by C. C. Payne
When I went downstairs, I found Mama bustling around the kitchen. She, too, had on a black dress—with her blue fuzzy slippers.
Mama looked up. “You look nice, Lula Bell.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Would you get the cake knife out of that drawer,” Mama asked, pointing, “and put it on the table, please?”
I nodded, looking around. Our kitchen table held two chocolate-frosted cakes, one white-frosted cake, banana pudding, a pecan pie, a stack of dessert plates, a stack of napkins, and now, a cake knife. Had Mama been up baking all night? That seemed…wrong. It all seemed wrong.
“Ummm…what are you doing?” I asked, because Mama couldn’t have been doing what I thought she was doing.
Mama set a heavy stack of plates out on the counter. “Preparing,” was all she said.
I decided not to press her further, because after all, Mama was Grandma Bernice’s daughter. But when I walked into our living room and saw three card tables set up and draped with white tablecloths, just like the ones we’d had at Grandma Bernice’s birthday party four days earlier, I changed my mind.
I poked my head back into the kitchen and said, “Ummm…we’re not having a party, are we?” I mean, what kind of party could we possibly have been having today? Surely we weren’t having a ‘Hooray! Grandma Bernice Is Dead!’ party.
“No,” Mama said, “it’s not exactly a party.”
I waited for more of an explanation.
Mama set a tray of silverware on the counter and placed a stack of napkins next to it. Then, she stepped back and inspected her work from left to right: napkins, silverware, plates, a long stretch of counter, and at the end, four rows of upside-down water glasses next to a big ice bucket.
I sighed—mostly just to remind Mama that I was there, waiting.
Mama gave a small nod of approval and then looked at me. “I don’t really know what you call it,” she finally said, “but after a funeral, people go to the family’s house and remember and…just sort of keep one another company.”
It looked like a party to me, but I didn’t say so. Neither of us said anything else until a car honked outside.
“Oh!” Mama checked her watch. “The car’s here—it’s time to go.”
I thought to myself, Well, of course our car’s here. Where else would it be? But who’s honking our horn, and isn’t that rude?
Mama hollered for Daddy, grabbed her purse, and started for the front door—then she remembered to change out of her slippers and into her dress-up shoes. Too bad Daddy didn’t think to change his shoes.
For the first time that I knew of, Daddy wore a suit and tie. For the first time, he looked like all the other daddies. Until you noticed his feet. (Here’s a little tip for you: your old, beat-up brown cowboy boots might not go perfectly with your slick new black suit. I’m just saying: consider all your options.)
When I stepped out onto the front porch, I couldn’t believe my eyes: what was that long, glossy black limousine doing parked in our driveway? I turned to look at Mama.
She lowered her head and seemed embarrassed. “I know, I know. It’s so ostentatious,” she said, “but Grandma Bernice arranged for us to ride in this limo, and she’d already paid for it—all nonrefundable.”
“I think it’s nice,” Daddy said, smiling a sad little smile.
“Nonrefundable?” I whispered to Daddy as we hurried toward the limo.
Daddy nodded. “Yeah, your mama couldn’t get Grandma Bernice’s money back, but she tried.”
I think I would’ve enjoyed riding in a limo on any other day. It was spacious and plush. But as it was, I just stared out the window. The sky was dark and threatened rain, which suited me just fine. It would’ve seemed wrong for the sun to shine today.
It did seem wrong for the rest of the world to go right on, like nothing much had happened. People had put out their trash like it was an ordinary day, and the garbage truck in front of us stopped to collect it like it was an ordinary day. Impatient drivers whizzed past us. A mother scolded her son in the parking lot of the Mapco station. The man in the car behind us talked on his phone.
I wanted to roll down the window and holler, Hey! Stop what you’re doing! Something horrible has happened! Grandma Bernice has left the world! But when I looked down at all the silver buttons on the limo door, I knew I’d never find the one that worked the window in time to speak to any of these people. And anyway, they didn’t know Grandma Bernice. I felt sort of sorry for them then. They’d missed their chance.
