Homefires (76 page)

I took a deep breath and watched cars arrive, lining themselves along the quiet country lane that wound through the cemetery. Only family and intimate friends were invited. I wanted no curious gawkers. Not now, after all these years when I was more aware. At the long ago funeral service, I’d been trauma-anesthetized, seeing only those caring, life-sustaining gestures at the end of
my nose. All else had blurred into merciful insignificance. Today, clarity and hindsight jarred me. The idea, that time had wiped away much of the pain, shattered.

I blinked against a red haze and watched Dawn, tall and blonde and elegant in a hunter green silk pants ensemble, solemnly place an artist’s easel at the head of the new flower decked mound. Charles handed her the eleven-by-fourteen portrait of the beautiful blonde, smiling Krissie in her favorite strawberry dress. The resemblance between the two sisters still took my breath at times. Dawn reverently placed it on the easel and draped blue ribbon streamers from a bow mounted atop the stand over the corners of the picture and stepped back to honor the moment’s gravity.

Heather moved to put an arm around her sister as the gathering settled into hushed stillness. Toby and Joellen linked hands, with Michelle, five, Tiffany, three, and Kennedy, just turned eighteen months, pressed to their legs like cherubs to a baroque column in old Rome.

Kirk began the ceremony by leading in the Lord’s Prayer. At its end, my siblings, Dale, Lynette and Cole harmonized,
a cappella
, the gospel song
Sheltered in the Arms of God.

Oh my, how
clearly
those words spoke to me now. Strange how, after the
fact
of separation, those words comforted me so profoundly. Kirk’s strong fingers laced with mine and squeezed just before he stepped forward to speak a few words.

“This service is purposefully informal. We – Janeece and I – want each of you who knew Krissie to feel free to share your most meaningful memory of her with us all. I’d like to begin with my recall of daily, early morning drives to school. I was chauffeur, of course, and we listened to the Carpenter’s music tape every day as we rode together. When they got out of the car, Krissie always turned to wave goodbye to me and then escort Toby as far as she could before turning to go to her class. I can still see her – ” Suddenly his voice broke and he began to weep. I took him in my arms and held him as his body quaked with grief and I realized that, all those years, this sorrow had been just below the surface.

I heard, behind me, Dawn’s sobs as Heather and Charles comforted her. So my Dawnie had
connected
with her sister. Finally, she
shared
our loss.

Immediately, my brother Dale began to reminisce about his and Krissie’s last time together, a month before her death, when,
during our Christmas visit home, the two of them had wrapped Dale’s gifts to friends, then traipsed over the village, delivering them. Then, Lynette recalled how, during her visits to Solomon, she’d loved wearing Krissie’s pink jeans and sweater ensemble. “Knowing Neecy didn’t have more laundry to do in the machine, Krissie would hand wash and hang the outfit in the bathroom to dry by morning so I could wear it. She was always doing things like that to make me happy,” my sister, now the mother of a son, said.

One by one, relatives and friends spoke of Krissie, some provoking laughter, some tears, many sharing things before unrevealed, giving further glimpses into an extraordinary life ended too soon. I listened, too moved to say anything throughout the service. I noticed, too, Heather’s silence and Toby’s.

Has time distanced them from the emotions now sucking me down the drain?
I wondered. Neither of them, who’d known Krissie’s sweetness, wept. Dawn, who’d never known her, cried forlornly. I’d never used a yardstick to measure emotions – except for that brief lapse with Toby following Krissie’s death. And then, unconsciously. I could not assume Heather’s equanimity today indicated lack of love. Nor Toby’s. Yet, it tugged my heart.

Kirk’s hand gently squeezed mine. I looked up at him and saw me mirrored in his face.

No words were necessary. His was the affinity I sought. Not my children’s, whose loss was unspeakable. Only Kirk’s toll equaled mine. Only his grief had held out against time as had mine. Time had not, nor would it, dim our sorrow, which was not an incessant, indulgent angst. Time
had
erected diversions along our odyssey, some ecstatic, some agonizing, some simply a smooth running river of happenings. Life had bequeathed tomorrows with promising horizons. Yet – at times such as this, when smacked broadside with the fact of Krissie’s absence, our anguish erupted violently, as though no time bridged us from
then
to
now
.

