The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  "Les never mentioned that? I’m shocked. It was one of his favorite jokes. He loved to tell people he was the bastard Beatle."

  Mia laughs, and when she does, several people in the front row turn around and glare. She stifles her amusement and leans in closer.

  "That’s Uncle George over there. The one in the front row with all the white hair."

  Mia cocks her head in the direction of an impeccably dressed man with tortoise shell half glasses hanging around his neck. He does indeed have a wild amount of pure white hair.

  At John Moller’s reception, at least a dozen people came up to thank me for giving such an uplifting eulogy. We chatted about John and agreed the world would be a lesser place without him. His sister, Claudia was particularly moved by my sentiments. We talked until the funeral parlor workers started picking up the chairs. Claudia told me all about her big brother. Then she told me all about herself. I told her she had incredible eyes. Claudia was my first funeral fling. But before you label me a total social deviant, you have to understand that just like the funerals themselves, the funeral flings were completely serendipitous. I did not attend John Moller’s funeral expecting to deliver a eulogy or expecting to get laid by his sister. Sometimes things just happen. But it was an interesting side benefit with potential for development.

  "Your uncle looks like that guy from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. You know, the crazy orchestra conductor."

  Mia chuckles again, but much more quietly.

  "He is a conductor. Retired now."

  A man steps from the audience and approaches a small organ on one side of the stage. He glances at maestro Harrison, who nods. The man places his hands on the keys, closes his eyes and begins to play.

  "That’s Lyle," says Mia. "Lester’s brother. You might recognize him if you can look past the suit and tie. He played with Lester off and on over the years."

  Organ music fills the little chapel. I watch Lyle rock backward with the force of the crescendos then roll forward as if to protect the keys as the tone softens. His hair is pulled into a tiny ponytail that dips behind the collar of his suit coat, which is a deep parrot green fabric that shimmers amongst the rest of dowdy brown and black flock.

  "Were you that good?" I ask Mia.

  "I was on my way."

  "What a shame you gave it up."

  "I suppose, but then, you’ve never seen me dance."

  "I’d like to."

  Mia places her hand on my knee and I cover it with my own. We sit silently through the rest of the performance. At the conclusion, Lyle stands and returns to his seat next to his father. No one makes a sound. This is one thing that always bothers me about funeral services. No one claps. It seems rude, and everybody always looks a little uncomfortable.

  A minister enters the room through a door behind the dais. His white clerical collar bites into the flesh of his neck, creating an abrupt dividing line between head and torso. He adjusts the microphone, which sends out a few painful blasts of feedback, and looks out at the assembled group. His lips are huge and pink, like cherry puff pastries.

  "Thank you all for coming," he says, and I expect crumbs to fly out over the audience. "We have gathered here to remember the life of Lester Harrison. To celebrate the time he spent with us and to rejoice in his new life with our heavenly Father. Let us pray."

  Mia withdraws her hand from beneath mine, clasps it with her other and bows her head. I do the same. The minister drones on about life everlasting. I shift my gaze from my shoes to Mia’s. Her calves are slender yet muscular. I imagine them in a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots. I am going to have to deliver one hell of a eulogy if I want to see those legs wrapped around my own.

  An amen ripples through the crowd and heads bob back up to attention.

  "And now," says the minister. "I’d like to ask Lester’s family and friends to come up and share their memories and stories."

  One by one they approach the podium, nervously at first, and then more eagerly as the crowd warms up. There’s a beefy guy in an embroidered biker vest who’s slicked back his hair for the occasion, an elderly woman in pearls who was "little Lester’s" piano teacher, a stringy young kid, swimming in a white dress shirt with a wide tie. This is the part of the funeral where the veil of solemnity lifts. The assembled crowd is allowed to show emotions other than grief. There are several very funny stories about Lester, and I collect and catalog key details: wild in school, devoted to his family, liked to drink and smoke, loved life on the road, had a soft spot in his heart for animals, had a soft spot in his head for motorcycles, wrote songs that could sweep you away.

