Derailed

by Jackson Neta

  I finally sat, exhausted, on one of the sofas.

  The hectic pace continued the next day, and we appreciated it when the pastor’s wife and another woman from church brought by a ham, a pot of green beans, and some scalloped potatoes. “You need to eat at a time like this,” First Lady Rose said firmly when Estelle tried to protest, knowing we’d end up with a refrigerator overflowing with leftovers after the repast.

  We arrived at the church early Saturday afternoon, but the sanctuary was already half full with SouledOut folks, other friends, and people whose names I didn’t know. SouledOut might be a storefront church, but it was nothing like those little run-down places back in the hood where I grew up. Its whole front wall was glass, like all the other stores in the modern Howard Street Shopping Center. The only thing obscuring passersby from seeing the rows of chairs full of worshippers and the praise banners hanging on the wall were the words “SouledOut Community Church—All Are Welcome” painted in large red letters across the glass. It’s one thing to invite everyone in the parking lot to watch us raise our hands and dance as we praise the Lord on a Sunday morning, but it felt awkward to celebrate a homegoing so publicly. And with a big black hearse parked out front, there was no way shoppers wouldn’t be curious about what was going on inside.

  Soft, recorded music played as guests paraded slowly by Mom’s casket, two large floral arrangements standing at either end. As family, we remained in back, milling with those who were still arriving and receiving people’s condolences. We also had to dodge out of their way as they hung their coats on the rolling racks that sometimes gave our church the appearance of a resale shop.

  When Pastor Cobbs signaled it was time to begin, we slipped around the back of the congregation and through the double doors into the hall leading to the bathrooms and offices. There we organized ourselves to come back in as a family and process slowly down the aisle to the front row.

  The first thing I noticed when I came through those doors was that the guy who usually played the keyboard in our church’s little praise band was sitting behind a classic Hammond organ, playing a beautifully slow and soulful rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” Oh my, Mom must be loving this. But where had that organ come from?

  Once we were all seated, the men from House of Thompson closed the lid of the casket and placed a framed photograph of Mom on top of it. Pastor Cobbs stood up from his seat on the low platform and, looking up with his eyes closed, began to clap softly in time to the music. Avis Douglass, sitting on the other side of the platform, stood up and joined him, then began to sing, softly at first until we rose and joined in. “I’ll fly away; To a home on God’s celestial shore.” Soon the tempo picked up, the clapping spread, and our voices rose with joy.

  Yes. In my mind’s eye, I could see Mom doin’ a little shufflin’ dance.

  More praise and worship followed, during which I caught Pastor Cobbs smiling and nodding frequently at the keyboardist on that old Hammond. And then it hit me: Pastor Cobbs had arranged for that organ to be here. A good Hammond isn’t cheap, and there hadn’t been anything in the church budget about getting an organ. Maybe he’d rented it. But whatever, there it was . . . for Mom’s homegoing. Again the tears streamed down my face.

  God was so good, always looking out for even the smallest things when the time was right.

  Avis finally concluded our time of praise and worship with prayer, and we all took our seats. I couldn’t recall what came next, so I opened the program, which had my favorite picture of Mom on the cover, with “Wanda M. Bentley, 1922–2010” below it. On the inside left panel was her biography, or obituary, as the printer had called it. On the right was the schedule for her “Homegoing Celebration.” I scanned down. Next came the Remarks and Resolutions of Condolence, followed by the Reading of the Obituary. I glanced down the row, past Estelle. Rodney had his head down, studying the program. I smiled.

  My attention returned to a woman reading a resolution.

  “. . . Whereas, Wanda Marie Bentley was a member in good standing of Mount Zion Tabernacle for twenty-three years; and Whereas, she faithfully sang . . .”

  I had no idea who the woman was, dressed in her white “mother’s” uniform, but she sounded like she was from way back. I checked the program. It did not reveal Mom’s middle name—not that it was any secret—but hardly anyone knew her middle name these days.

