Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  The Ridge Spirit Band serenades us down the aisle with some Louis Armstrong. The band is off-key, the trumpets, trombones, and saxophones drowning out each other’s runs, and the snare drum acting like it has better things to do than play a funeral. To make matters worse, the band starts the song about five minutes too soon. By the time the funeral procession makes its way down the aisle, the chorus of “When the Saints Go Marching In” has been played at least twenty times.

  The church is standing-room only. We chose to have the funeral in St. Isadore, the nineteenth-century Romanesque-style church in downtown Empire Ridge. We almost had the service in the newer St. Benjamin across town, but Mom felt there was a certain grandeur lacking in a thirty-year-old church that looked like a limestone IHOP. With its towering barrel-vaulted walls and infantry of stained glass windows surrounding you, St. Isadore does what a good Catholic church is supposed to do: it makes you feel small and contrite.

  The dolly rolls to a stop at the altar, a veined slab of white marble covered in a white cloth. The pallbearers file into the pews. The three priests take their places behind the casket. Father Iggy and Father Fish stand to the right of the casket with the altar boys and the choir. Father Liam stands behind the casket, next to the paschal candle. I’m the first to walk forward, standing alongside the left of the casket, followed by Mom, then Jeanine and Jack.

  The readings and the songs were like any readings and songs at a Catholic funeral. A whole lot of bullshit about God’s plan, everything happening for a reason, and Dad being in a better place. A solid ninety minutes of people blowing smoke up your ass.

  Father Iggy gave a decent homily. People seemed to react well to it. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking during the homily that if God had always existed, then he didn’t have a father. And if that’s the case, then God is a bastard, just like me.

  It feels good to say that. You listening to me, God? You’re a bastard. You’re a gutless, heartless, fucking bastard.

  Father Fish approaches Dad’s casket to the tune of “Be Not Afraid,” a depressing liturgical ditty made more so by the out-of-tune St. Isadore choir. An altar boy hands Father the gold censer. The domed cover is dotted with small openings in the shape of crosses. Father Fish’s movements are practiced, measured, in time with the music. In his right hand he holds the censer level with the top of his chest. He grasps it by the chain near the cover, while his left hand, holding the top of the chain, rests on his chest. He raises the censer upward to eye level, then swings it in an outward, ascending motion toward my father’s casket. He does this a second time, the tendrils of smoke now curling out of the circle of crosses and blanketing the first few rows of the church. He hands the censer back to the altar boy, returns to the casket, and folds his arms.

  “So I get this call in my office last week,” Father Fish says. “My secretary says to me, ‘Father, there’s a John Fitzpatrick on the phone, and he wants to know if you want to go to the Holy Land on October twenty-fourth to see the Catholics beat the Mormons.’ I tell her to put him on the phone, and of course it’s John. And of course he keeps me on the phone for an hour, and of course when that hour ends, I hang up the phone and already miss the sound of his voice. My secretary comes in and asks me, ‘How often does your friend go to the Holy Land?’ And I tell her, ‘Oh, about six or seven times every fall.’”

  We all laugh.

  Father Fish chokes up. “That was the last time I talked to John, but in my heart I know he’s in a better place. And in my heart, I know the reason Notre Dame lost to Stanford last Saturday was because John, Grandpa George, and Grandpa Fred were raising so much hell up in Heaven that no Hail Mary’s got through.”

  We all laugh again, but not as loud this time because Father Fish is crying. The incense in the church claws at my nose, like the smell of smoldering wet leaves on a wool sweater. The smell of grief. The smell of death. I place Dad’s handkerchief, stained mascara blue by my mother’s tears, over my mouth and nose.