  The procession of eulogists begins to thin. The minister surveys the crowd and asks if anyone else has something to share. I raise my hand. Mia looks surprised as I stand, smooth my trousers and slide past several pairs of knees to reach the aisle. I hear whispers and murmurs. This is normal. People are trying to figure out who I am. I smile as I walk up to the podium, then I turn to face the expectant crowd.

  "My name is Randy McDonald. Lester and I got to know each other during his set breaks back when I used to tend bar. I’m not as talented as all you folks out there, and I’m not used to talking in front of a crowd."

  I stop and take a breath. As a bartender, I think I need a tougher personality, a harder edge, even a little vulgarity. I begin again, deepening my voice and stepping in closer to the microphone.

  "I bet none of you knew that Lester Harrison saved my life."

  A few gasps float up from the audience. I glance at Mia. Her lips are curved into a little "o" shape and her eyes are wide. She crosses her legs and leans forward in her chair.

  "He wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone. Les was real proud, maybe even a little obnoxious when it came to his band – and his family."

  I stop and smile at the front row.

  "But he wasn’t one to brag about his good deeds. So, now that he’s gone, I’ll do it for him."

  "It was summer. A weeknight and the place was pretty light. Lester was sitting with me at the bar, taking an extended break. Nobody was complaining since it was really too hot to do much of anything. He was telling me about his newest motorcycle, the Indian rebuilt. I was only half listening. I’d done some pretty heavy drugs before my shift and the world was still a little artificial. Les knew I was wiped out and asked what was going on. He said I’d been messed up nearly every night that week. Of course, I told him he was crazy, that he was the one fucked up."

  With this well-placed profanity, I immediately grab the attention of anyone left not listening.

  "I asked him if he didn’t have anything better to do than accuse people of being stoned. That’s when he hit me. I didn’t even see it coming. Nailed me right across the nose. Hurt like Jesus, and he was just sitting there with this big ol’ grin on his face. I asked him what the hell he did that for. Actually, I screamed it at him, but he just sat there. Nobody else even bothered turnin’ around. It was just too damn hot."

  "Finally, Lester took a swallow of a beer and wiped the smile off his face with the back of his hand. He looked right at me and said, ‘Listen, shit-for-brains, either get your sorry ass together now or you’ll be standin’ in this same spot five years from now, staring at some middle-aged barfly’s tits, thinkin’ you gotta get you some of that.’ Then he stood up, walked up front and started back playin’ before the rest of the guys even got up on stage."

  I look around the room. They are in the palm of my hand, listening to me, believing in me. Attention is addicting.

  "I listened to that song and when he finished, I clapped."

  I clap for a few seconds to show my audience what I mean.

  "I was the only one clapping, but I didn’t stop. I kept clapping until I couldn’t get any more sound to come out of my hands. Then I walked out of that bar and never went back. I’ve been clean for two years now and I’m goin’ to school. I’m goin’ to be a chef. But if Les hadn’t busted my chops, I’d still be slingin’ juice—more’n likely, I�
��d be long dead from the shit. So here’s to you, Lester."

  I start clapping again. A few seconds later Mia joins me, then Lyle, and then George Harrison. Even Mia’s mother stops crying and puts her hands together. When the whole room is clapping, I step down, walk out the doors, through the foyer, back out into the parking lot and lean against the Corvair, waiting for Mia.

  TWO

  My pen is poised over the newspaper. There’s a doozy of a funeral notice today. It has wealth. It has fame. It has a very attractive widow. Michael Rudolph, crown prince of the city’s medical community, has been killed in a plane crash.

  We are all saddened by the sudden and tragic death of Dr. Michael Rudolph, well-known Chicago-area neurosurgeon, medical researcher and philanthropist. His 1972 Piper Cherokee spiraled into the Rock River last Sunday after take-off from Barnett Memorial airport.

  The obituary reads like a nomination for the Nobel Prize. I’m surprised he wasn’t able to escape by walking across the water.

  Dr. Rudolph is known throughout Illinois for his generosity to both the medical community and the general populace, as well as his fierce dedication to Alzheimer’s research. Groundbreaking for the Rudolph Research Wing at Lake Community Hospital will go forward as planned, and his estate will continue to fund the clinical testing of a promising new Alzheimer’s drug from local company, Nesler Pharmaceuticals.

