Family Thang
Page 1
Family Thang
James Henderson
Comedy: a fractured family’s dirty laundry is aired, soiled, stained, muddied, fumigated and declared a health hazard when their patriarch succumbs to barbecued neck bones laced with arsenic.
FAMILY THANG
By James Henderson
Chapter 1
Reverend Stanley Lucious Walker stood inside his church, Greater Paradise, admiring the magnificent interior, his magnificent interior. Filigreed cornices, hand-painted moldings, polychrome stained glass windows, ornate wainscotings, mahogany pews with handcrafted ends and blue velvet seat cushions.
He enjoyed telling people he built this church with his bare hands. Actually, he’d glimpsed the floor plan and once, only once, picked up a hammer and banged a few nails. God had inspired him that day.
Yet today he felt he had defiled his church and himself. He considered genuflecting before the gold cross inlaid in the black marble pulpit and asking for forgiveness. Instead he closed his eyes and prayed silently.
“Who knew?”
A poor excuse, he thought, if today’s event took a bad turn. A very poor excuse!
Two days ago, Ida Harris, a friend of an infrequent parishioner, visited his office and requested the use of his church for her husband’s funeral. Of course he’d declined. She and her husband were not church members.
Ida Harris retrieved an envelope from her purse and slid it across his desk. It bulged with currency.
Reverend Walker then lost sight of his divine purpose, for he cleared his throat and changed his mind.
“Mrs. Harris, at some point your husband intended to join Greater Paradise, did he not?”
“No.”
“He ever listened to one of my taped sermons?”
“No.”
“Drive by the premises?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Ever mention the church or my name?”
Mrs. Harris looked uncomfortable. “In a good light or bad?”
“Either.”
“Then, yes, quite often.”
“Amen. Your husband is welcome here.”
“Reverend Walker, my husband suffered a rather horrible death. Are you aware what happened to him?”
“No, I’m not. My main concern—”
“The ride in the ambulance he professed his love for Jesus.”
“Bless his soul. Mrs. Harris, the Good Lord doesn’t care when you jump on the bus. He cares you don’t miss it. Scheduling is not as important as showing up.”
After he tucked the envelope inside his gray three-piece pinstripe suit, Mrs. Harris requested an eulogy for her late husband’s pet, a Pekingese, Kenny G, a name the reverend would never forget.
Honestly, he hadn’t taken her request seriously; no one proffered a dog an obsequy. Mrs. Harris was distraught, and once she’d given the matter a little thought, she’d realize how outrageous the request. Or, one of her family members would inform her the idea was preposterous.
And that, he’d thought, would be the end of that.
Then, last night, the director at Owen’s Funeral Home called him to confirm that two caskets, standard size and a mini, in which rested a small dog, were to be delivered to Greater Paradise the following day.
“A damn dog! Inside my church! Are you crazy?”
“Well, the lady, a Mrs. Harris, said you were in full accord with the arrangements. I wanted to confirm this with you because it’s quite unusual. For the record, Reverend Walker, we did not prepare the dog. Moe’s Taxidermy provided that service.”
Reverend Walker remembered, groaned and almost choked. He’d had to sit down. Not only had he forgotten the agreement he’d disseminated (he preferred disseminated to spent) the entire two thousand dollars Mrs. Harris had stuffed in the envelope.
What could he do? Nothing except follow through with his promise; after all, he was a man of God. He looked up at the ceiling, copper-plated tiles from one end to the next, and massaged his nape.
An inspiration came to him: he would keep the mutt’s casket closed and he wouldn’t mention a word about it, not even to his staff. Yes, there would be speculation, a lot of speculation—so what?
“Reverend Walker,” a voice behind him.
He turned to see Reverend Jones walking up the aisle.
“Yes.”
Reverend Jones stepped beside him before saying, “Sir, there’s a major misunderstanding in today’s service.”
“What misunderstanding?”
“The grapevine has it we’re burying a dog today.”
“Reverend Jones, you’re not castigating a deceased man for his sins, are you? We’ve all fallen short of the glory of God.”