  “. . . Now therefore, be it resolved, that the Daughters of Mount Zion express our deepest sympathy to Wanda’s son”—she looked at me—“daughter-in-law, grandson, great-grandson, and the extended family over their loss. Be assured, she will be missed. Respectfully submitted, Claudine G. Jenkins, Acting President of the DMZ.”

  I took a deep breath as the woman returned to her seat and someone else came to the front to share a favorite memory of Mom. I’d mostly known her as my mother, always there, always believing in me. But her life had reached much farther than I had imagined.

  Rodney read the obituary without a stumble, but he kept glancing at me between paragraphs as though looking for my approval. I nodded and smiled to encourage him. I wondered how often over the years my son had needed that affirmation and I hadn’t been there to give it. I winced; this being a good father business took more than a single turnaround, and I was still spinning.

  Grace Meredith’s rendition of “Give Me Jesus” was great, better—if that was possible—than on her CD. And Pastor Cobbs’s eulogy powerfully honored Mom’s Christian testimony. If anything, it was a winsome salvation message, inviting anyone who didn’t know Christ to find meaning and peace in relationship with him.

  After the closing prayer, we followed the pallbearers as they rolled Mom’s casket up the aisle and out the front doors of the church. But after Rodney’s reading, my mind was distracted, wondering how I could repair what I’d messed up so long ago. Wasn’t that what Mom would’ve wanted? Do right by your son, Harry. Bring him back into the family, embrace him, believe in him, show him God’s love until he too wants to be in relationship with him.

  Chapter 29

  Guided by the two men from House of Thompson, the pallbearers slid Mom’s casket into the back of the black hearse and closed the large door. The driver shook my hand. “Beautiful service, Mr. Bentley. Your mother would’ve been pleased.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she is pleased.”

  “Hmm, yes indeed.” He checked his watch. “Let’s see, you’re gonna have the repast now. Take a couple of hours, so we could have everything ready at the cemetery by six P.M. Does that sound good to you?”

  I nodded.

  “And you said just family, right?”

  “Well, family and the pastor and a few friends. But no more’n fifteen.”

  “Okay. We’ll have the chairs set up and expect you at six. Sun doesn’t set until about seven thirty.” He glanced up at the sky. “Only a few clouds, so we should have plenty of daylight. Graveside service don’t take long.”

  Rodney was strolling in the parking lot talking loudly into his phone, waving his other hand in the air. When I caught his eye, I beckoned him back to the church so we could start the repast. “Who was that?” I asked when he finally came, a heavy expression on his face.

  “Ah, Donita again. She’s only allowed to make calls from rehab on the weekend, so . . .”

  “So, what? What’s she want with you, especially at a time like this?”

  “Just forget it, Dad. You wouldn’t understand.”

  I sighed as we went in through the door.

  That evening, by the time the interment was over and we got home, the house felt as dark and empty as if Mom had been living with us. Made me cling to Estelle in a long, comforting hug while Rodney and DaShawn disappeared to change their clothes. “I hope everything was okay today.”

  “Better than okay, hon. I’m sure your mom felt honored.”

  “That’s what I told that guy from the funeral home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I chuckled. “Well, he said he was sur
e Mom would’ve been pleased, like she didn’t exist anymore. But I said, I’m sure she is pleased. Because I believe she was lookin’ down and knew all about it.”

  “Um-hmm. I believe she was too, but . . .” She pulled me tighter and nuzzled my neck. “. . . I’m trustin’ the good Lord also turns off the lights sometimes.”

  “Well, he better.” We broke our clutch with a laugh. “Hey, got any leftovers from the repast? I was so busy talkin’ to people, I hardly ate anything.”

  Sunday afternoon, I asked DaShawn and Rodney to come with me over to Mom’s old apartment. We needed to sort through all her things and clear it out soon. When I’d been there earlier looking for her will, I’d realized there were a few things of value as well as several sentimental things we shouldn’t leave in an unoccupied apartment. We packed up her good china, silverware, jewelry, boxes of important papers, and photo albums and loaded them into the RAV4. Also took her TV and some small appliances, though most were so old, they hardly mattered.

