There are the few times when, even if dead on Thursday, a Monday funeral is scheduled. When there are so many mourners and friends, when some come from far away, they will have all day Saturday and Sunday to pay their respects. They can show up for the funeral on Monday and maybe, if it’s early enough, not miss a full day of work. Dying on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday is the worst. That can, and often does, inconvenience many.
“It’s a thoughtful man who dies on a Thursday.” This was the wisdom Ike imparted to Walter and Billy, a few years ago, after attending just such an inconvenient, midweek funeral for an older cousin on his wife’s side. He had arrived at Billy’s promptly at lunchtime that day, straight from the cemetery, still dressed in a dark blue suit and tie, and immediately ordered his usual. “Thursday is a good day to die,” he said.
And now, on this day, as Walter straightened his own tie and readied himself for a moment he wished had never come, he recalled Ike’s pithy pronouncement that day. True to his own advice, Ike died on a Thursday.
He was home alone when his aged heart stopped beating. It was late in the afternoon, an August day so hot Ike had to leave his table in Billy’s, next to the sidewalk, across from the square. “I’ll be back later,” he said. “Maybe. Got to cool down some.” Grandson Roosevelt had come to get the old man. He knew it was too hot for anyone to be sitting all day in the sun. Billy told Ike, so often in recent years it was like complaining about the man’s smoking, to move inside. He practically begged him. “Sit over here,” Billy said, pointing to a table in the shade near a fan. “Or sit next to Walter, if you still have the strength to climb up on a barstool without breaking your balls. Just get out of the sun, Ike.”
“No,” the old man said. “This, right here, is my table. Been so a long time. I ain’t moving. Besides, you just gonna yell at me when the smoke gets all over you. You know that.” To punctuate his decision, Ike reached into his shirt pocket and took out a crooked ugly butt, stuck it in his mouth and struck a big, wooden match. It looked like his whole head was about to catch fire.
“When are you going to quit that shit?” Billy asked.
“Never,” replied Ike, coughing. After a second, full-throated, hacking cough, he said, “Walter—you hear me?”
“I do,” answered Walter, folding his copy of the day’s New York Times and putting it down on the bar in front of his drink. “I hear you.”
“Well, I want you boys to remember something.” Ike leaned in, toward them, both of his wrinkled, black hands resting on the tabletop. When he felt he had gathered their undivided attention, he said, “When I die . . .”
“Ah, come on, Ike!” growled Billy, dismissing him with a wave of his bar towel.
“No, no,” the old man went on. “You listen to me. This here’s important. I want one of you to remember this. Don’t let them bury me without a smoke or two and a couple of matches. I’m expecting to make it to Heaven—sure as sweet Jesus will have me—and I ain’t positive they got any there.” Then he showed his friends that great, yellow-toothed smile that dominated his countenance for nearly ninety years.
“Consider it done,” said Walter.
“Bullshit,” Billy said, turning his attention quickly to wiping down an already spotless bar. Helen had been watching and listening, working down at the end of the bar closest to Ike. She gave the old man a look that said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they do it.” Ike tipped his cap to her. That was on Wednesday. The next day he died.
Hayes Home of Funerals buried nearly all the black people who died on St. John. It had been that way for five generations. For reasons deeply embedded in the American psyche, they rarely provided final services for white folk. This time, they went all out for Ike. Ninety years is a long time to live among such a small group of people, thought Walter. It’s often said at funerals, that many are loved and he was sure that was true, but Walter was certain few were loved as much as this old man. It seemed everyone on the island was there and not a few from St. Thomas, and some from places farther away. Walter paid his respects, offered his condolences to Ike’s family—dozens and dozens of them—by showing up at the funeral home on Saturday and again Sunday morning at a time he knew the clan would be done with church. Billy and Helen were also there both days.
Henry and Willie Hayes did a wonderful job on Ike. They didn’t make him appear different than he was in life. Walter had attended his share of funerals, and so often it was the case, the dead looked like a stranger. No one was ever pleased with that. Yet people had a way of remarking at the sight of the deceased how lifelike their dead bodies looked. Most of the time the opposite was true, everyone knew it, and no words to the contrary could change that. Ike, however, looked just like Ike. Walter went out of his way to thank the Hayes brothers.
