Why is she speaking this way? Why is she speaking at all, and she’s clear as a bell. This is another Bernice. No. This is my medication. I am definitely going to kill Lorraine as soon as I get my hands on her.

  People are watching the casket be carried down the aisle. “Nobody’s in it!” I almost say out loud but catch myself. Bernice is standing over me. I will not speak. I will not talk to her. Absolutely not. I will not speak. This is exactly how old people lose their minds. This is it and it’s happening to me right now. Why will she not go away? I’m going to force her back into that casket. I fix my eyes on her like a target. I brought her out and now I’m going to put her back where she’s supposed to be. She won’t look back at me. She’s swaying down the aisle, and now Hank is singing “If You Love Me Half as Much as I Love You.”

  People are standing up and filing out after the casket. My daughter Ann reaches for my hand. I pull away. Bernice has me blocked in. Ann looks at me a
skew but stays with me. She probably thinks I want a few more minutes before we go to the graveside. Bernice touches Ann’s shoulder but she doesn’t notice. Undiscouraged, Bernice speaks to her anyway, nodding my way. “Honey, I know she’s always driven you a little crazy, but she’s a good girl, you need to remember that when you lose your patience with her.”

  I refuse to acknowledge her. “Do you hear me or am I talking to a brick wall?” I stare straight ahead. I will not give into voices; this is where it all starts. The slipping away into senility. The one thing I have had is my mind and I will not let it go. This is how it begins, and I will not accept it. I will not participate. Her voice doesn’t exist to me. She leans down close to my face. “You go ahead and sit there. I’ve got all day. I’ve got my mind made up to talk to you and I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Bernice walks up to the woman who sang “The Old Rugged Cross.” “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. Do you know her? I was hoping Ole Hank would sing ‘Hey Good Lookin’.’ I have always loved that song. There aren’t enough young people here. I know a lot of young people. Where are they? Where’s Rhonda?” She is momentarily distracted by someone she recognizes and points him out to me. “That man is a deacon in this church and has had an affair with the organist, who also happens to be the preacher’s wife, for going on ten years. He thinks no one knows but everyone knows, including the preacher.” She continues, as though for my personal edification. “And the lady behind you, Leola Matthews, has never missed a funeral for the thirty years I’ve known her. One time she told me that she’s even gone to funerals when she’s on vacation. She picks out the obituaries in the local newspaper and then shows up on time. I told her years ago I thought it was the most morbid thing I’d ever heard tell of, but she told me that on the contrary it certainly is not. She said it always makes her feel grateful. I can understand that.”

  Bernice continues surveying the room. “Too many black dresses and other assorted outfits here. I thought I said a long time ago, ‘God forbid everyone wear black to my funeral.’ I want some red. I’ve always adored red. I’m tired of what passes as tradition to keep us from thinking about what we like, or to make us feel guilty for being different. I do hate this sick blue dress they’ve got me in. I don’t know why you let them do this.” She glares my way.

  “I didn’t.”

  “What?” Ann whispers, placing a hand over mine.

  I say nothing, shake my head slightly, and retrieve my hand.

  Ann excuses herself to give me some privacy, while other friends and relatives file by. Bernice steps out into the aisle in front of her son and daughter-in-law. “I feel sorry for him. He has lost the desire to be curious about anything. That is his worst fault. Greta’s not the problem. She’s sad in her own way, sad, you know?”

  There is only one person left in the room besides me. She is sitting in a back corner, and just when I decide that she’s too far away for me to see well enough to identify, I recognize Rhonda. Bernice’s voice lowers to a whisper. “Do you know she did my hair? She was always so kind to me. You probably thought I was senile and gone. But I insisted. I wouldn’t leave you alone. You were alive. You were the most alive thing I saw around me in that place. Not scared to give life a go as long as we could. We did all right, didn’t we?”

  I am burning. “What do you want?” I shout. An usher clears his throat behind me in the vestibule. He has heard me, wonders if something is wrong, and is letting me know that he’s back there, ready to help or to intervene at the right moment, just give him the signal.

  “Why are you talking like this?” I shock myself as I hear the words fall off my tongue. “You have never talked this way.”

  “You mean lucid?” She laughs. “I don’t really know. It just happened, like what’s in my mind is no longer being blown around like a hurricane. I feel settled inside, and when I open my mouth I know what’s coming out.”

  “You are dead.” I lower my voice.

  “Well at least I’m here,” she says.

  “Mama, I’m sorry to bother you, but you’ve got to get in the car. It’s here at the front and they’re ready to go.” Ann is standing beside me.