  Father Fish brings his arms down to the casket. He places his hands on my father. “John, my friend…” We can hear the heartbreak in his voice. “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the rains fall soft upon your fields and the sun shine warm upon your face. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”

  The altar boys and priests walk down the aisle to the tune of the “Notre Dame Victory March.” The pallbearers are next, followed by my family. For most people in the crowd, this is the last time they’ll see John Fitzpatrick. Like a dead autumn cornfield flanking both sides of a lonely country road, they surround me with walls of withered anguish. And to make matters worse, the band has segued into a Chuck Mangione medley. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is the theme song from Cannonball Run.

  Dad loved Chuck Mangione—“Feels So Good,” “Bellavia,” “Fun and Games,” “Land of Make Believe,” “Give It All You Got,” and especially “Children of Sanchez.” How could anyone not like “Children of Sanchez”? The local Cincinnati Reds television affiliate used to use that as its theme music during the days of the Big Red Machine. Dave ConcepciÓn turns a double play. Cut to Pete Rose sliding head first into home. Cut to Johnny Bench picking someone off at second. Foster, Morgan, Perez—damn, I haven’t thought about those old Reds teams in years. But I think about them now. I think about them because of Chuck Mangione. Dad would hop around the house snapping, singing the trumpet parts, screaming when Mangione hit that high register in “Hill Where the Lord Hides.” I said trumpet, didn’t I? Dad would have corrected me. “Chuck Mangione plays a flugelhorn, Hank.” Dad could play all the brass and woodwind instruments, and even got by on percussion. “Think of a flugelhorn as a mellower trumpet,” Dad would say. Then he’d squint, bob his head, hold his thumbs and middle fingers together, moving his hands with the music, conducting some unseen orchestra. A drum major reliving his glory days. And whenever Dad was into the moment, he’d stick out his tongue and bite down on it.

  I crouch down into the limo with my family. I watch as the pallbearers push the end of Dad’s casket into the hearse and close the doors. Jack’s face is pressed against the glass. What’s going through that little mind of his? I reach for him, pulling him into my lap.

  “Hey, little guy, you doing okay?”

  Jack wipes his nose. “My frote hurts.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “My throat hurts, too.”

  “Where they taking Daddy?”

  “That’s his rocket ship to heaven.”

  “Can we go?”

  “Maybe someday.”

  Jack smiles. “Cool!”

  Chapter thirty-eight

  Aunt Claudia decides to “host” a reception after Dad’s funeral at our house. About twenty to thirty people circumnavigate our first floor, walking from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the entryway. Some stop for a few minutes to gather in the living room in front of my mother, who sits in the corner like a battered prizefighter refusing to answer the bell. But most seem content to hang out in the kitchen and feast on the casseroles that keep showing up on our doorstep.

  Seriously, what the fuck is up with all these casseroles?

  I haven’t seen Jack or my sister for hours. Aunt Claudia told me they went over to Nancy Friedman’s house. Nancy babysits Jack on weekdays when Mom and Dad are at work. She’s like family—better than family, if we’re comparing her to Aunt Claudia.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. “You ready to get out of here for a little while?”

  I turn and face her. She’s wearing an understated black dress. Her hair is more wavy than curly now, not quite as dark as I remember it being. She smells the same.

  “Laura?”

  “Hello, Hank.”

  I walk around to the passenger side door of Laura’s silver Calais. The paint looks a little faded, even at night. “Still got the old girl, huh?”

&nb
sp; “Up to my ears in student loans.” Laura opens her door. “I’m driving her till the wheels fall off.”

  We get in the car. “Where to?”

  “Liquor store?”

  I nod. “My home away from home.”

  I walk into the liquor store. I hand the store clerk a pint of Jim Beam with my right hand, slide a ten-dollar bill across the counter with my left. “I’ll also take a pack of Marlboro Lights and one of those fifty cent lighters please.”

  The clerk reaches up for the smokes and the lighter. “Marlboro Lights you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hard or soft pack?”

  “Hard.”

  He slides the smokes and the lighter across the counter. He’s a bald guy, in his early seventies. Wrinkles and liver spots vie for real estate on his face. “What are you doin’?” he asks, a hint of scorn in his voice.