Except for his visit to the funeral home, Walter stayed at home that weekend. He didn’t go down to Billy’s at all. On Monday, the day Ike was laid to rest, Billy shut the place down. A simple, black tarp hung over the locked front door. It was the only time the building had ever been closed that anyone could remember.
The funeral was almost a joyous occasion. A ninety-year life celebrated, as it ought to be. A group of five—three of Ike’s sons and two of his grandsons—backed by a single piano, sang a favorite of his, The Closer You Are, written and recorded more than a half century earlier by Earl Lewis and The Channels. Walter smiled, knowing the old man had requested it. He might have sung along, as he did many times with Ike—back in the day—but, instead, today he just listened.
The-a closer you are
The brighter the stars in the sky-a-i
Billy looked over at Walter, both men smiling with lumps in their throats. He was tempted to bring out the old chalkboard and write it up. The choir sang Going Up Yonder like it was the last time you’d ever hear it and the packed church, most unable to sit still, rose up in spirited appreciation. Shouts of “Yes, Jesus!” “Oh, my Lord!” and “Sing that song, children!” reverberated through the old, clapboard building, turning it into something closer to a Baptist church in Alabama or Mississippi than an island Episcopal sanctuary. Walter felt the place shake on its foundation. Many joined in the singing.
I’m going up yonder,
to be with my Lord.
A small group, no more than a dozen or so, had been selected to pass by the casket before it was closed forever at the conclusion of the service. Walter was among them. He stopped for a moment to look at Ike a last time. He almost expected the old man to wink at him. A lonely tear rolled down Walter’s cheek. He fought to get the tennis ball out of his throat. Like the others in the procession, Walter placed a single flower next to Ike’s folded hands. Then he reached down and placed two home-rolled cigarettes and two long, wooden matches in his friend’s shirt pocket.
A few weeks later, Walter was sitting in his usual spot. A handful of bushwhackers sat at one of the rear tables. It looked like they were celebrating someone’s birthday or anniversary. Across the small square a whole boatload of them descended upon St. John for a day’s adventure. The open truck taxis were filling up with beachgoers. Couples, and small groups, headed on foot for Cruz Bay’s fancy shops.
Walter was eating a Caesar salad topped with Billy’s indescribably delicious, spicy, blackened shrimp and sipping his usual when the sound of familiar footsteps broke the midday silence. They were headed his way.
“What’s up, Tucker?” he said without turning to look.
“It’s a pleasure to see you too, Walter,” she responded as she carefully adjusted herself to the high wooden seat next to him. She wriggled, ever so slightly, from side to side, as one often does to get comfortable after sitting down. Walter smiled in her direction.
“With this over, I thought you’d go back to hating me,” he said.
“You and Billy both, for damn good reason.”
“Well. That’s sort of what I meant.”
“Got a light?” she asked, hardly able to stifle a laugh. It was actually quite a lame
attempt.
“You don’t smoke,” said Walter.
“I know, but it seemed like a good line. I guess I flubbed it.” Tucker Poesy was wearing the same tiny yellow bikini she wore on the beach in Puerto Rico. The low-cut, tattered and torn jean shorts barely hid the bottoms. He caught himself thinking, if her ass looked good—and it did—her legs looked great.
“Costs a pretty penny, I bet, to get a pair of jeans as ripped up as those.”
“You like them, huh?” She smiled at him, more seductively than he’d ever seen from her. He couldn’t help himself now. She excited him, and he couldn’t hide it, and it pleased her.
She glanced down, down at his pants. Did her eyes say things to him he wanted to hear? “I thought I’d take a Caribbean holiday. This is a nice little island here,” she said. “I think I might stick around awhile.”
“What do you want?” asked Walter.
“Woody Allen and Mariel Hemingway,” Helen spoke up from near the middle of the bar, as she moved bottles of vodka and tequila from one place to another behind her. “Unlikely and unsavory too.”
