Figures.
ALMOST LIKE CLOCKWORK, the black hearse pulled into the driveway. The gravel beneath its wheels crunched and popped. The green grass between the two long strips of crushed stone looked like a stretch of carpet that the vehicle advanced upon.
Brent’s Uncles, Joe, David, and Carson, along with three of his cousins stood on either side of the driveway as the vehicle transporting his grandmother slowly approached and passed between them. Brent stood stoic inside the house, looking through the screen door that led out to the front porch. He and three of his other cousins, his Uncle Mark, and his dad watched together, anticipating the casket and its placement into their hands.
Brent felt weak, much too weak to actually heft the casket that would soon pass through the narrow doorway and into his hands. His heart hammered in his chest. I don’t want to be here.
The driver of the hearse got out and walked to the back. He opened the door, swinging it wide. As the man from the funeral home gave his uncles and cousins some handling instructions, they all took their places. Then he reached into the rear and pulled the coffin into the grasp of the men who would carry Brent’s mamaw into his own waiting hands.
The six men carefully navigated over and past the roots of a nearby oak tree, then made their way through the lawn to the front porch. Angling toward Brent and the other men to whom they would pass the casket, the pallbearers worked to keep the casket level as they climbed the four steps leading to the front door.
Brent stood to the left of the entryway, peering out. The head of the casket progressed slowly through the opened screen door, until he was able to take hold of the long, dark-wood handle on its side. Carefully, he worked his hands, keeping the casket moving into the hands of each of the men before him and to his right.
Once the casket was safely in the hallway, the men made their way to the entrance of the living room. The man from the funeral home waited quietly inside, having come in through the side door. He stood behind a casket trolley, upon which casket would rest. The narrow hallway and relatively small entrance into the living room made for a very tight turn. The funeral-home man moved quickly to the head of the casket and took the end handle, allowing his Uncle Mark to re-route himself through the formal dining room and into the living room to once again resume his grip on the casket.
After Brent’s dad made the same quick detour, they were finally able to maneuver the casket safely onto the trolley. Funeral-Home Man asked Uncle Joe to help him rotate the now-wheeled casket so that it would open for viewing toward the doorway.
All of the women, Brent’s mom and aunts and cousins, old Virgie Hamilton, and Mrs. Pike stood respectfully in the dining room, watching the men take care of their grim responsibilities. Once the casket was placed, Brent’s Aunt Susan broke down and sobbed. It began a wave of emotion that reached everyone.
Brent could see that the men were doing their best to check their emotions, but Hannah’s sons were showing signs of losing the battle. Brent didn’t know what to feel. He wanted to believe Joshua’s words—that he really knew what he was doing. He grimaced slightly, knowing that God wasn’t stumped by anything. God certainly knew what he was doing, but Brent wasn’t convinced that there weren’t better ways to have handled everything. I know I would have handled all of this differently. I could have made sense of all of this for everyone if I were God. Brent glanced momentarily toward the ceiling. You could have, too. But you chose not to.
Brent thought back to the evening they had arrived in Kentucky, and the description of events as recounted by his Uncle Joe. He didn’t want to revisit that scene, but that’s exactly where his mind took him.
It had been very warm that afternoon. After Brent and Uncle Joe had helped his dad to unload the car into the farmhouse, Uncle Joe suggested that everyone head over to his air-conditioned home. Sitting in his uncle’s and aunt’s living room, Brent’s mom finally asked the question that had been hanging in the air from the moment they arrived.
“You didn’t get into much detail about how she passed. And I know you were trying to shy away from telling us over the phone, but…” Sharon Lawton looked into her brother’s eyes. She gave a very slight shrug of her shoulders and shake of her head.
Uncle Joe sighed. “Not a pretty story. I reckon I didn’t want to add any more burden than you already had, having to trouble yourselves with getting down here. In fact, none of our kin know, outside of Sissy.”
Brent stood leaning at the entrance to the hallway. He had tried sitting but found himself too antsy to remain still. He didn’t want to be with these people at the moment, and he particularly didn’t want to hear what had happened to his mamaw. But he also couldn’t curtail his need to hear it.
Now he would know it: the story of her death.
Uncle Joe looked at his wife, who momentarily closed her eyes and gave a single nod, apparently affirming that now was the time to reveal everything.
He cleared his throat.
“Mother, you know, had been staying here with us for the past few months. She was determined to keep living in the old house, but the summer heat was steadily taxing her. Sally and I weren’t confident that she was staying hydrated. At seventy-four years old, she was having more and more trouble getting that water bucket up out of the well. Also, on some days, I was convinced that those large house fans were just blowing hot air on her and not really helping any. But she was stubborn and it took quite a bit of compromise on my part to get her to come and stay with us.
“I had told her that she could spend cooler days down at the old house, and even stay the night if she was inclined. Been few enough of those days this summer, though. So, Monday being a day forecasted for rain and cooler temperatures, she elected to walk home after we got back from Sunday evening church.”
Uncle Joe stopped. His lower lip and chin began to quiver. A single, heavy sob caused his head to become completely upright for a moment. He cleared his throat again. “Sorry.” He reached into his right pant pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. A quick blow of his nose and another clearing of his throat allowed him to continue.