  “I’m coming.” I get up.

  “Good. Come on. It’s going to pour as sure as day.” Ann walks out. Rhonda is leaving now too, dabbing her eyes with a wadded Kleenex.

  “Bernice, I am not going to talk to you.” I start down the aisle toward the foyer. I am fleeing, but I am not afraid. I am not losing my mind. I am not losing control of myself. “I am finished talking,” I tell her again.

  “Suit yourself, sweetheart,” she says. “I can talk to you whenever I want to.”

  I am walking away telling myself that I will not remember this once I sleep for a while.

  Bernice follows me. “Can’t I tell you one more thing?”

  “You can tell me why you’re walking around talking.”

  “Actually, I can’t tell you that because I don’t understand it myself.” Bernice smiles. “But I want you to know something if you don’t already. Life is choosing whom and what you love. Everything else follows.”

  She is gone from sight. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice lingering.

  I stop and turn around, raising my cane toward the empty front of the sanctuary. “Thank me? I didn’t keep you from dying. I didn’t keep you from losing your mind either. Who’s supposed to sit with me now? Who’s going to get me out of a chair? Not you. I’m tired of going from one day to the next with a bottle of Tylenol.”

  The organist is playing “Amazing Grace.” She is frowning at the sheet music in front of her. At the foot of the porch steps, Ann has the car door open, and the same skinny usher is holding an umbrella. We have to go to the grave.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RHONDA

  The stationery is thick like cloth and expensive-looking, even though it’s frayed at the corners from being handled too much. I never bought stationery myself ’til I got married, but I can tell when something is nice. I think I got that from my Mama; she told me I had a good eye. Some of the pages have stains, some of the words are smeared. A thin navy blue line runs all the way around the edge of each piece of paper with “Bernice A. Stokes” printed at the top in the kind of curly letters that no real person could ever do, they’re so perfect. Grandma all the time told me my writing looked a nest of copperheads whenever I tried to show her my homework. I was stupid to look for some kind of compliment from her, but that’s the way you are when you’re young; you don’t know no better. “Is that why you go to school?” she said. “I stopped goin when I was thirteen years old and I can write better than that,” then she hoisted herself out of her chair and turned the TV up as loud as it would go.

  “Could you please tell me why we have been summoned down here? You’ve already fixed my hair once today, unless you took advantage of my failing brain and lied about it.” Margaret is standing in the door on a walker with Lorraine steadying her.

  Lorraine adds, “I had to drag her, Rhonda. I told her you said it was important. I think that’s the only reason she came. Too jealous I might know somethin she don’t.”

  Margaret rattles her way in and sits down. “And to think all this time, Lorraine, I’ve been foolish enough to think you tell me everything you know.”

  “Woman, your head ain’t big enough to hold all I know,” Lorraine follows.

  “Let’s turn our attention to Rhonda if you think that’s possible. I’ll deal with you on my own time.”

  “It’s gon be dinnertime soon, Rhonda,” Lorraine says. That’s her way of letting me know that we might only have Miss Margaret’s patience for a short while. Patience goes and comes when a person gets old, I’ve learned that much. You gotta go with the flow.

  “Oh look, isn’t that a sight?” Margaret points to the wall shelf behind me.

  Once I had inherited Bernice’s bulldog, I decided she oughta park herself in full view in the salon. I even made a little sign wi
th magic marker that said, “Miss Betsy Ross.” I don’t know if the real Betsy Ross was single or married, but I wrote it how I liked. Bernice would have loved it, I know, and if anybody wants to say something about it, the hell with em.

  Margaret is thrilled. “Perched up there on display like she’s in a museum! That’s wonderful, Rhonda, we’ll see her every time we come in here.”

  “Yeah.” They’re still waiting for the reason I called them. “That’s what I wanted to tell y’all,” I say. “I knew I wanted to sit her out somewhere, so I decided to wash her off a little bit first and when I started trying to unzip her, I felt something crumply up in there.”

  “I told you!” Margaret cries. “What did that rascal do?”

  “She had some letters,” I said, but Margaret is cracking up before I can finish telling.

  “Lord have mercy! Who in the world wrote letters to Bernice? I can’t imagine her writing much more than her name, can you, Lorraine?”

  “I don’t know,” Lorraine says. From what I can tell, Lorraine is somebody who tries to never jump to conclusions, maybe because she’s seen too many things not turn out like they ought to, working in this place every day.

  I pick up where I left off. “I didn’t want to read em by myself,” I say. “I thought maybe I shouldn’t be reading em at all.”