It wasn’t, as one well-meaning friend recently hinted, a simple fact of Kirk and me “getting on with your lives now that you’ve relocated the grave.” In other words, “Get over it.”
Ahhh, such distanced assumptions serve well those who’ve never buried one’s own child. A neat, pat rationale.
Problem was it rarely applied to reality. I clasped Kirk’s warm, big, callused fingers, marinating in the bittersweet, uncoveted bond we shared.

The service ended with Heather, accompanying herself on guitar, singing in her clear contralto soprano
Seasons in the Sun
, Krissie’s favorite serious song. It’s poignant, almost prophetical lyrics struck me as never before.
“Goodbye to you, my trusted friend, we’ve known each other since we were nine or ten; Together we’ve climbed hills and trees, Learned of love and A-B-C’s, skinned our hearts and skinned our knees. Goodbye my friend, it’s hard to die...when all the birds are singing in the sky; Now that Spring is in the air, pretty girls are everywhere, Think of me and I’ll be there. We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun: But the hills that we climb were just seasons out of time.”

As the music faded, the only sounds heard in the hushed country setting was that of quiet snuffling, men blowing their noses and birdsong from a nearby copse of elms. Something caught my misty peripheral vision – I watched a butterfly soar overhead, then light atop Krissie’s portrait. My breath stopped. The yellow wings fluttered for long moments as everyone watched, mesmerized.

Then, as dramatically as it arrived, the beautiful creature lifted, arced gracefully and disappeared before our eyes. Nobody spoke for long moments, then slowly, reluctantly, folks began to stir and talk quietly amongst themselves. I continued to gaze at the portrait, blue ribbons swaying in the warm breeze.

“Janeece?” I felt a touch at my elbow.

“Cal!” I turned into her arms and we embraced for a long, long time. “I’m so glad you made it. Did Roger? I know he was supposed to work.”

“He’s here. Somebody else is here, too, Kirk,” she hugged my husband and, holding onto his arm, turned to gaze into the gathering. “Moose?” she called.

Next thing I knew, Moose McElrath had his arms around Kirk, rocking back and forth and sobbing his heart out. “Ahh, Kirk,” he said when he was able to speak, “how did things ever git the way they did between us? I knowed how Roxie was when I married her. No – ” he shushed Kirk when he tried to speak, “I shouldn’t’a flew off at you like that. Sure, I loved her, but if I was honest, I’d have to say she was driving me crazy with her spending and demanding and – well,” he hung his head for a moment and murmured, “she’d stopped being a wife to me long before I took off. I suspected she was runnin’ around. See – ” He squared his shoulders and resolutely looked Kirk in the eye, “what I didn’t tell
you was that Roxie wasn’t only a dancer but a high priced call girl when I met her.”

His face flushed a bright crimson as he shot me an apologetic look. “I didn’t know that part ‘til a’ter we married. One of the last fights we had, she screamed it at me.” He stopped for a moment, looking off, swallowing hard, fighting for control. “Called me a fat ol’clod hopper. Said she couldn’t stand the sight of me.” He mopped the sweat off his brow. “’Bout the same time, the drug thing happened.” He gazed beseechingly at Kirk, who stood pale as death. “I really did try to kick the habit. My – the things I did in church was – well,
real
. Thing was, I got scattered when I run up on that drug deal thing in the bathroom. I panicked. It was just – too much happened too fast. I kindly – you know, tricked you into agreeing to my taking off.” He gave a humorless huff of a laugh. “Truth was, I was glad to fly the coop.” He blinked, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head as if to clear it.

Kirk reached out. “Moose, I can’t begin to tell – ”

“No,” Moose overrode Kirk’s apology. “It was me who done wrong.
Me.
Kirk, you was my best friend and I run off into the sunset, disappeared, leaving you that letter begging you to take care of Roxie.” His pain-filled eyes misted. “Kirk, I throwed you to the wolves.”