“Next morning I decided to walk down to the old house before the rain came and bring Mother her rain poncho that she’d left here, just in case she needed to use the outdoor facilities. Got about three-quarters of the way to the house when I saw off to the left some color in the garden that shouldn’t have been there. At first I thought maybe someone had used some cloth to tie off some of the tomato plants or some such thing. I made a mental note to check what it was when I headed back from seeing Mother.”
Brent looked over at his mom. Sorrow filled her eyes as her brow became more deeply furrowed. It confirmed what Brent was thinking in that moment. Uncle Joe wasn’t going to find Mamaw in her house. Tears began to form. They spilled over his eyelids and down his cheeks. Brent didn’t move to wipe them away.
“I knocked on the side door and there was no answer. The blinds on both the door and her bedroom window were still closed, which was unusual for that time of the morning. I knew she would have been up for a couple of hours by the time I got there. I tried opening the door, but it was locked. It was in that moment that the color of the fabric in the garden flashed through my mind. It was her dress from the evening before. I don’t mind telling you that I about got sick. I ran back to the garden and up through the plants, and there she was.”
Uncle Joe broke down completely at this point. Brent’s mom immediately got up and quickly walked to her brother. Lydia began to weep, her dad taking her into his arms.
Brent closed his eyes. It felt as though a vice was tightening around his chest. More anger than he had experienced in years filled his thoughts. How could a loving God…?
Through a cracking voice, Brent’s Uncle Joe told the rest of what he had found.
“She was laying there. There was a lot of blood on the ground. Somehow…somehow…a hole or something had collapsed under the weight of her right foot. She must have fallen forward to catch he
rself at the same time that her foot went into the ground. Her leg had snapped. Broke clean through. The bone broke through her skin and she…bled to death.”
The sound in the living room became horrific. So much anguish. So much unfettered distress.
Lydia was beside herself. “Nooo… No…” She buried her face in her dad’s chest and sobbed. “Daddy…Daddy, hold me.”
It was all Brent could do to remain standing.
Uncle Joe’s final words made it unbearable to remain in the room any longer.
“I can’t imagine…the pain. She had to have been calling…screaming for help. There wasn’t anyone there to help her! All night she was there! How long… How long did she suffer? Why was she in that blamed garden?”
Brent couldn’t take it. He moved abruptly to the front door and stepped outside, slamming the door closed behind him. He walked toward the center of his uncle’s yard to a large shade tree. Reaching it, he leaned into it, his hands numb to the rough bark. All of Brent’s anger—every ounce of his pent-up rage—was unleashed in that moment.
“I hate you! I hate you!”
Brent, that’s awful!” began Tara. “I had no idea… You never said anything about this before. I just figured your mamaw passed away from some sort of ailment.”
I came to a stop on the sidewalk. Emotion still gripped my voice even as my very masculine, He-Man eyeballs began to sweat. (Since this is my account, I can describe it how I’d like. Now, if you want Tara’s account… Well, you’ll have to find her.) Until Tara stopped to face me, she hadn’t known I had begun…to eye-sweat. Her own eyes became so compassionate in that moment.
She reached up to the left side of my face with her right hand, cradling my cheek in her palm, then wiped the sweat away with her thumb.
“This really hurts still, doesn’t it?”
“I didn’t think it would. But, yeah.”
“Still angry with God?”
“I think I’ll let the rest of the story provide the answer to that question.”
“Fair enough. So, what was the day like—the day your mamaw’s body was resting inside the living room?”
“It was a bit surreal. We were all given the opportunity to view her body before opening the doors to any visitors.”
“Not something you wanted to do, I’m sure,” said Tara.
“That would seem obvious, wouldn’t it? I definitely thought I was going to have a horrible time just dealing with the idea of going in there. But the opposite was true.
“Now, I admit that I couldn’t bear being in the room when the casket was opened, but a few minutes afterward, when I had collected myself, I walked straight in and up to the casket.”
“Were you alone?”
“No. Mom and Lydia were in the living room with me. Tara, she looked so peaceful. Not a care in the world. You would never have known she had died alone and in so much pain.”
BRENT JUST STARED. The undertaker’s cosmetician had put a little too much makeup on her. She had always looked so plain. In fact, Brent couldn’t remember a single time that he had ever seen color on her face. What the cosmetician had done wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t a fair reflection of who she had been in life.
His mom released a soft whimper. He looked past Lydia to see Hannah Moore’s oldest daughter holding an old, monogrammed handkerchief to her nose. Brent had seen the ornate fabric a couple of times in the past. H.E.M. had been embroidered into one of the corners. Brent couldn’t remember for sure, but it seemed to him that it had been a gift from his papaw to his wife upon coming back from the war in Europe. Certainly, his mom would be taking it home as a keepsake.
Lydia placed an arm around her mom’s waist and leaned into her. She, too, wiped her nose, but with a tissue.