  Back at our place, while Rodney and DaShawn were carrying most of the things into our basement, I got the stepladder to put the toaster oven, coffeemaker, and other appliances that the cold wouldn’t hurt up in our garage attic. But once I’d climbed the ladder, I saw a couple of boxes I didn’t recognize sitting off to the side on the plywood that spanned the attic joists. I pulled one to me, blew off the dust, and opened it. Within were several old framed photographs of people I didn’t recognize—white people. There was also an old cigar box of army medals and souvenirs. Below all that was a stack of papers, thick envelopes, and tattered documents. I flipped through them and was surprised to find that most of them were addressed to Wilhelm and Matilda Krakowski.

  It was the old lady’s box. Amazing! The other box was probably hers too, because I couldn’t imagine Estelle wearing any of the three hats inside.

  I left Mom’s appliances up there, and took the boxes into the house. “Estelle! Look what I found.”

  “Wait. Don’t put those dirty old boxes on my counter.” But once I’d set them on a wooden kitchen chair, Estelle was eager to see what I’d found. “Well, Lord be praised. Wait till she hears about this. You think she put ’em up there herself and just forgot?”

  “Can’t imagine her climbing up there.”

  When Rodney came in, he solved the mystery right off. The boxes had been on the closet shelf in the room he was using downstairs. He’d taken them out to the garage when he was painting and didn’t know anyone was looking for them.

  “Well, we have to call her.” Estelle flipped through the coupons, notes, and reminders pinned to the bulletin board. “Oh dear. I have no idea where that phone number is. Any of you see a little note paper pinned up here with the name Don Krakowski and a phone number on it?”

  “Gramma, there’s so much stuff pinned on that board—”

  “I’m just askin’.”

  I stared at DaShawn, realizing this may have been the first time he’d called Estelle “Gramma.”

  “Harry, when you called to invite her to come for that visit, did you use the number on that paper?”

  “Nope. Used Krakowski’s card that I filed on my dresser top.”

  “In that mess? You just dumped everything back on there after we moved.”

  “But it’s still there.”

  “Hmph! Well, go get it, then.”

  A couple minutes later I came back into the kitchen, waving the card in my hand. Estelle rolled her eyes and grabbed it from me to make the call.

  “Yes, yes, we found your mother’s boxes . . . oh, no problem,” Estelle said into the phone as she eyed me. “We’ll bring them out to her. How would next Saturday do? Just tell us her address.”

  I think Corky was just as glad to get back to work Monday morning as I was. We worked the station that day and the next, and I caught up on some paperwork. Made sure I thanked Gilson for being so flexible with the time to see to my mother’s affairs.

  “Don’t worry.” He grinned at me as though he expected me to know why. “We’ll get it back from you.”

  Yeah, he would too. “Maybe I can do an overnight Thursday and Friday.”

  “Good. Let me know.”

  I got right back to him with a plan, and he approved it without a second look.

  Tuesday evening while we were eating supper, I commented on how accommodating Gilson was being. Estelle asked if I’d seen Grace Meredith during the day.

  “No. Why would I have seen her?”

  “ ’Cause she and her assistant left today by train for—”

  “Yeah, and I drove her,” interrupted Rodney as he scooped more mashed potatoes onto his plate.

  “You what?”

  “In my limo. Her name and address came up on the board, so I asked the dispatcher if I could make that run. Kinda cool.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I grinned at him. “Hope you gave her good service.”

  “The best.”

  “So where’s she goin’ this time?”

  “Harry! Seattle, of course. She’s headin’ out there for that big West Coast tour she told us about. I went over and prayed with her yesterday afternoon when I got home from work.” Estelle looked real thoughtful. “Ya know, I think the train thing’s gonna work out for her. You were a real answer to prayer.”

  “Me?” I was a step behind in this conversation.

  “Yeah. Takin’ the train was your idea. Until you mentioned that option, I think she was about to pack it in and quit singing. But she has a real ministry. God’s gonna use that girl.”

  “Well, that’s good.” I finally felt like I was catching up. “She’s got a voice, all right. Sure appreciated her singing at Mom’s homegoing.” Huh, wish I’d remembered she was leavin’ today. Would’ve liked to see her off. But I wasn’t likely to have run into her, big as Union Station was.

