Francis cleared his throat, furrowed his eyebrows, and signed, You’re not dressed for a funeral. They are your girlfriend’s parents, son. You need to dress like a man today.
The boy’s face fell. After Bugg passed through the door, Eric followed him inside. He was so angry he yelled incoherently at his father from behind.
Bugg turned. Get your implants. I’m too tired to sign right now.
The boy stormed off, and while he was gone, Bugg poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it unadorned in small sips. Eric returned with the massive microphones clipped to his hair, and the wires looped around his ears.
“Just so I’m understood. Every person born into this world deserves to be recognized when they leave it. Even the Jessups, maybe especially children of God like them. Jesus was plain on the matter.”
“Yes, sir,” Eric said.
“You mourn with those that mourn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bought you a good suit, didn’t I?”
Eric nodded.
“Well, okay. You know what to do.”
By the time the funeral started, the air had grown still, and the clouds had become thick.
Before they could leave for the funeral, Francis made him stop to watch the Weather Channel. The crawl at the bottom of the screen put their county on Storm Watch, but when the Local on the Eights segment came on, the Doppler showed nothing severe in the area.
“Look at that, over by Amarillo,” his father said.
In the lower left-hand corner, the picture was a thick, orange-and-red crosshatch of severe thunderstorms.
That’s bad, Eric signed.
“We’ll be back before it hits,” Francis said. “All kinds of hail going to be in that.”
Eric went to his car, but Francis stopped and got into his line of sight. Not in that orange monster, he signed, then he motioned the boy over to his pickup.
They drove to the funeral in silence, with both windows down, each of them wearing the same suit in different sizes. Eric’s tie was orange. His father’s was yellow with gray stripes. They arrived a few minutes early, his dad parked, and when Eric started to get out, he signed, We’ll sit here.
Why? the boy asked.
Because we’re not family.
Through the cemetery, Eric could see a small gathering of people under an awning. The grave itself was obscured by the row of headstones. Way past everyone sat a tiny little excavator, curled up and parked. Eric looked over at his father to point out the stupid little tractor and saw that his father was looking out his window, across the street, with his hand on the bouquet of flowers that was sitting on the seat.
Eric was good at wringing meaning out of people’s expressions, but with his father’s head turned away, he couldn’t gauge his mood correctly. The way he rubbed his middle finger across the base of his lip made Eric uneasy. His father didn’t say much, but he was easy to read, and that finger going back and forth was like a weather map.
While they were waiting, Eric’s phone buzzed. It was Jaymee saying they were at the cemetery. Eric texted her back, writing, Waiting on my dad. Be there soon.
Eric tapped his dad’s shoulder. “Dad,” he said in his raw voice. When he didn’t respond, Eric said, “I’m going,” and he got out of the truck without looking back. His father followed at a distance. When Eric arrived, Jaymee signed, I’m glad you’re here.
Me, too, he signed back.
Jaymee pointed over Eric’s shoulder. Why did your dad come? Did he know my parents? she asked.
Eric shrugged.
Weird, she said, then she grabbed Eric’s arm and led him over to where her family was sitting. After they sat, she signed, You look nice. An Oklahoma State tie and everything.
Eric smiled. She pointed out who everyone was at the funeral: Lexi, of course; her Aunt Kathy and Uncle Mel and her cousin Izzy; three or four people she didn’t know who seemed underdressed; Pastor Rick from church; some church ladies who go to all the funerals; the funeral director and his son, who was in training; and some lady in her thirties Jaymee thought was from the newspaper.
Francis sat directly behind them, and set his hand on Eric’s shoulder. Jaymee turned and stacked her hand on top of his and said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Bugg.”
He set his hand on top of hers, which started to weigh down Eric’s shoulder. “You have had a good effect on my boy,” he said. “Your parents’ deaths were a tragedy. I wanted you to know the Bugg family mourns your loss.”
Eric rotated his shoulder to let people know he’d had enough.