  “Just getting some whiskey and some smokes.” I slide my driver’s license across the counter. “Look, here’s my ID.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m talking about.” He slides my driver’s license back to me without picking it up or even looking down at it. “I know who you are.”

  “You do, huh?” I start packing the smokes against my hand, as if in affirmation of what’s to come next.

  “You’re John’s boy. Hank, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  The old man shakes his head. “It ain’t right, what happened to your dad. Just ain’t right.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t.” Complete strangers presuming a level of intimacy with my family’s affairs make me uncomfortable. I remind myself he’s just being nice.

  “He was a good man, a great man if you ask me.”

  “You knew him?”

  “You see that El Dorado parked outside?”

  “The white convertible?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What’s that, about a seventy-six?”

  “I see you got your father’s car sense.”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “I couldn’t get qualified for a loan with the bank, so your dad set up some non-interest payment plans with me. Paid her off last month.”

  “Good for you.” I look outside, impatient. I’m over this conversation.

  The old man holsters the bourbon in a brown paper bag. “Your mother, she still working over at the school?”

  “Yes, she’s still at the Ridge.”

  “Please let her know she’s in everyone’s prayers.”

  “I will.” I grab the bag, scrambling for the exit.

  “Hank?”

  Halfway out the door, I poke my head back in. I wish this fucking guy would stop talking to me. “Yes, sir.”

  “You forgot something.” The old man walks up to me. He holds my ten dollar bill in front of my face. He stuffs it in the front pocket of my leather jacket. “I ain’t takin’ your money, least not tonight.”

  “Thanks.” My gratitude is assured and swift. If there’s one thing I never let stand in the way of free booze and smokes, it’s pride.

  I twist the cap off the pint of Beam before I get to the car. I tilt the bottle to my lips with my right hand, a cigarette already lit in my left hand. The woody bite of the bourbon is both sharp and soothing all at once.

  Laura puts the car in reverse. “Where to now?”

  “The cemetery, if you don’t mind.”

  I take four pulls off the whiskey in succession. I offer Laura a drink. She declines. Limestone columns flanked by a black wrought iron fence appear on my right. “Turn here,” I say.

  We pass under an engraved limestone arch that reads “Whiskeyville Cemetery,” one of the few nostalgic reminders of the town’s former alias. We ignore the sign that says the cemetery closes at dusk.

  “Way in the back, behind the mausoleum, right?” Laura asks.

  I nod. “Yeah, just behind it. How’d you know?”

  “I came to the service, but I kept out of sight.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I felt weird. I know your friends have never cared for me too much.”

  “I would’ve liked for you to have been there, with me.”

  Laura reaches over, squeezes my hand. “Well, I’m here now.”

  We park behind the mausoleum. Twenty yards in front of us, a rise of fresh cut flowers sits beneath a sugar maple. Laura offers me her hand. I accept her invitation.

  “Thank you.”

  “Please, Hank.” Laura tears up. “You don’t have to thank me for this.”

  We approach the grave. Easels of red and white carnations and baby’s breath are piled on top of one another. Embossed ribbons saying things like “Dad” and “Husband” and “Uncle” and “Boss” reflecting in the moonlight. Several votive candles still lit on the perimeter of the mess.

  I let go of Laura’s hand and reach down to the ribbon labeled “Dad.” I trace the words with my fingers. Laura kneels beside me, laying her hand over mine. She traces the words with me.

  The gravestone is still weeks from being delivered. Until then, all I have are these dying flowers and a mound of earth. I take my hand off the ribbon labeled “Dad” and dig my fingers into the loose soil.

  “What’s the weather forecast for the next few days?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Laura answers. “Chance of rain tomorrow or the day after, maybe?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  I say this knowing the rain will come. It will pitter-patter through the red-green leaves of the sugar maple and pool on top of this Indiana clay. And when the rain stops, the clay will dry. And it will harden.