I turned away from the window feeling somehow lucky. Lucky because I hadn’t missed my chance. I’d known Grandma Bernice my whole life. In fact, the only way I could’ve had more time with her was if I’d been born sooner. And the fact that I hadn’t been born sooner—well, that certainly wasn’t my fault.
Daddy reached over then and covered my hand with his. His hand felt warm and big and strong.
I tried to smile at him.
He smiled back.
Mama reached across Daddy and put her hand on top of Daddy’s, on top of mine. We all exchanged looks. Our looks seemed to say, We’re all in this together. We’re going to be okay. Probably.
The Funeral
AS soon as we opened the door to the church, I could smell them. And when we entered the sanctuary, the sight took my breath away. We stood frozen in place, staring at what must’ve been every flower in the state of Tennessee, gathered together in one room. I’d never seen so many flowers, so many kinds, so many colors. I didn’t even know that many flowers existed.
“Grandma Bernice would’ve loved this,” Mama said to no one in particular.
“She really would have,” Daddy agreed.
When I came to my senses, I said, “But where are all the people?”
Grandma Bernice had hoped to “really pack ’em in” at her funeral. I knew, because she’d told me.
“We’re having a few minutes of private visitation, just for family, first,” Mama said.
I learned that “private visitation” meant we were all supposed to visit Grandma Bernice, who was parked down front in the sanctuary, in her casket, to say good-bye.
We took turns. I went last, and Mama came with me. Only, when I got up there, I couldn’t say good-bye, because I couldn’t speak. As soon as I saw Grandma Bernice, my throat tightened, and I began coughing and crying all at once.
Mama must’ve thought that I was choking because she slapped me—hard—on the back.
I looked up at Mama, stunned.
“You all right?” Mama said.
“Her mouth,” I croaked, “there’s something wrong with her mouth—that doesn’t look like Grandma Bernice at all!”
Mama’s face relaxed, and she put her arms around me. “It isn’t Grandma Bernice, honey,” she whispered into my hair. “Bodies are like houses, and that’s just an old house Grandma Bernice used to live in.”
After that, there was a brief visitation for everybody else who wanted to say good-bye to Grandma Bernice. People kept saying things like, “She looks so pretty” or “so peaceful” or “so natural.” I wanted to shout, She does not! Did you even know my Grandma Bernice? But I didn’t. Instead, I sat quietly in the front pew, just like Mama had told me to.
My piano and voice teacher, Mrs. West, arrived with Alan while people were still milling around. Mrs. West went right to Mama. Alan came right to me.
“You look pretty,” he tried.
“I do not,” I snapped, as if he had insulted me.
But Alan just bowed his head and said quietly, “You do. You’re the prettiest girl I ever saw, Lula Bell.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared up at him. I mean, my eyes were swollen and red; my nose was swollen and red—basically, from the neck up, I was swollen, red, and splotchy. I was not having a good day. Did Alan think he could make it better by lying to me? Or worse, was he teasing me about the way I looked?
But then Alan’s eyes met mine, and there was something in them th
at told me he meant what he’d said. I uncrossed my arms and tried to think what I should say. I had no idea, so I just said what I was thinking: “Um…were you at school the day they tested our vision?”
Alan gave me a half smile.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked him.
“Three.”
He was right. Huh.
Mama and Daddy came over then, thanked Alan for coming, and seated themselves on either side of me.
When Great Uncle Cleburne and Cousin Ethel arrived and took the last two seats beside us, the funeral began. It was as if Grandma had instructed, “Don’t start until every seat is filled—wait ’til Sunday morning if you have to!” She might’ve even said those exact words; it wouldn’t have surprised me.
Just as Grandma Bernice had decided how and when she wanted to go—every week—she’d decided every detail of her send-off. She’d planned every detail of her funeral in advance. I’m pretty sure she even told Pastor Dan what to say.