Pastor Rick went to the front of the small rectangle of chairs and welcomed everyone in a strange mixture of solemnity and Will Rogers-y charm. He spoke of the Jessup family, who had been no strangers to tragedy. “As it says in the book of Psalms, many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord rescues them from them all. Hoot Jessup was a man of many turns, who was taken from us suddenly, senselessly. It is true he fired the first shot, but it was just salt. Salt of the earth, brothers and sisters. We all know what happens when salt loses its savor. Wherewith shall it be salted? It becomes good for nothing and is cast out to be trodden under foot of men.”
At this point in Pastor Rick’s speech, people began looking at each other, squinting, trying not to seem confused.
“A moment of loss like this one makes us all look to our own mortality and wonder if our candles might be more difficult to snuff out if we put them under a bushel basket. I say to you, brothers and sisters, the Lord would not have it so. This moment is our opportunity to throw back our shoulders and spit at the Devil and rebuke the devourer and remember that when the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears, and rescues us from all our troubles. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit. None of those who take refuge in Him will be condemned.”
Pastor Rick checked his note cards and clasped his hands behind his back. “Now Hoot’s daughter, Lexi, will perform a song in honor of her beloved parents.”
Lexi rose from her seat and took her place at the front where Pastor Rick had been standing just a moment before. She was wearing dark black eyeliner and a black shawl that appeared to be shredded in places on purpose. Her hair was dyed red at the tips and hung in front her face. She wore a black scoop-necked T-shirt and a black skirt over black leggings that stopped midcalf. The soles of her shoes were tall in front and back, and there were rings on most of her fingers. She took a few moments to compose herself, and when it seemed like she might not sing or say anything, Pastor Rick encouraged her to go ahead.
“I read on the internet that the band on the Titanic played this song as it sank. It was in the movie, so it must be true.” Lexi took out her phone and touched the screen. The small sound of a violin playing the opening strains of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” came out of the tiny speakers. Lexi joined in as the verse came around. Her voice was tentative but clear. Her song moved everyone, including the woman from the newspaper. When she was done, she forgot to stop the song. A slow techno beat started, and she was most of the way back to her seat before she had it turned off.
Pastor Rick came back to the front and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his suit. “Lexi Jessup, we have to get you into the choir.”
June’s sister Kathy rose before Pastor Rick had a chance to introduce her, so he did it as she walked up. She was wearing a plain black dress, hose, shoes. Her head was draped in a black cloth that looked like it came out of a kitchen drawer. She squared herself and lifted her head. As she did, her face looked enraged. People knew why, but the intensity of it came as a surprise. Though her face was motionless, her expression shifted from anger to stillness, and she looked at each person in turn. She lifted her face to the sky, and her countenance became anguished, in the sudden but imperceptible way that light changes.
“Damn it all to hell,” she said.
“Kathy?” Pastor Rick gasped.
“Damn this town, and everyone in it.” She lifted a finger and pointed it
at the mourners. “Damn the television and the cops and Chuck Vogel and my ungrateful nieces.” She looked ready to continue, but she burst into tears. “Damn the Bible and your words and—” Kathy threw her arms wide, the kitchen shawl falling to the ground unceremoniously, like the wing of a crow.
Pastor Rick crept toward her and offered his arm. She observed him from the corner of her eye, and after a tense moment, she took his arm, and lowered her head again. “Let’s get you a chair,” Pastor Rick said. “Take mine.”
Kathy allowed him to guide her and help her settle into the chair. People were ready for another outburst, but one never came.
Eric glanced over his shoulder at his father, who raised his eyebrows and signed, She gets to. Eric nodded and looked forward, and then back at his dad, then down and forward again.
Pastor Rick took his place again at the front. He breathed in a pattern that looked like one for which he’d trained himself, then he asked if anyone had anything they’d like to say.
“Please,” he added. “Maybe someone could …” He scanned the group more than once. “Okay, then. Time for the procession.”
