Family Blessings

by LaVyrle Spencer

  For Lee, the funeral service passed not as a series of hazy impressions, as she’d expected, but as very distinct ones observed by a clearheaded woman who’d done her deepest mourning and was now mourning more for those around her.

  CHRISTOPHERmaintained his stiff demeanor while bearing the coffin along with five of his fellow officers, his eyes straight ahead, his visor level with the floor, his shoulders erect. She watched him and thought of her own son in uniform, proud to wear it, liked by those he served with. In those thoughts she found very little sadness. The white flowers she had arranged covered two-thirds of the coffin; everyone cried harder to learn Lee herself had arranged them.

  Grampa Lloyd gave a eulogy with a smile on his face, and made everyone laugh aloud with recollections of Greg as a boy.

  Janice and Joey held her hands all through it.

  Reverend Ahldecker had a summer cold and sneezed several times in the middle of his prayers.

  Sally Umland played the organ as flawlessly as an organ can be played, but Rena Tomland was away on summer vacation, so the soloist—a stranger—was rather mediocre.

  Lee’s mother—bless her misguided heart—had bought a new black suit for the occasion and was looking with judgmental, if tearful, eyes at all the summer colors on the women around her.

  There was no denying that the presence of so many lawenforcement officers added a measure of pride that filled Lee and strengthened her throughout the service. Afterward, the procession of cars stretched for a mile and a half, every vehicle gleaming, directed through town by on-duty police officers who halted traffic at intersections, then removed their hats and placed them over their hearts as the cortege passed.

  At the cemetery the law-enforcement officers circled Greg’s grave and created a corridor to it through which Chris and the other pallbearers carried the casket. Graveside prayers were intoned, a bugler played taps, then six officers drew and discharged their pistols in a final goodbye salute.

  Dust to dust: It was done.

  THEcars drove away, one by one. The family lingered, friends touched them, murmuring, dabbing at eyes. An old aunt plucked a gardenia from the casket spray as a keepsake. People held hands, walking slowly to their cars, appreciating life, the blue sky and beautiful earth, perhaps each other more than they had in recent days. Lee put her arms around her children. She walked between them toward the car, sensing perhaps inappropriately the feeling of her high-heeled shoes sinking into the grass. It was a sensation peculiar to funerals: what other occasion put a woman in high heels on grass? She wondered how she could dwell on such a ridiculously unimportant thing at the saddest moment of her life. Moments of strife were like that though; they brought with them their own little escapes. While she thought of her high heels her eyes were dry.

  THEREfollowed two hours in the church hall amid the smell of percolating coffee, a macaroni-tomato hot dish and Jello laced with bananas. Again Lee was overcome by the number of those who had come to pay last respects today. High school friends of Greg’s, policemen and their wives, customers from her store, former business acquaintances of Bill’s, people from whom she bought floral supplies, members of the Faith Lutheran congregation whom she scarcely knew, grade school and high school friends of Janice’s and Joey’s, some along with their parents. Greg’s high school track coach was there, as well as his ninthgrade English teacher, who brought along a poem Greg had written when he’d been her student. Even some people who said he’d been their paper boy when he was twelve years old.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said over and over again, accepting their sympathies, their handclasps and their genuine caring. “I can’t believe it. All these people.”

  “He touched a lot of lives,” her mother said.

  And he would go on touching them for years to come. There was his old girlfriend, Jane Retting, who’d never stopped calling him. And Nolan Steeg, who approached Lee timidly and asked if he could have some little memento of Greg, any small thing that had belonged to him. And Janice, who would continue to drive his car. Joey, who wanted his tape and CD collection. His grandparents, who kept Greg’s picture on their living room wall. And Christopher Lallek, who would return to the apartment the two men had shared.

  When the church hall emptied, he was one of the last remaining, collapsing metal folding chairs and carrying a few dirty coffee cups to the pass-through window for the hot, tired cooks.

  Lee was standing near the door with a cluster of family members who were discussing details of dividing the work that remained: recording the offerings, addressing thank-you cards, distributing flowers to retirement homes. Peg Hillier handed a book and a small white box to Lee and said, “This is the memorial book and the rest of the memorial folders. What do you want to do with the sympathy cards that haven’t been opened? Do you want us to take them or do you want to?”

  She glanced at Chris, standing apart, waiting, still dressed in his crisp navy blue uniform with the black-crossed badge. She wanted to rush to him and say, “Take me for a ride in your new truck so I don’t have to face one more detail or hear one more sad voice or make one more decision! Just take me out of here!”

  Instead, she answered her mother, thanked her relatives, expressed her appreciation to the church circle ladies who were . nishing the kitchen cleanup and left the building with a bunch of unopened sympathy cards, plus the gift cards from perhaps twenty floral arrangements. As she emerged into the late afternoon sun, she breathed a sigh of relief. Joey and Janice were sitting on the grass in the shade with a bunch of their and Greg’s friends—Kim, Nolan, Sandy, Jane, Denny Whitman. She looked around for Christopher but he was nowhere in sight. His Explorer was gone, too. An unexpected siege of disappointment swamped her. She had no right to feel let down; what would he want to hang around this gloomy group for? He’d done more than his share and had been on hand practically every minute since Friday afternoon.