  All I can think about is the clay.

  Laura kisses me on the cheek and then the throat. I can feel the warmth of her tears on the side of my face. I think I might even be a little turned on right now.

  I stand up, push her away. “Bringing you here was a mistake.”

  “But I want to be here.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “We haven’t so much as spoken to one another in more than a year.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for caring about you.”

  “Caring about me? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  The tears are now streaming down Laura’s face. She doesn’t even try to wipe them off. “Can’t you just let me be here for you?”

  Laura is still my one great love. I’ve wondered, to the point of obsession, why we didn’t make it. Tonight, that answer is laid bare: we will never learn how to stop hurting one another. I kiss her on the forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  Laura wraps her arms around me. “I loved him, too, Hank.”

  I run my hands through her hair. “You were always Dad’s favorite.”

  Chapter thirty-nine

  “Six thousand dollars?”

  “Afraid so,” Mom says. She sits at the kitchen table, her greasy, unwashed hair slicked back off her forehead, a vodka gimlet in her right hand.

  Mom decided to sell the dealership three weeks after Dad was killed. Just like that. She called the University of Notre Dame athletic department to tell them we wouldn’t be renewing our season tickets for the ’93 season and then farmed out the remaining ’92 season tickets to Dad’s friends. Just like that. Next there was Halloween—Jack in a Batman costume sat in his Radio Flyer, while I pulled him around from house to house, crossing streets at inopportune times and taking shortcuts to avoid the questions and the compassion. Then there was Thanksgiving—we decided not to go to Mass, opting for ham instead of turkey, and forgetting to even watch football. Christmas came and went—Mom gave Dad’s golf clubs to Uncle Howard and mailed his Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum to Uncle Mitch without asking me if I wanted either of them, and everyone overbought for Jack as if to say, “Don’t w
orry kid, there’s still a Santa Claus.” After that, we had to resolve a dispute with the cell phone company over a four-hundred-dollar phone bill, because someone stealing your Dad’s phone off his still-warm corpse is not a legitimate excuse for unpaid service. And now, after three months of haggling with the insurance company, a goddamn six-thousand-dollar invoice from Wishard Hospital is what we’re left with.

  Well, that and a fucking armed pedophile.

  “Six grand for what? Dad was DOA. We’re paying the hospital six grand for managing to keep him dead?”

  Mom takes another swig of her gimlet. The ice rattles in her glass. “It was for the blood, Hank.”

  “His blood?”

  “No, the hospital’s blood. They pumped something like forty pints into him. He was losing it as fast as they were putting it into him.”

  She’s crying again. I sit down beside her. I hold her left hand. “It’s going to be okay, Mom.” For these last few months since Dad’s death it seems like these are the only words I’ve been saying to my mother. The thing is, I need more convincing than she does.

  “That’s not what’s got me all torn up.” Mom squeezes my hand and then lets go. “This just came in the mail this morning.”

  She hands me a seven-page stapled document. I read the first few lines aloud. “‘Indiana University School of Medicine Department of Pathology Forensic Division. Autopsy Report. Name, John H. Fitzpatrick. Age, forty-six years. Sex, male. Autopsy number nine-two-one-oh-two-three. Date: October two, nineteen ninety-two. Time: seven-thirty a.m.’”

  I start flipping through the pages. “Don’t tell me you read all this.”

  Mom nods. “Every word of it.”

  “Jesus, Mom.”

  I run my fingers over particular words and phrases as if to make them more real: “white blood-soaked underwear…khaki pants with blood smears…significant deforming blunt force injuries of the legs and right wrist…contusion and deep subcutaneous hemorrhage invests the tissues over the anterior pelvis, groin and upper thighs, encompassing an area of 13 x 8 inches…extensive lacerations and crush injuries of the mesentery and bowel…ruptured colon…lacerated liver…extensive retroperitoneal hemorrhage…ruptured bladder…multiple-fractured pelvis.”