“I know that one,” Tucker Poesy volunteered. “Manhattan.”
“That’s right. Creepy, wasn’t it?” Helen asked.
“Didn’t see it,” Billy piped up. He had been down at the other end of the bar. But when he saw Tucker Poesy walk in, he edged his way toward Walter. Billy’s eyes met Tucker’s. It was still a source of embarrassment for him.
“Are you paying now?” he asked in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.
“Never,” she said with a warm grin. “Never.”
Billy turned and put his arm around Helen, kissed her very gently, smack on the lips, and offered his opinion. “Sonny and Cher.”
“You like Cher?” Helen asked, with a note of amazement. “I always knew you preferred your women meek and mild, slightly abused even,” she smiled coyly, “but I never figured you for gay.”
“No one knows better than you, huh?” laughed Billy.
“Well, actually,” said Tucker, “my favorite is really Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett—there was a pair.”
“Unlikely, but not unsavory,” said Walter. “And Lyle Lovett’s kind of cute too, in his own way.” He looked quickly at Tucker Poesy. “I didn’t know girls like you had time for movies and music,” he said.
“All work and no play makes Tucker a dull girl, don’t you think?” she laughed.
“What about,” Walter began, “Michael Jackson and whatshername? Elvis’ daughter?”
“Priscilla?” said Billy.
“That’s his wife,” Helen interjected. “Walter means Lisa Marie.”
“Yeah, right,” Walter said. “What about them? Weird and weirder, no?”
“People who don’t fit,” said Helen.
“People who look like they don’t fit,” corrected Tucker. Helen actually winked at her after that.
“Well, that’s too many,” said Billy. You have to pick one, just one.” Billy looked at his friend with noticeable trepidation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ike’s empty table. This was the first time they’d done this since the old man died. “Just one,” he repeated.
“Okay,” said Walter. “I’ll take . . .”
“Hey, you guys, what about Marilyn Monroe? Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller?”
“Who’s he, Helen?” said Billy. “Arthur who?”
“Playwright, Billy,” Tucker said, reaching over and taking a sip of Walter’s drink. “The Misfits. We’ve all got a bit of misfit in us, don’t we?”
Billy mumbled something none of them could understand and then Walter spoke up again. “Okay, I’m taking Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. What the hell was she doing with him? You ever look closely at Bogart? Acne.”
“Great,” said Billy. Quickly, he moved toward the blank chalkboard. He seemed in a hurry to get this done. “You got Bergman & Bogart, and I got Sonny & Cher.” And that’s just how he wrote it.
“Ike and Tina?” offered a giggling Tucker.
“That’s not so funny,” Helen said. “That woman had a devil of a time, and came out on top too, God bless her.”
“We need one more. We do, don’t we?” Billy spoke tentatively, again looking around for help. Arched eyebrows and arms outstretched, he looked to Tucker Poesy.
“No, no,” she said. Then she locked one arm around Walter’s, patted him on the shoulder and gently snuggled against him. “I’m with him,” she laughed.
“You are?” he asked, quite understandably amazed.
“Just kidding,” Tucker whispered. “I haven’t made up my mind. I might fuck you. I might kill you. I might do both. By the way, Walter, where’s the Lacey Confession?”
“Is that what you want? I could tell you that,” he whispered back, smiling all the while. He kissed her on her cheek. “But I’d have to kill you then, wouldn’t I?”
“Helen?” said Billy. “You got one? Or should we just go with two from now on?”
“Hold your horses, Billy boy,” Helen said. “We’re not finished yet.”
THE END
About the Author
Born and raised in New York City, Richard Greener studied American history, international relations, and law. He is a retired broadcast industry executive, and currently resides in Georgia with his wife of thirty-eight years.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title_Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Preface
The_Beginning
One
Before_the_Beginning
Two
Three
Part_One
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Part_Two
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Part_Three
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
The_Ending
Fifty-Eight
About_the_Author
The Lacey Confession Page 37