“No, no, no! Not a man, a dog… a pooch… a canine… a mongrel. You know nothing of this?”
Reverend Walker stared at the self-assured but uninitiated gleam in the young man’s brown irises. Herman Cain affixing names to a blank globe.
He’d taken Reverend Jones in as an associate pastor as a favor to his father, Brother Bobby Jones, an erstwhile deacon who’d served twenty years of faithful service at Greater Paradise.
A big mistake!
Reverend Jones, attired in a diamond-white Brooks Brothers suit, was Reverend Walker’s polar opposite: young, single, handsome, well-educated, a full head of black curly hair and an idol to every lonely woman in the congregation.
Yes, Reverend Walker thought, he’s fit to be a legit hit. And he preaches like a dyslexic reading a French dictionary.
“Reverend Jones, let me handle today’s service. Need I remind you rumors tear down walls, not build them up.”
“Yes, sir. However, I was told—”
“Reverend Jones, look toward the front. What do you see? Obsidian, top to bottom. Why? So the Good Lord and everyone else, saints and sinners, can see the good works performed here.”
“Yes, though I was told—”
“Reverend Jones, listen closely.” Louder: “I got this!”
Two hours later the mourners started to pour in. Reverend Walker assumed his seat directly behind the pulpit in a hand-carved Bishop chair between two similar but smaller chairs. Reverend Jones sat to his right.
Blessedly, Reverend Tim Moore, the other associate pastor, was absent. Tim had a disconcerting habit of fainting during funerals. Reverend Moore on the floor. Again!
The choir director, Paul Williams, a thin, dark-skinned man, entered the sanctuary through a side door and sauntered up the dais in a yellow three-piece suit and yellow silver-tipped shoes.
“Reverend Walker,” he said into a yellow handkerchief. “Reverend Walker, we have a problem.”
Reverend Walker wanted to ask him the name of the clothing store what sold him a suit that contrasted so violently with his complexion.
“Yes,” noticing the man also wore a yellow polka-dotted shirt.
The choir director knelt before Reverend Jones. “There are two coffins outside. Two,” holding up two fingers. “Two!”
“And?” Reverend Walker said.
“Two! One contains a dog.”
Reverend Jones shook his head.
“And?” Reverend Walker repeated, detecting a fruity smell about the man. Boone’s Farm Peach Wine?
“Are you sanctioning this? If you are I refuse to conduct services for a dog. It’s…” He paused, left eye twitching, glancing at Reverend Jones. “It’s… it’s not right!”
“Mr. Williams, need I remind you I’m the pastor here, not you. If you entered through the front entrance you saw my name on the billboard out front, my name engraved in the sidewalk.” A whisper: “Therefore, if I say we conduct services for a cat, a horse, a cow, a yellow-bellied sapsucker, then it shall be done.”
The choir director’s right e
ye started twitching.
Reverend Jones crossed his arms, started whistling.
“Now,” Reverend Walker continued, brushing imaginary lint from his pants, “let the service begin.”
Just then, as if on cue, the glass doors opened and two silver caskets were wheeled in.
“Mr. Williams, usually a musical number starts about now, does it not?”
The choir director’s mouth opened and closed, both eyes twitching, then he backed away, staring at Reverend Walker. He stumbled on a floor speaker on his way to his stand in front of the choir.
He motioned the choir, a group of thirty or more, all but three draped in gold robes. They stood uniformly and started singing God Is Keeping Me.
The family entered behind the caskets, walking in tandem, in step to the music. First Ida Harris and Robert Earl, then Ruth Ann and Lester, and bringing up the rear were Shirley and Shane. An usher directed them to the front pew and they stood solemnly until the music ended.
A long moment of silence occasionally interrupted by coughing, throat clearing and an infant crying.
Reverend Walker stepped to the pulpit, adjusted the mike to his height, cleared his throat and said, “Amen.”