Pastor Dan delivered the eulogy, which is kind of like a sermon, and the main message was this: Bernice Bell wants you to get out there. Live! Laugh! Love! And above all, let your light shine! The last thing Pastor Dan said was, “I know it seems dark now, because we all loved Bernice, and we’re going to miss her, but the best thing we can do when we’re surrounded by darkness is to let our light, our love, our goodness shine! Let it light up the dark!”
After that, a few other people got up and told stories about how Grandma Bernice had made their lives a little easier, or a little nicer, or a little brighter. As I listened, I began to understand why Grandma had always said, “You should always leave a place nicer than you found it.”
I remembered the last time Grandma Bernice had said that to me, the last time she would ever say that to me. It had been last Sunday, when Grandma wanted me to help pick up the Lanhams’ trash and I hadn’t wanted to. I could still hear the shock and disappointment in her voice as she said, “Lula Bell!” I had disappointed Grandma Bernice on her last day on earth. And now, I’d never get the chance to make it up to her. This thought caused fresh tears to fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks.
Mama handed me a handkerchief with a lavender-colored “B” and little flowers sewn onto it. The handkerchief had belonged to Grandma Bernice. It seemed somehow wrong to wipe my face on it.
“She’d want you to have it,” Mama whispered, her breath warm on my ear, “and to use it.”
The handkerchief didn’t really help, seeing as how it smelled like Grandma Bernice’s hand lotion, Rose Milk. This made me cry even more. So of course I used the handkerchief. I had to.
When the service was done, Pastor Dan came over carrying the biggest, most magnificent flower arrangement I’d ever seen: antique white roses, pale pink peonies, periwinkle blue hydrangea—some of the blossoms were as big as a cereal bowl. Pastor handed the flowers to Mama and kissed her on the cheek.
Mama looked at Pastor Dan, a question on her face. But he only patted her arm, promised to pray for us, and stepped back into the crowd.
Great Uncle Cleburne and Cousin Ethel lingered in front of Grandma Bernice’s casket—saying good-bye, I guessed. That’s when I heard Great Uncle Cleburne say, “They never get the lips right. Have you noticed that, Ethel?”
I wanted to march up there and slam the lid shut on the casket, to cover Grandma Bernice up and protect her from all these people who kept judging the way she looked. The truth was that Grandma didn’t look her best. But if being dead isn’t a good excuse for not looking your best, then I don’t know what is.
Saying Good-bye
When we were back in the limo, Mama opened the little envelope sticking out of the flowers. She read the card, then pressed it to her chest and closed her eyes.
“What is it?” Daddy whispered.
It took her a minute, but finally Mama opened her teary eyes and handed the card to Daddy. He read it, smiled, and passed the card to me.
With her own hand, Grandma had written: Being part of your family has been the greatest pleasure and privilege of my life. Thank you. All my love forever, Mama/Grandma Bernice
I whispered, “She really knew how to light up the dark, didn’t she?”
Mama smiled, a real smile, through her tears. “She did.”
When the limo began moving, I looked out the window. Cars pulled over now, and people took pause when they saw us coming. That’s because we were part of a long line of cars, a funeral procession, with police escorts at the front and back. I sent Thank you, thank you, thank you, thoughts to all the people who paused in honor of Grandma Bernice.
The graveside service was short, but still, it was the hardest part for me. It was hard because when it was over, we were all supposed to walk away and leave Grandma Bernice there, outside, in the drizzle, in a wooden box. Oh, it was a grand box—dark, polished wood with gold trim; it looked like a gigantic jewelry box. But the way I see it, a box is still a box. It just felt wrong to leave her there like that. So I didn’t. I stayed right where I was, sitting on a metal folding chair beside Grandma Bernice, both of us protected by a green canopy with the words “White House Funeral Home” printed on it.
At first, everyone was very patient with me. Mama said, “Take your time, sweetheart.” But as time wore on, even Daddy began to lose patience. “Time to go, Lula Bell,” he finally said.