  “Did Christopher leave?” she called to the young people.

  Janice answered, “Yes. He said to tell you he was sorry he didn’t get to say goodbye, but you were busy.”

  “Oh.”

  “He said he’ll call you soon.”

  Lee turned away to hide her disappointment. She’d been thinking about going home and putting a couple of lounge chairs on the deck and maybe even opening up a couple of beers and sitting beside him without saying one damned word. She had no idea why, but out of all who’d offered, his was the only company she wished for tonight. Not her own kids’, not her parents’, neighbors’, friends’. When they were around she was forced to talk, give hugs, put out food, pick up empty glasses, watch them get falsely cheery and morose by turns, rub shoulders, listen to them. All she wanted was simple quiet and someone to share it with.

  But those were her children over there, and she couldn’t say to them, Leave me alone for a while.

  “Are you ready to go home now?” she called.

  “Sure, but is it all right if these guys come too for a while?”

  Lee withheld a sigh. They needed their own support system, too, and these young people were thoughtful to provide it.

  “Fine,” she answered.

  They picked themselves up from the grass, brushing wrinkles from their clothes, and she realized it would be some time before routine would return to normal and her life would be her own.

  5

  AS Christopher drove home through the hazy golden evening, the tail end of rush hour seemed mistimed: he’d lost sight of the fact that it was Monday and people were going about their regular pursuits, stopping for a loaf of bread, filling their gas tanks, waiting in leftturn lanes. The last four days had effectively removed him from routine, making it seem as if the rest of the world was out of step with the slowed-down pace of his life and the lives of the people about whom he cared. Passersby seemed callous, though he knew full well they had no way of knowing that Greg Reston was dead and he was a man in mourning. The thought of facing the empty apartment took five miles an hour off his speed. H
e pictured the Reston kids, surrounded by their friends, visiting on the green grass. He’d considered going over and joining them, but he was too old. He didn’t fit in there. The one he’d really wanted to stay with was Lee, but he was too young and didn’t fit in there either. Besides, he’d nearly worn out his welcome. He wasn’t, after all, one of her family.

  With nowhere else to go, he drove home.

  Inside, the apartment was quiet and stuffy. He opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out onto the deck, which overlooked the picnic area of Cutter’s Grove Park with mere glimpses of the Mississippi River visible beyond a thick stand of verdant woods. The sun was still high, lighting the green treetops and the roof of the park shelter. A couple of mothers were giving a birthday party for a bunch of small kids. Crepe-paper streamers were stretched from the poles supporting the shelter roof. Smoke drifted from the barbecue grills. A bunch of preschoolers were blowing bubbles the size of basketballs and their voices carried up to him. “Look at that one! Look at that one!”

  His mother had never given him a birthday party that he could remember.

  He went back inside, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, opening the refrigerator and overlooking Greg’s orange juice in favor of a Sprite. He popped the top, took a swig from the can and noticed that the red message light was lit on his answering machine.

  He pushed the button, listened to it rewind and swigged again as a twelve-year-old voice came on.

  “Hey, man, what the hell happened to you! You said we was gonna do something this weekend. You said you’d call and we’d maybe go swimming or something. Shit, man, you’re just like all the rest of ’em; never mean what you say. Well, don’t bother calling me no more. I got better things to do than sit around waiting for some lyin’ no-good pig to call and dish me shit.” Click!

  Judd.

  Hell, he’d forgotten about Judd. Chris’s hand, holding the Sprite can, dropped tiredly to his side as he stared at the machine.

  Judd Quincy, age twelve, male, black, shoplifter, runaway, truant, vandal of school property, bicycle thief, neglected son of two known druggies, a reflection of Christopher Lallek at that age.

  The poor little bastard. No question he was one. His mother and “dad” were white. Judd was pale brown. Maybe that was why the old man kicked the shit out of him now and then, and out of the mother, too.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Yeah, say it,” the kid answered.

  “Judd?”

  A pause, then, “Shit, man, whaddyou want?”

  “Got your message.”

  “Yeah, so what.”

  “So, give me a break, huh?”

  “Give you a break! Man, you lied! Isit around this dump all weekend long thinking I’m going out to the lake. Nobody calls. I look like a jerk, man! My friend Noise he says maybe I’m makin’ you up! He don’t believe no cop would give a fuck about a dipwad like me.”

  “You back to using that word again?”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  Chris stared at the floor, rubbing his forehead, picking his way carefully. “Something happen, Judd?”

  “Something always happening here. This the most happenin’ place you ever seen.”

  “Something worse than most days?”

  “Why don’t you just stick it, man! Go on out to the lake with your honky friends!”

  “What’d they do, Judd?”

  “Didn’t do nothin’, I told you!”

  “So you’re okay, then?”

  “What do you care?”

  Chris decided on a new tack. “Well, I’ll tell you what . . . I need a friend right now.”

  The concept of being needed stopped Judd’s attitude. Kids like him knew, from the time they were old enough to think, that they’d never been wanted, much less needed.