The pallbearers brought the Jessup caskets to the grave sites, which were tidy and surrounded by chrome diamond plate. A man in a kilt with a set of bagpipes appeared out of nowhere and played “Shall We Gather at the River.” At this point, no one thought to question the choice of hymn. The pallbearers set their loads onto ornate chrome rigs that held the caskets aloft until the funeral director’s son tripped two small chrome levers that silently delivered the caskets into the graves with mechanical precision.
The mourners moved past the graves, slowly throwing in their dirt or setting flowers alongside them. Francis was last, and when he emerged from the other side of line, he still had the flowers in his hand.
“We can take those,” the funeral director said, reaching for the bouquet.
Francis jerked them away, then politely said, “No, thank you.”
Eric and Jaymee stood together off to the side, signing to each other, as Lexi and her family clustered together and wept. Francis went straight to Eric and got his attention. He put the flowers under his arm and signed, When this is done, meet me over there, and we’ll go see your mother together. He pointed to an eight-foot gravestone with twin Confederate flags on the plinth. Bring her with you.
Dad, no, Eric signed.
Don’t “no” me. It’s been months. Have you taken the girl to meet her yet? Francis asked.
Taken me to meet who? she signed, speaking along.
Dad, Eric pleaded. Come on.
I see, Francis signed.
Eric, what is he talking about? Jaymee asked. She studied the two of them, their expressions, postures, the flowers under Francis’s arm, the ring on his finger. Oh, she signed. I see. I didn’t know she was here.
She’s not, Eric said, then turned so his father couldn’t see him sign. She died when I was eleven. I think about her all the time. I don’t care about that gravestone.
But he does, Jaymee signed.
Today is about your family, Eric said. He should have thought about that. We don’t have to double up.
Eric, my parents are gone. A funeral is for the living.
Jaymee turned back to Francis and excused them both.
I can go with you, she signed.
Eric looked at her with an expression that began with anger but softened quickly into an emotion that didn’t sort itself into any state of mind with a name. It will be okay, she signed, and Eric nodded.
She took a few short steps toward Francis, to close the gap. “Eric was planning to bring me here, but everything went crazy with the TV people and my family and the house,” she said.
“He was?” Francis asked, looking past Jaymee at Eric, whose hands were shoved deep into his pockets.
“Yes. He said it was important to him that I meet her.”
“Good,” Francis said. “It is important to remember. Once the grass has grown in, it’s better—easier, I mean. The grass shows you’re healing.” He threw his thumb toward the open grave. “That is like coming out of surgery.”
“What a sweet thing to say, Mr. Bugg. Today is a big day for goodbyes.” She walked over to Eric, signing, This is a small investment.
As the three of them left the service together, Jaymee heard someone yell, “Hey!” Francis stopped, but Jaymee ushered them on. “Hey,” the voice yelled again. Jaymee could tell it was her Aunt Kathy’s husband, Kevin. “Where the heck do you think you’re going?”
Jaymee stopped and gathered her energy before turning around.
“Your parents are over here, Jaymee,” he yelled. Kathy, Lexi, and everyone else fell in behind him.
Eric asked what they were saying. His father said never mind. Jaymee took another breath and turned. “In the hole?” she called. “You think my folks are down there, in the hole?”
Her Aunt Kathy peeked around her husband and said, “Is it any wonder you and your—” she started, then she said, “Never mind.”
“Is it any wonder what?” Jaymee said.
“Never mind,” Kathy said.
“That is the third time in the last thirty seconds I’ve heard someone say that word. If I hear it again, I’m going to Hulk-out and destroy this place.” She took Eric and his father by their hands and led them away, hoping she was leading them in the right direction.
Francis asked if now was a good time to do this after all. Eric couldn’t hear or he would have agreed. Jaymee said and signed, No. It’s good. I need a break from those people.
Francis took over and led them to a grave site by the fence. When they arrived, he made the sign of the cross, knelt, and placed the flowers against her gravestone. After a word of prayer, he took some old flowers from a wire sconce in the grass and placed the new flowers in their stead.
“How did your wife die, Mr. Bugg?” Jaymee asked.
“Cancer,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It was ovarian,” he told her, still on his knees.
“How old was Eric when she passed?”