He looked over the congregation, a small group, mostly funeral regulars, those who relished every opportunity to ogle a cadaver. Three people sat in the balcony despite the ample seating on the ground floor.
“Amen,” the congregation responded and sat down.
“Amen,” Reverend Walker said. He made the signal for the head usher to open the casket, scratching the left side of his neck.
Sister Bea Hammonds, a rather plump woman, crossed directly to the smaller casket.
Reverend Walker cleared his throat and waved his hand. Sister Hammonds looked confused. He shook his head.
She got the message and moved to the larger casket and raised the lid.
“Amen,” and realized he hadn’t prepared any notes. He’d been so concerned about the dog he’d forgotten to do so.
I’ll wing it.
“We’re gathered today to pay homage to Brother…” What’s the man’s name? “Amen… praise God…”
“Rick Perry,” Reverend Jones whispered.
Reverend Walker turned and gave him a withering look: You know damn well that isn’t his name!
“Larry Harris.”
“Amen. Larry Harris. Yes, amen. Larry Harris, our beloved brother, has transcended this world to my Father’s house. Brother Harris waited till the last minute to hop on the bus en route to glory, yet he made it in the nick of time. A minute more and Brother Harris would’ve been left behind. Amen. One minute—sixty seconds between paradise and eternal damnation.
“Often the bus driver sees you running late and he keeps going. He doesn’t have to stop. No, he doesn’t. If he keeps on going, you can’t blame him. No, you can’t blame him at all. He’s only the driver of the bus, not the vehicle which determines where you’ll spend eternity.
“A number of you will not be as fortunate as Brother Harris. You’ll wait till the last minute to go to the bus stop and get caught up… in something unanticipated, something unexpected… something unforeseen… Amen!… A traffic jam, an accident, bad directions, your watch was too slow or too fast. Doesn’t matter what caused your delay, you still missed the bus and got left behind. Don’t blame the driver! ‘He could’ve waited for me!’ No, don’t blame him. He’s doing his job, facilitating transport.”
He paused, took a sip from the glass of ice water an usher had set before him and stared into the faces of the congregation. Most looked as if they were at a bus stop, bored and ready to move on.
Reverend Walker accelerated: “Don’t wait until the last minute, amen, to catch the bus. Now is the time to catch the bus to glory. Don’t you want to get on the bus? Do you want your ticket now? Do you?”
Stretching out his right arm: “Don’t take the risk… Get on the bus… while the opportunity is now. Don’t wait until you’re sick, laid off your job, downsized, broke, on your back in the hospital… The doors are open. Step up on the bus. Why don’t you try Jesus? Try Jesus! Please, try Jesus!”
He shook his left leg, the signal for the choir director to instruct the choir.
“Why don’t you try Jesus? He has your ticket. He’s waiting on you.”
No rustling sound of the choir standing. Reverend Walker cut an eye toward Paul Williams, sitting on the duet bench with the organist, head resting on the keyboard, eyes closed.
By God, he’s asleep! Already!
“Wake up!” Reverend Walker shouted into the microphone. “Wake up to Jesus!”
The choir director sat up, eyes bloodshot red, and stared at Reverend Walker shaking his leg as if something had crawled up his pants. Remaining seated, he motioned the choir and they stood up and started singing Amazing Grace.
Reverend Walker sighed in relief. All good, he thought. If this pace continued, he would arrive home in time for the second set of the tennis match between Venus and Serena. He took his seat and closed his eyes. Thank Jesus.
An anguished, baleful scream rose above the choir voices. “Noooo!”
Reverend Walker hummed the song and patted his black patent leather Stacy Adams shoes to the beat. He didn’t need to look to know that one of the family members was now being assisted by the ushers. He’d witnessed the scene a thousand times. Now the tortured outbursts irritated him more than anything else.
“Noooo!”
On the way home he would pick up a gallon of ice cream and a liter of root beer… watch the match and make a root beer float. Maybe some chocolate chip cookies.
“Not Kenny G! Nooooo!”
Reverend Walker’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t heard what he thought he heard, had he? Hesitantly, he stood up and peered over the pulpit.