  There’s a large picture and two full columns of copy. There’s even a news story on the front page of the financial section. This is the funeral big leagues.

  Mr. Rudolph is survived by his wife, Lily and his mother, Beatrice J. Rudolph. A memorial service will be held today, Wednesday, February 28, at St. Mark’s Cathedral at 11:00am. A private graveside service follows prior to interment in the Rudolph family vault at Lake Shore Memorial Gardens.

  I’ve seen pictures of the Rudolphs in the paper before. Most people are simply born into the world with nothing but the luck of the genetic draw, but a select few arrive carved out of granite in the likenesses of the gods. Michael and Lily Rudolph were the kind of beautiful people you could set down in any situation and they would rise to the top. Raven haired and fine-featured, they were equally gorgeous, equally charming, more like siblings than husband and wife. In the case of truly stunning individuals, I don’t buy the old saw that opposites attract; I think a sameness draws them together, a comfortable mirror image.

  Michael Rudolph’s death was a wrong turn in the fairy tale, yet in some ways his death was as spectacular as his life. The financial page story adds a few grisly details absent from the obituary.

  Police and Department of Transportation investigators continue to comb the crash site and do not expect to have a full report for several weeks. Barnett Memorial is a non-towered airport and there were no witnesses on the ground to confirm the situation surrounding the accident. Based on preliminary crash scene evidence, investigators are speculating Rudolph experienced some sort of engine failure shortly after take-off and attempted to turn back to the airport. Experts agree that if Rudolph lost control in the turn, it could have resulted in a spiral from which he would have been unable to recover. Debris at the scene initially indicates Rudolph’s plane hit the ground at 100 to 120 mph, suggesting a plunge from 500 to 800 feet.

  Funerals notwithstanding, I like to think of myself as a pretty average guy. I’m honest enough to know I’m not traditionally handsome, but I don’t think I’m completely unattractive either. About five foot eleven, six feet if I stand up straight, trim, pale skin, very blue eyes. In high school, I perfected a hairstyle that allowed a cascade of black curls to fall across my forehead as I hunched over chemistry calculations. I liked to imagine it as the look of a tortured Irish poet: brooding yet not quite suicidal. There’s even been a few co-workers over the years, female co-workers I emphasize, who’ve said if they looked past the rather disheveled first impression, they could see some definite potential. Not necessarily ringing praise, but I cling to it nonetheless.

  Rudolph’s wife reported her husband missing late Sunday afternoon when he did not return home for a previously scheduled dinner engagement. A check of the flight plan filed at his home airport of Aurora revealed the remote Barnett as his destination. Civil Air Patrol was dispatched and spotted the wreckage from the air. Emergency vehicles were immediately sent from several points surrounding the airport, but all arrived hours after impact. Rudolph was pronounced dead at the scene from multiple injuries.

  My childhood was pretty average too—until our house burned down. When you’re a kid, change sneaks up on you. You go along riding your bike, eating pizza, getting dirty. Everything is present tense. More than that, it’s instant tense. When something intrudes and spins your world out of balance, it’s bewildering. My universe flew apart Thanksgiving Day 1980. I was ten. All my relatives were at our house for the holiday. I didn’t question it; I just moved my pillow and blankets onto a sofa and pretended I was camping. My little sister Gina was sleeping with my mom and dad. Various aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents were strewn around the rest of the house. There were 17 of us altogether. At least that’s what they told me, and I’m sure they knew what they were talking about—the dead body counters.

  For the next couple of weeks I’m housesitting at a high-rise condo. Roger and Ronnie, the two gay guys who run the Italian bistro around the corner, are on a tour of the Riviera. As Roger, the more flamboyant of the two, described it to me, "Fags in France! Should be fun, Charlie Boy. Too bad you can’t come, but then who’d watch the home fires burn?" Staying at their place is like living inside an issue of Metropolitan Home. All natural fibers, granite countertops and artfully arranged collections of souvenir ashtrays. They left the fridge packed, with instructions to, "Eat everything in sight." And, I have full use of their red Miata. It’s a good gig.