“Eleven,” Francis said. “Eleven years old.” After he spoke he dropped his head and drifted into prayer or meditation. He didn’t speak, so it was unclear. Behind him Jaymee and Eric began to sign.
I want to leave this place, she said.
I thought you wanted to come here for him, Eric answered.
Not here, she signed. Anadarko.
Where would you go? he asked.
I don’t know. West.
Okay, Eric signed, with a sadness in his eyes.
Jaymee touched his face with her hand and signed, Not alone. I want you to come, too.
Eric looked at his dad, his shoulders rounded, his hands now in front of him, on the edge of the gravestone. When he looked back at Jaymee, his eyes were welling up.
We could go anywhere, she said.
When they looked again at Francis, a bird had landed on the stone. Francis lifted his head and provided a finger for the bird to perch on; when it saw the two of them, the bird leapt into the air and flew away.
Birds really like him, Eric signed.
Francis stepped in close, took Jaymee and his son by their arms, and turned to Jaymee. “Don’t you ever let him say she’s not here,” he said, his eyes round with fury.
FRANCIS FOUND ERIC ASLEEP ON the couch, with his implant microphones unclipped and sitting on the coffee table. A Netflix message was on the television, asking if he was still watching. Francis turned everything off, but before switching off the set, he watched his son. His hands were shoved between his knees and his mouth was wide open. He touched the boy lightly on the side of his face, but backed away when Eric swatted at his hand. Francis wondered, as he often did, how the boy could have ever been so small that the two of them could fit in a twin bed with room to spare. Francis wanted to burrow into the couch to sleep with his nose in the boy’s hair, like they used to.
When his wife first became sick, Fr
ancis would sleep with Eric, leaving his wife the whole bed because her nights were wracked with pain, and the chemo drugs made her susceptible to germs and disease. Eventually neither of them could fall asleep alone. When his wife had moved to the hospital, they kept the habit, finding ways to push together chairs and ottomans into something passable. She told Francis that sometimes she would wake to see them entwined, which made her worry less about how things would go between them when she was gone.
It was easier for everyone to sleep when she was finally moved to hospice. The thing about being a deaf kid is he could sleep anywhere. Noise didn’t keep him up. The hospice center was mostly quiet, except for the machine they kept in the room to monitor her pulse and breathing. She was in a lot of pain. The morphine took her down to where she could talk but left her so incoherent she couldn’t say or understand much. Francis mostly just held her hand, careful not to bump the IV.
On the last night, her breathing changed and the beep-beep-beep of her heartbeat slowed. She called for Francis in a weak voice.
He left the boy, went to her, and leaned in. “It’s me. I’m here. Should I get Father Andrew?”
“No,” she said. “I need to talk to you about Eric.
“Don’t worry about Eric,” he said. “He’s a good boy.”
“He’s not,” she said.
“Now don’t say that,” Francis told her.
“I’ve only got one child, don’t let this world take him.”
“I won’t. I swear,” he said.
She coughed and drifted off to sleep. Francis was worried that she was gone, but he could sense the life still inside her. He could see that she was slowing but still there. He looked over at the boy who slept, too, under an orange Oklahoma State Cowboys fleece blanket with a white fringe. He scooted the chair closer to his wife and took her hand.
Her eyes remained shut, and she squeezed his hand back. “Francis,” she said, “if a rock goes off a cliff, it keeps falling until it hits the bottom.”
“I know,” he said, trying to keep calm.
“Don’t be angry. Be there to catch him. Promise me.”
“I will,” he said.
She became still, and her grip loosened slightly. Her breathing became even more shallow, and something beeped on the monitor. Her heart rate slowed. He could hear it in the beep, see it in the numbers. He pushed her hair aside, and she moaned a little. For a moment he thought he would call someone and started to rise from his seat, but he stopped and sat again. Her body relaxed, and in a few minutes, in the deep quiet of the room, she stopped breathing altogether. The monitor beeps changed to a single long tone. He could see in her face that her spirit had fled.
It Needs to Look Like We Tried Page 17