“No!” I said, shaking my head violently.
A gravedigger in overalls waited nearby, ready to collect the chairs and things, ready to lay Grandma Bernice to rest in the cold, wet ground. I gave him dirty looks and wished—hard—that he’d go away.
Mama, Daddy, Great Uncle Cleburne, and Cousin Ethel stood off to the side in the wet grass, having a quiet conversation. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When they finished talking, Mama and Cousin Ethel got into the limo and it drove away, leaving Daddy, Great Uncle Cleburne, Grandma Bernice, and me—and the gravedigger.
The gravedigger started toward Daddy and Great Uncle Cleburne. “Anything I can do?” he called out.
There was another quiet conversation that I couldn’t quite make out. Then the man, who was enormous, came over, ducked under the tent, and folded himself into the chair beside mine. I ignored him and stared straight ahead.
“Name’s Jimmy,” he said.
I scrunched up my face and gave him my meanest, scariest look. Mr. Jimmy smiled. I looked away. For a while, Mr. Jimmy and I sat side by side in silence.
“So,” he said, finally.
I continued to stare straight ahead as I said in a small voice, “It just seems so…so…”
“Final?” Mr. Jimmy guessed.
I lowered my head and nodded.
“It ain’t,” Mr. Jimmy said.
“How do you know?” I risked a quick glance at him.
He moved his huge shoulders up and down. “Just do.”
“But how?”
Mr. Jimmy was quiet for so long that I decided he wasn’t going to answer me. But then he did. “At night, when it’s dark, how do you know mornin’s comin’? In the wintertime, when everything’s dead, how do you know it ain’t? How do you know spring’s comin’?”
I looked at him.
Mr. Jimmy stood and let his eyes wander over Grandma Bernice’s casket. “She ain’t here, but she ain’t gone neither.” Then he looked at me.
I nodded.
He laid a hand on top of Grandma’s casket. “She ain’t here,” he said again.
I stood. If Grandma wasn’t here, then I figured there was no reason for me to be here. So I turned and walked away, despite feeling awkward and uneasy and…just all wrong.
We were almost home by the time I realized why. I hadn’t said good-bye to Grandma at the cemetery—because she hadn’t been there. I would never get to tell her good-bye. Or anything else.
A Pity Party
There was a party going on at home, if you ask me. It was definitely a sad party, but still. There were people everywhere. They sat and stood around, eat
ing and talking in low, respectful tones.
I found Mama in the kitchen. “Where did all this food come from?” I asked.
Honestly, if I hadn’t known what our counters and table looked like, I never would’ve been able to figure it out today; you couldn’t even see them. Our whole kitchen was buried in food: sandwich platters, Jell-O molds, fruit salads, tossed salads, cakes, pies, casseroles, casseroles, and more casseroles.
“Didn’t you hear the doorbell ringing like crazy?” Mama asked, pulling another casserole out of the refrigerator.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Well,” Mama said, as if this answered my question.
“Well, what?”
Mama bent to slide the casserole into the oven and then stood. “People bring food when someone…passes.”
“Why” was the word that popped into my head and out of my mouth. It just didn’t make sense to me that when people heard that Grandma Bernice had died, they thought to themselves, Oh! In that case, the Bonners must be ready to eat. I better get over there with my vegetable medley right away!
“That’s just the way it is, Lula Bell,” Mama said, “the way it’s always been—people are just trying to be helpful and supportive is all.”
I shook my head in disgust.
Mama put a hand on her hip. “Lula Bell, can you imagine us having to make all this food to feed all these people after the funeral?”
I shrugged. I knew she had me there; I just wasn’t ready to give in.
“Why, you could hardly get out of bed yesterday.”
Just because I hadn’t gotten out of bed didn’t mean I couldn’t.
Mama grabbed a small bunch of red pin-cushion roses off the counter and handed them to me. “I found these on the front porch when we got home,” she said as she hurried out of the kitchen.