  I put a call into work to tell them I’m following up a lead on the Ted LeMoine case, a crafty little accountant who seems to suffer more on-the-job injuries than a longshoreman. As a freelancer, I don’t have to account for every minute of my day, but I prefer keeping questions to a minimum. So I explain to my boss, Dennis that I’ve found a guy who used to work for Ted and is willing to sign a statement saying he’d been in charge of purchasing all Ted’s fake medical appliances. I’ll likely be gone all day. "Not a problem. Go get ‘em, Tiger." Yes, I currently work for an idiot.

  Parking around St. Mark’s is limited on a good day. This morning there are so many Mercedes and BMWs circling for position it’s like a luxury car rally. I consider challenging the Cadillac SUV hugging my bumper to a race, but seeing how my transport is about the size of one of the SUV’s custom hubcaps, I instead make a quick right turn and dart down an alley onto a residential side street. There’s a tiny spot behind a sleek Porsche 911 into which I squeeze with approximately two-and-a-half inches to spare. As I chirp the Miata’s alarm and stroll away, the SUV cruises past, still hunting.

  After a week of torrential downpours, it’s not raining now. I suppose this has been pre-arranged by the mayor and aldermen. We couldn’t have the city’s movers and shakers showing up at church like drowned rats. Too bad. I like to see rich people bedraggled. It kind of levels the playing field.

  There are various groups of people on the church steps, everyone in black, shaking hands and talking quietly, like clusters of crows pecking at each other’s wings. I head inside unnoticed. I’ve been to St. Mark’s several times for funerals. Episcopalian. Not as ornate as the Catholic cathedrals, but still impressive. The ceiling of the sanctuary vaults to a 50-foot rotunda with a magnificent mosaic at the center point depicting Christ’s torment in the Garden of Gethsemane. The high, arched windows surrounding the room are leaded rather than stained glass. The morning light falling through is bright and unapologetic.

  Growing up, we had this funny little detached garage. One year, over the course of several months, I turned a corner of it into a fort, smuggling in three old pillows, a few ratty blankets, my comic books and some snacks. I
t was cold that Thanksgiving night when I snuck out there, but it was also much quieter and more fun than a lumpy plaid sofa in a crowded house. I fell asleep as soon as the blankets warmed up against my skin and didn’t wake up until the garage windows started shattering. By the time I scrambled outside, flames had swallowed up our house. I heard sirens in the distance. I saw neighbors on their porches. I screamed until a fireman in a rubber coat picked me up and carried me away. At ten years old, I was the only surviving member of my immediate and extended family.

  There are ushers at each of three, double-door entrances to the sanctuary of St. Mark’s. I select door number two and a portly man with a ruddy nose and pockmarked cheeks solemnly hands me a memorial folder. It’s thick gray parchment with gold foil lettering on the front, Michael Herbert Augustus Jamison Rudolph 1971 – 2007. Wealthy people can afford more names than the rest of us.

  I’m twenty minutes early but the pews are already crowded. I take a seat about three quarters of the way back, next to a family with four young boys in matching navy blazers and red ties. The boys are fidgeting, punching each other and yanking the hymnals in and out of the racks on the backs of the pews. Their mother leans over periodically to shush them and threaten their lives should they not sit still. Their father stares straight ahead, apparently oblivious to the chaos. I smile at the youngest blazer boy next to me, a blond with freckles and dirty fingernails. He looks back at me suspiciously, then turns away and continues slugging his older brother.

  I watch the rest of the church fill up with the city’s most influential citizens. There are quite a few recognizable faces: media celebrities, politicians, and some people I can’t place but who are so good looking, they must be important.

  A low, vibrating chord from the organ rolls out over the crowd and we fall silent. Even the blazer boys stop jostling and listen as the huge sound builds in intensity. Church organs have their own spiritual power. The real ones, not the cheesy roller rink/garage band kind, the kind of instrument built right into the structure. The brass pipes of this beast reach almost to the ceiling, some as big as tree trunks. The sound pumping through them is alive, breathing; it bursts out the top and spreads across the room, Listen to me, listen to me . . . I can save you.