One of the family members, a young man, was struggling against two ushers, trying to get at the smaller casket.
To Reverend Walker’s horror, the young man broke free and ran to the casket and opened it. Gasps from the front row.
There, in a small burgundy-colored three-piece suit, complete with bow tie, a handkerchief in the front pocket and a miniature godfather hat, lay Kenny G.
“Oh my God!” someone yelled.
The young man leaned over the casket and started stroking the dog’s head; then he lifted it out of the casket, the hat hitting the floor, rolling down the aisle.
Now the entire congregation could see the Pekingese, and could see the suit was a partial, no backing whatsoever.
Reverend Walker felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and regretted the Deluxe Breakfast he’d picked up at McDonalds.
More than half of the congregation started for the exits, and several of the choir members were leaning over the rail trying to get a look at what was causing the commotion.
I’m ruined, Reverend Walker thought. Ruined! He would have to get a job. A job requiring sweat. At his age, seventy-two, he couldn’t afford to sweat. Not able to stomach the sight any longer, Reverend Walker resumed his seat, put his head between his knees and prayed he wouldn’t be sick.
* * *
Ruth Ann watched, stupefied, as her seventeen-year-old son, Shane, broke free and ran to Kenny G’s casket. She closed her eyes, knowing what would happen next. She prayed she was dreaming. Please, God, let me wake up in my own bed. She heard the casket open. Please, God! She opened her eyes and she was still in church, still sitting in the front pew, a few feet from where her son was caressing a dead dog.
Shirley, sitting to her right, nudged her. “Ruth Ann, shouldn’t you be doing something about this?”
“What you suggest I do?”
“Tell Shane put Kenny G back into the casket.”
“Momma and Daddy raised him—he won’t listen to a word I tell him.”
Robert Earl, sitting on Shirley’s right, leaned forward and whispered to Ruth Ann, “Get your boy. He’s embarrassing the family.”
“You go get him!”
“He’s your nephew. You go get him. If I go up there I’ll knock the daylights outta him.”
Robert Earl frowned at her. Ruth Ann ignored him. “Forget this!” he said, getting to his feet.
“What’s he fixin’ to do?” Shirley asked. “Tell me he’s not fixin’ to do what I think he’s fixin’ to do.” Robert Earl advanced toward Shane. “Ruth Ann, he’s fixin’ to make a scene at Daddy’s funeral.”
A scene, hello? “Where’s Leonard?” Ruth Ann said, looking away, focusing on a stained glass window depicting a nativity scene.
“Probably with his friend,” Shirley said, not taking her eyes off Shane and Robert Earl. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea for him to come.”
“Boy,” Robert Earl said, approaching Shane, the dog draped over his shoulder. “Put the dog back inside the casket. Now!”
“No!” Shane said. “He’s not going in a hole. He can’t breathe in a hole. I won’t allow it! I won’t allow it! No! I won’t allow it!”
“Boy, the dog can’t breathe now! It’s dead. Stop acting a dang fool and put it back in the casket. Don’t you see everybody watching you?” Robert Earl lunged for the dog, almost catching hold of its rear leg.
“No!” pulling the animal out of reach. “No, no, no, no!” Then he ran.
“Catch him!” Robert Earl shouted, and gave chase. Shane ran down the aisle along the right wall, with Kenny G bouncing on his shoulder, to the rear of the church.
“Stop him!” shouted Robert Earl, only a few feet behind. “Trip him!… Dang it, boy!”
Shane ran up the center aisle and jumped up onto the dais with the ease of a gazelle. Robert Earl tried to do the same, but his right foot caught in the silver latticework and he fell backward and landed with a splat on his back. A moment he lay there groaning. Then he jumped to his feet.
“Give me the dog, boy, or I’m coming up!”
“No, no, no, no!”
With both hands, Robert Earl placed his right Oxford shoe onto the dais. His brown corduroy pants, obviously two sizes too small, ripped, revealing to all who cared to look, an ashy brown fanny.