  “You weirding me out, cop.”

  On top of everything else, Judd was having an identity crisis. Half the time he talked like a semi-educated white kid, the other half he broke into black rap.

  “You got an hour?” Chris asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Ride. I’ll come and pick you up.”

  “Not here.”

  “Wherever you say.”

  Judd thought some. “Seven-Eleven, same like always.”

  “Seven-Eleven. Give me five to get out of my uniform.”

  WHENChris pulled up in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, Judd had his shoulder blades against the front window and the sole of one sneaker flattened to the brick wall below it. His hands were buried to the elbows in the pockets of black-and-chartreuse knee-length Zubaz. He had on a faded, stretched-out purple body shirt that would have fit Michael Jordan. His hair was black and curly with a lightning bolt shaved into his skull above his left ear—inexpertly, as if with a home razor. Judd watched the Explorer roll in, leaving his butt against the wall to show that it didn’t mean jack-shit to him if anybody got a new red truck with fancy running boards, a visor and chrome wheels. As the vehicle approached, Judd didn’t move, only rolled his eyes to keep up with the truck and its driver.

  Chris pulled to a stop and looked at Judd out of the open driver’s window.

  “Yo,” Chris said.

  “What you talkin’ like a black boy for?”

  “What you talkin’ like a black boy for?”

  “I be black.”

  “You might be, but no sense talking like a dumb one if you ever want to get anywhere in this world. Get in.”

  Judd pushed himself off the wall and made sure his heels dragged with every step on his way to the truck.

  He got in, slammed the door and slouched into his corner, letting his knees sprawl.

  “Buckle up. You know the rules.”

  “Bad-ass cop.”

  “That’s right. Now buckle up.”

  He did. And started complaining and jabbing a finger with his face all scrunched up. “I could turn you in for dat, you know.

  Teachers in school can’t even make us change how we talk. It’s the rules. We got our culture to preserve.”

  “I’m not your teacher, and if you ask me, you’re preserving the wrong side of your culture, and furthermore, who you gonna turn me in to?”

  “Somebody.”

  “Somebody.” Chris rolled his eyes and shook his head sardonically.

  “Yeah, somebody. Your captain, dat who.” “

  Dat who? Listen to you, talking like a dummy! I told you, if you want to get out someday and make something of yourself and have a truck like this and a job where you can wear decent clothes and people will respect you, you start by talking like a smart person, which you are. I could hack that oreo talk if it was real, but the first time I picked you up for doing the five-figer discount over at the SA station, you talked like every other kid in your neighborhood.”

  “Man, you don’t know jack-shit about my neighborhood, so what you talkin’!”

  “The hell I don’t. How many times a month do you think I have to bust asses over there?”

  “I’m twelve years old. You not supposed to talk to me like dat.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll make you a deal. I’ll talk to you nicer if you’ll talk to me nicer. And the first thing you do is stop using that F word. And the second thing you do is start pronouncing words the way your first-grade teacher taught you to. The word is that, not dat.”

  Judd let his mouth get punk-disgusted, rolled his face toward the window and made some breathy sound like “Sheece . . .”

  “I know you’re doing it to get even with your dad.”

  “He’s not my dad.”

  “Maybe not, but he pays the rent.”

  “And buys the cheese and snow.”

  Cheese and snow meant marijuana and cocaine.

  “Is that what went on this weekend?”

  Judd grew animated again, his bony knees jutting, his head leading the way as he retorted, “You gonna diss on me the rest of this ride, then you can just let me of
f!”

  “Is that what went on this weekend?” Chris demanded.

  Judd crumpled into his corner and looked out the window. “So what you gonna do? Put me in foster care again?” he said disparagingly.

  “That what you want?”

  Judd’s answer was only rebellious silence. There were some who’d been in and out of foster homes so many times they grew cynical about it. Caught in the middle, these poor kids longed for nothing as much as security. It was not to be found, however, in being bounced into a foster home for two or three days while social services came out to their home to do a pep talk and offer a job to the parents, who’d rather live on welfare and get a free ride. The result was always the same. The parents would pledge to reform, straighten up for a day or two, then be back on drugs and alcohol before the week was out.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” Judd conceded. “They had a party Saturday night. Bunch of their friends come over. They got high and started doing a bone dance in the living room—”

  “Bone dance?”

  “Yeah. You know.” Judd fixed Chris with a look that blended indifference and challenge. “That word you won’t let me say. Then somebody tried to change partners and this fight breaks out. The old man hits the old lady and one of her teeth goes flyin’, and she starts hittin’ him back.”

  “Anybody hit you?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Judd refused to answer.

  “What did you do?”

  “I went out the window. Went to the Seven ‘Leven and called you like you said. But you weren’t home. Where the hell were you, man?”

  “I was burying my best friend.”

  If Judd had been any other twelve-year-old his head would have snapped around. But Judd was Judd, and he had little energy to spare on other people’s problems. Surviving took all the energy he had. He merely turned his head Chris’s way and asked, “Who?”

  “Greg. He died in a motorcycle accident on Friday.”