His gaze swung to me. “You, too, Neecy.” He bit his lip to stifle a sob. “God knows I’d’a killed myself before I’d’a hurt either one of you. I’m so sorry.”

“Look,” Kirk took Moose by the shoulders and gazed steadily at him, tears shimmering along his lids. “Let’s make a fresh start, friend. We’ve all made mistakes. Failed each other. And that’s bad. But the real tragedy would be that we don’t learn from it, don’t glean some wisdom. Please, Moose, accept my apology for all the hurts I’ve inflicted on you?”

Moose peered at Kirk as tears big as pearls slid off his round face. “You got it. An’ I want you to forgive me for being such a butt – you and Neecy both?”

We three hugged and wept for long moments before giggles erupted from Toby’s little girls. They’d gone to the car and now scampered back to the gravesite, each carrying a bunch of multi-colored balloons.

Michelle came to me first, reaching up her free arm to embrace me, to stem my tears. I squatted to hug her and got knocked flat on my fanny when Tiffany and toddler Kennedy ambushed me for equal opportunity. We dissolved into giggles and hugs and kisses until breathless.

“Mimi,” Tiffany piped, “Aunt Krissie loved bubblegum and Snickers. And she loved babies.”

“Aun’ Kwissie,” little Kennedy rejoined solemnly, “Her wi’ Jesus.”

“And – and she had blue eyes,” Michelle gushed proudly, “just like
me
!”

I narrowed my red, swollen eyes on their exuberant little faces, so like seven-year-old Toby’s all those years ago. “She had a small turned up nose like yours, too,” I said, gently tweaking hers, drawing fresh giggles.

“Uh huh.” Tiffany’s head bobbed in agreement. “An – and Daddy said Aunt Krissie always – ”

I listened, astonished, as they related, with amazing familiarity, anecdote after anecdote of Toby’s antics with his sister “Aunt Krissie,” whom, through their daddy’s stories, they knew in an intimate way that moved me to fresh tears.

I swiped them away, not wanting to thwart my granddaughters’ spontaneity. I felt Heather’s arms slide around me from behind after she plopped down on the ground to join us.

“Y’know what, Mama?” she asked in a lilting, childhood carryover voice. “I’ve written at least fifty poems to Krissie. I do them when I miss her the worst. And I’ve bought her a little token gift every birthday...things I can always use later, but initially, I do it for her.”

“Can you quote one?” I whispered, too choked to speak. “A poem.” How many I’d written to her through the years.

“Mmm – let’s see...Oh, here’s one: “If I could ask you one question, Krissie, just what would it be? I’d ask you why you died that day – why did you have to leave
me
! Why, why, why? I’d cry, Do I miss you until I could scream? Why can’t I wake up one day and find it was all a bad dream?”

Heather peered into my face and narrowed her gaze at my fresh tears. “Was it that bad, Mama?” she asked, a twinkle beginning in her eyes. She shrugged. “Heck, I told you I couldn’t write worth beans.”

I turned to hug her. “It’s just so – moving.”

Over her shoulder, I spotted Toby, tall and manly and blondely handsome. He grinned at me and I saw that little boy of long ago, the night after proudly showing me his surprise pond-tribute. I’d sat with him on his bed as he tugged off his socks, readying for bed.

“I had to do something, Mama.” He’d looked up at me and I saw the grief in the blue pools. I saw the grubby, callused little hands and thought of all the dirt they’d shoveled and the buckets of water they’d toted.

“Do you think she knows, Mama?” he asked that night.

“Yes, Toby. I’m sure she does.”

Squeals of delight snapped me back to the present as little fingers released a bouquet of balloons. “Happy Birthday, Aunt Krissie!” the girls yelled in unison. Toby, Heather and Dawn joined in the clapping and whooping, a balloon-ritual, I’ve learned, that follows such party festivities.

Their grief – my offsprings’ – is not tearful like mine and Kirk’s. But it is profound.

They manifest theirs through celebrating Krissie.

And today, after more than twenty years, Krissie still
knows.

I watched the colorful bouquet scatter and rise...rise...higher...
higher....

Toby’s and Heather’s gift goes on.

In their hearts, she lives.