Another Excerpt from “Life Could Be A Dream”

On Saturday morning, the uncles got Robby and Cyrus up early and drove them home to get ready for the funeral. Aunt Jo Ellen had laid out their best clothes on Cyrus’s bed. They sat with Uncle Milton and shined their shoes. In the Navy, he learned to make the leather gleam. Around eleven in the morning, Robby and Cyrus piled into Milton’s car and drove into the hills on the south side of the San Gabriel Valley, to a cemetery called Rosebud Park.

Everybody parked at a little church. Inside, Naomi lay in a casket in front of rows of pews. When he saw her, Robby bit his lip to keep from crying. It was the first time since the day she went to the hospital—when she was alive. He wondered if they did this to make sure he knew she was dead. He didn’t sob or choke or make any noise, but his throat hurt. His father and both grandmothers sat in the front pew, Glyndon and Stanley trapped between them. Stanley looked around the room at the timbered ceiling and stained-glass windows. Glyndon squirmed, pouting, kicking his legs.

Robby sat next to Uncle Milton in the second row and looked across the front row at his mother’s face. Her eyes were closed. She looked asleep.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I thought I wanted to see Mama, but I don’t.”

His uncle grasped his hand and pulled him close. “At the end of the service, it’s customary to pass by the casket and pay your final respects. It’s okay if you stay here.”

“I don’t want to remember my mother in a coffin or lying under the ground. I want her back home where she belongs.” He paused. “How long does a funeral take?”

“It’ll be short. Your grandmother wants a Methodist preacher to lead the services, because Naomi never missed Sunday school for the first twenty years of her life. They don’t talk all day like Baptists.”

A few years ago, Robby heard Naomi say that she never wanted to hear another Methodist preacher the rest of her life. Funny how that worked out. Today, he took way too long, reading from the Bible about things Robby didn’t understand, like how the changing seasons explained his mom’s death. He’d read the Bible, but the words were old-fashioned, not like the books at his uncles’ house. All he knew was that his mother was dead, and it wasn’t fair. No preacher will bring her back or make him feel better—ever.

After he was done, Betty Ruth something, a friend from her mom’s college days in Texas, stood up. Her stories were about good times. How she beat the smart kids on tests, but nobody believed it because she was so pretty. One time, she convinced the star tennis player to play a match in her bare feet on gravel. Naomi beat her, messing up the star’s feet for weeks, making the coach so mad he kicked her off the team. His mom loved going barefooted and had thick skin on the soles of her feet. Nice trick.

Other people told stories that were funny, but they weren’t the mom he remembered, the one that read stories to him and his brothers. He liked hearing how people outside the family knew her growing up. It sounded like she was loads of fun.

How’d she end up with a sourpuss like dad?He put his head down. It made him feel worse to hear about this side of his mother. He felt sad. It was something else he’d missed out in the warfare between his parents.

A lot of people stood up one at a time and said things about his mother that he’d never heard before, friends from her hometown, people from the schools where she taught, her cousins, and finally Grandma Nelly, who simply said goodbye. She stared right at Malcolm like it was his fault her daughter was dead. Then they were done.

“Uncle Milton, why didn’t Dad stand up and speak?” “That’s your dad,” he said. Everybody lined up to pass by the casket. “Do you want to see her?” “I guess.”

At the casket, he stared down at his mother. She was barely thirty-three years old, and she looked waxy, fake. Not his real mother. She never used that much makeup. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. She felt like an icebox door. He wanted to run away. Aunt Jo Ellen came up and gave him a big hug.

“You’re very brave.”

Brave? I didn’t do anything heroic. 7at was the soldier I read about charging downhill, straight at the enemy with an empty gun, shouting at the top of his lungs, running right through them to safety, only to get machine-gunned by his own side. All I did was sit through a boring sermon and feel miserable. Kissing your dead mom doesn’t take courage. What else can I do?

Back home, the guests ate cold cuts and drank beer. People he’d never met came up and patted him on the head. Nobody cried, but many of the guests looked sad. He sat in the corner, wanting to go to his room but afraid to sleep. Lately, a choking pain grabbed him when he fell asleep, a burning in his chest that rose up into his throat and woke him up. Over the noise of the conversations, he heard his mother’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. He started crying. Feeling embarrassed, he wanted to hide. He was stuck in a frightening world.

Cyrus sat on the couch, swatting people’s hands away when they came up to him. After a while, he went outside. Robby figured he was headed for the fort. A few minutes later, he came back, red in the face.

“That son of a bitch,” he said, heading to the bedroom and slamming the door. Robby knew what it was. His father had found the fort and stomped it in. He had time to do that in the middle of his “arrangements?” It made no sense, like he was punishing his kids for her death. He wondered what else his dad would take away.

He slipped out the back door to avoid the smothering sadness. He shivered, feeling like he was lost. Hedrick Schlosser sat on the swing. Robby sat in the bucket seat next to him.

“May I ask you something?” Hedrick nodded, staring ahead, not turning his head. “Is my mom here in some way? I heard her voice in the living room, but I couldn’t make out the words, not like your wife laughing when Mama sat in her chair.”

“Yes, Naomi’s spirit is here.” “How do you know?”

“I can feel it. I heard Mona laugh too, just like your mom. From across the veil, she was delighted at our presence.”

“I wish I felt that way. Since Mama died, I have a dream where I’m lost in an empty city. I know it has to do with her.”

“Some people believe that what I have is a gift. I don’t think so. I can sense the terrible weight of grief in the world. Millions and millions of people that died for no good reason.”

“How did you make it through the war?”

“It was excruciating, all the fear and pain and loss.”

“I saw a TV show about the German death camps. It scared me for months—still does. Now I feel Mama is lost among all those dead people.”

“She wants you to know that she’s at peace.”

“You know for sure, or are you just saying that?”

“Your mother was deeply spiritual yet not religious. She had a strength I find rare, an intense curiosity about the mysteries of life.” He nodded. “You’re a smart young man. I felt her presence, but I didn’t hear her voice.”

“The kids in the neighborhood did a peep show. I know it was wrong. Is this my punishment?”

“Curiosity sometimes takes us farther than we should go. If they don’t hurt each other, children need to explore who and what they are. We don’t instantly become adults at age eighteen.”

“Thanks. I feel better—not good, but better.” “What else bothers you?”

“I’m scared about being stuck with dad. He’s mean. We needed Mom to stand up to him.”

“I meditated about your family long before this happened. Your father may not change, but I assure you that the rest of your family will come together.”

Robby smiled faintly. “You’re like a fortune teller.”

“I appreciate your skepticism, Robert. Don’t lose it. I’ve spent a good deal of time exploring the other side of this physical world. In particular, I made some notes on what lies ahead for your family, how you will turn out. There will be greatness and achievement, along with more sadness, of course. That’s what life brings all of us.”

“Can I see your notes?”

“They’re not ready yet.”