Brent looked back at his grandmother. I know you’re at peace, Mamaw. I know you’re with God. I really do want to be happy about that…
His thought trailed off as he reached out for her right hand. It rested on her chest, crossing over her left. Brent was conflicted. He knew that her hand would feel cold and lifeless—not something he wanted to encounter—but he also knew that this would be the last time he would ever touch her.
He thought that he would simply lay his hand upon hers for a moment and walk away, but as quickly as his hand made contact, his fingers wrapped around hers. His lungs involuntarily filled as an unexpected wave of sorrow struck him. As he released the breath he’d taken, grief bore down upon him and he began to weep. Brent quaked with emotion. Tears came freely as he heard a mournful sound usher forth from within.
He felt two pairs of arms wrap around him as his mom and sister drew close, united in grief. The two women held both a brother and a son as he struggled with the departure of the woman who had, nine years earlier, fought and won a hellish battle on his behalf—one that had saved his life.
If it hadn’t been for you, Mamaw… If it hadn’t been for you…
BRENT WAS EXHAUSTED. Standing in the middle of his upstairs bedroom, he could hardly wait to lay himself down to sleep. It had been an emotionally brutal day. His few minutes with his mamaw had led to hours of interaction with other mourners who had chosen the more intimate location for the viewing.
People arrived from up and down the hollow and throughout the area surrounding the mountain on which she had lived. Many of them, probably realizing that parking would not be easy to come by on the narrow road, had walked miles to get there and subsequently lingered throughout the afternoon. All kinds of food had been prepared and brought. It was strange to Brent.
People with Styrofoam plates had seated themselves around the perimeter of the living room in which lay their friend, their kinswoman, their acquaintance. Conversation buzzed all over the main floor of the house and outside. There was no lack of praise or tears for his mamaw. Brent found himself hugged and cried upon by so many people he had never met before—and would probably never see again. Fortunately, he noticed that the same was happening to just about all of his family and relatives, which took at least some of the attention off of him.
Even into the waning hours of daylight, there were several people who remained to commiserate. Brent made it through the emotional punch of his grandmother’s viewing and found that he could no longer connect with the other mourners. Because of the emotional drain, he could only muster superficial words of gratitude for their acts and remarks of kindness. He was numb.
Brent stripped off his clothes and put on his pajamas. He sat passively on the edge of his bed. Now that all of the well-wishers had vacated the property, all his aunts and uncles, his cousins, and his own family said their own tired farewells. It had only been Day One of the emotional goodbyes. Day Two was ahead of them and would include even more people visiting and saying goodbye to his mamaw at the nearby funeral home. Brent didn’t need or want any more opportunities to say “hello” and “thank you” to strangers. And he especially didn’t want to see the casket put into the ground afterward.
He stretched out on his bed. The cricket-song and accompanying cool breeze through the open window were a welcomed balm. It was barely 9:30 PM—much earlier than he would ordinarily find himself in bed—but unlike most evenings, he wasn’t going to fight his sleepiness.
He thought about praying. Not exactly a unique idea. He thought about praying every night. But over the past couple of weeks, with all that had been occurring in his life, the thought was as far as he had ventured. This night would be no different.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
“ARE YOU READY, Brent?”
Brent stood again in the ‘board room.’ Before him, the beautiful flat landscape stretched out as far as he could see.
The now familiar voice had come from behind him.
A strong right hand came to rest upon, and firmly grip, Brent’s right shoulder as Joshua stepped up to his left side.
“Things are about to get very strange for you.”
“About to?”
Joshua released a soft chuckle. “Toni
ght you are going to get everything that you wanted. You are getting that elusive element in your life called control.”
Brent felt unnerved by the statement. He looked to his left. He still couldn’t believe that he was taller than Jesus.
“When I’m with you and you’re talking with me, I don’t feel the need for control.”
“That would be something to celebrate if you could stay with me like this. But you live in the Land of Shadows. It is there that you perceive a need for control. It is there where all of your challenges reside.
“You made a decision, Brent. Then another, followed by another. Each decision that you have made—decisions made based on disappointment and disillusionment—have severed the ties of trust and faith that you once had in me.”
“You wouldn’t answer me when I did try to communicate with you,” Brent responded.
“Did I not?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t hear you. I didn’t feel you, either.”
“With what ears were you listening? I don’t always speak with my still, small voice.”
Though it was without accusation, Brent knew that he had been cornered.
“Brent, I am your friend. My heart toward you is—and will always be—good. You are my joy, and you are my favorite child. But lately you have been choosing to live without faith in me.”
“I’m your favorite?” Brent was dumbfounded by the statement.
Joshua raised his right hand and dropped it again onto Brent’s shoulder. With a small amount of amusement in his voice, he said, “I think you missed my point. But yes, you are my favorite. So is your sister, Lydia. So are your mamaw and dad.”
Brent now understood. “You are no respecter of persons. You don’t have favorites.”
“It’s better said that there are none who know me who are favored less than any other.”
“Gotcha.”
“Good. As I was saying—and you should pay attention to this—you have been choosing to live without faith in me. You are highly favored, Son of the Dust, but that doesn’t mean I’m always pleased. What does my Word say about this?”
Behind the Darkness Page 7