  I looked over at Rodney again. Had been wanting to invite him to our men’s Bible study, but hadn’t gotten around to it with all the distractions. Seemed like this might be a good evening for it given that things seemed to be going well on his job, but I thought I’d ease into the invitation. “So you drive any other interesting people around today?”

  “Not during the day, just some businesspeople goin’ here ‘n’ there. But guess who I’m drivin’ tonight. It’s gonna be a late one.”

  DaShawn perked up. “Who?”

  “Derrick Rose.”

  “Whoa! Da Bulls,” he said with exaggerated Chicago-talk. “Is there a playoff game tonight?”

  “No, but he’s going to this fancy fund-raiser, and I get to drive.”

  “Dad! Ya gotta get his autograph for me!” By now, DaShawn was bouncing all over his chair.

  “No can do, my man. It’s against the rules for Lincoln drivers to ask favors of any customer, especially celebrities.”

  “Aw, Dad. Couldn’t you maybe slip him a blank card with a Jackson Five wrapped around it? Just say it’s for your kid?”

  “Ooo!” Rodney’s eyes got big in feigned shock. “Now the boy wants me to bribe the man. You gonna have me back in the joint before I dry off.”

  “That’s right, DaShawn,” added Estelle. “Your dad’s got himself a good job. He’s not about to do anything to put it in jeopardy.”

  So much for inviting Rodney to the Bible study this evening. At least he held firm about following his company’s rules. I’d go meet with my brothers myself and maybe debrief a little more about Mom’s passing.

  The week settled back into a welcome routine, and on Thursday evening I ended up taking the Cardinal train down to Indianapolis, planning to return the next morning. I should’ve stayed at the Omni, but instead, after giving Corky a walk, I ended up at a fleabitten hotel that was probably slated for the wrecking ball any day. They gave me all kinds of grief about having a dog until I insisted a service dog was allowed anywhere open to the public. Couldn’t resist quipping under my breath to the manager that Corky was in more danger of being contaminated by the hotel than vice versa. I think he heard m
e, or at least got the drift of my comment.

  When I got to my room, I sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows on knees. For the first time in a long time, I felt an old familiar temptation. Being alone in a strange town made me want to go out and find a bar, tip back a few cold ones, and find someone to talk to. Corky ambled over and sat on her haunches right in front of me, staring up, mouth slightly open, panting gently, her liquid eyes asking, What’s next, boss? So trusting. She would have come with me or stayed in the room, no judgment. It was all up to me . . . but so were the consequences. The last time I’d fallen off the wagon had been when I was losing my sight and couldn’t handle the terror of it all. What was my excuse now? That I had no one but a dog to talk to? How ridiculous. And yet . . . I wasn’t under a lot of stress. Maybe I could handle just one . . . or two.

  The last time I’d stopped by The Office I’d told myself I wasn’t stressed then either. But I’d ended up staggering home and admitting to Estelle that I had relapsed. I’d had to confess the whole incident. I knew it hurt and scared her, but she just said, “Well, I think we need to pray. Mind if I pray for you right now?” It was as though she understood my fear and the temptation and didn’t define me by my fall.

  What trust! I couldn’t break that trust.

  “Corky, go lie down. Go on now. It’s time we both went to bed.”

  At six the next morning, I caught the returning Cardinal back to Chicago. Man! Wasn’t sure how many of those short nights I could take. And how close I’d come to falling off the wagon stuck to me like a bad dream that took hours to wash off in the light of day.

  Otherwise, the trips both ways were uneventful. Corky didn’t find any drugs on the trip home even though the behavior of one young woman made me suspicious. She appeared unusually busty and kept adjusting herself in a way that didn’t look natural or move like silicon. Wouldn’t have been the first time significant amounts of cocaine had been smuggled in a supposedly padded bra. But even though we walked by twice, Corky didn’t alert. Don’t know what I would’ve done if she had. I was still undercover and there were no female officers around.