Save One Bullet

The Funeral

Chapter 30

Since I was the first to arrive, I wanted to check out how Mom looked in peace and quiet. Whoops, wrong Mom. This woman could have been Mom if she had been a little younger and less round. Her hair and face were similar enough. I got a silly thought as I glanced at the name tag over the viewing room, ‘Mrs. Ethel Howard’

Would my sisters even know it wasn’t Mom if I switched the signs? Giggling, I peeked around the corner and down the hallway to the director’s office. The door was closed. So, I quickly took down Mrs. Ethel Howard’s sign and tip-toed down to the viewing room labeled, ‘Mrs. Sally Gregory’, and switched the signs. I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing hysterically at my own prank. That was the first symptom I can remember that proved I was seriously cracking up.

Having done the dirty deed, I ambled innocently down to Mom’s real viewing room and pulled up a chair to chat with her. The second symptom; talking with the dead and waiting for an answer.

“Hey, Mom, you look very good in that dress. Purple always was your color. I watched the Eagles the other day. There were a dozen of them diving for fish in that nasty, old lake. You would have loved watching them. I miss you. Until this weekend I never realized that you were my only real friend.”

I reached out and patted her cold, dry hands, wishing she could feel my touch and knowing she couldn’t. Her hair looked radiant, and they did a marvelous job with her makeup. Maybe too marvelous. Mom never wore eye shadow in her life, so I wiped some of it off with the tissue I’d been snotting into.

“I’m so glad you and I got close over these last years of taking care of Dad and, then you. I loved taking care of you. You never complained or asked me for anything you didn’t truly need. You taught me to make do, take what I was given, and be happy for it.

“Not really good advice, Mom. I’m going to start demanding people treat me better. I’m divorcing Tom. You probably saw what he did to me. Do me a favor and send a dove to shit on his head. Or an angel, if they shit. I’m not sure of that. You’d know better than I would.

“Say hi, to Dad. He had his problems. But he was never mean. I get it. You loved him. I get that too. I wish I was like you. But I’m not, Mom. I’m kind of an awful person. I’m truly fucking my life up royally right now. I’m so angry with everyone I don’t know how to right my ship.”

People began trickling into the room, so I moved the chair out of the way and planted myself protectively near Mom, next to a potted plant Tom’s company had sent over. What the hell did they think Mom was going to do with that? Looking around there were about two dozen bright floral arrangements sitting on every available surface in the room. While others were paying their respects I tried to remain invisible. Where the hell were my sisters?

Oh, right. I forgot. They were probably paying their respects to Mrs. Ethel Howard.

Several more mourners wandered into the room and came up to the casket. Kneeling down to pray, one of them said, “Margie, this isn’t Mom!”

Whoops. I hot footed it down to the real Mrs. Ethel Howard’s room to see if my sisters had arrived yet. Sure enough. It was a Kodak moment, so I took my cell phone out of my purse and snapped a pic of my sister, Bonnie, sobbing pitifully over Mrs. Howard’s casket.

“Oh, Mama, Mama, I loved you so much. Why, oh, why did you have to die on me?” She cried, holding onto Mrs. Howard’s age-spotted hands as if she could hold her soul back from Heaven, or Hell. I didn’t know Mrs. Howard, so your guess is as good as mine.

As if on cue, Bonnie’s three little angels, dressed in the latest princess fashions, began wailing for their Grandmummy. Lesley, my older sister and the living heart donor of the family, just sneered at the entire show and shoved them all aside to inspect Mom.

“Hey, wait a minute! This isn’t Mom. What the fuck.” She yelled.

Yes, my sister said ‘What the fuck’ in a funeral home. She’s going to Hell in gasoline panties, and I’ll be standing far away from her, ready with a torch.

By that time, the funeral director had been alerted to the mix-up and was busy shuffling the viewing room signs around and apologizing his ass off to everyone, checking the sign-in booklets and the prayer cards. Maybe he’ll give us a discount. You never know.

Bonnie looked up at me, accusingly, “Why didn’t you tell me this wasn’t Mom?”

Lesley joined in, “Leave it to Tanya to fuck things up.”

She said ‘fuck’ in the funeral home again. There’s no hope for some people.

“Hey, I don’t run the funeral home. Nice to see you too,” I snarked back at them both.

“Auntie, Um, Auntie!” Bonnie’s well-rehearsed little cherubs screamed shrilly.

Good grief, the least Bonnie could have done was tell them my name. This was going to be a long day. Thank God they didn’t try to hug me. They would have wrinkled their frilly little dresses. Can’t have that.

Our happy little family made its way down to the real Mrs. Sally Gregory’s room. Bonnie and her starlets were doing an encore performance for the crowd in that room, while Lesley glared at everyone and plopped herself down on a sofa, resting her feet on a well-polished antique coffee table that probably cost considerably more than her dirty Birkenstocks did.

The book club gossips straggled in and paid their respects to my real mom, then came over to chat with me. They let me know everything was being set up at the Methodist Church basement around the corner from the funeral home. One by one they commented a bit too loudly on my unfortunate incident with Tom. How humiliating.

When the people from Tom’s office came in there were more whispers and uncomfortable condolences from people who knew what had happened to me. Ned was the first to share that Tom had called him the morning after his arrest for legal advice and bail money, “Terrible. Just Terrible. I never thought Tom would do something like that, Tanya. What did you do to set him off?”

My mouth dropped open involuntarily. ‘What did I do to set him off?’ Ned was serious too, which made it all the more appalling. Having nothing to lose by walking away from this buffoon, I did just that. His wife, Dottie, immediately wafted to his side to assure him he did everything just right and I was the rudest person she’d ever met. Poor Ned.

Poor Ned, my ass. As if this wasn’t nightmarish enough, Marcia joined the party pretending to care about my mother. She tried to corner me for a private girl talk. I was having none of that. Not today, Satan. Not today. Put your gasoline panties on, Marcia, and get in line.

Bonnie brought her oldest Stepford daughter to me with a piece of paper in her chubby, little hand, and told me because I failed to have a proper service for Mom, her daughter was going to read one of Grandmummy’s favorite poems, that her daughter had written. Before the milling crowd left the room, Bonnie clapped her hands as if she was getting the attention of a kindergarten class, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Can I have quiet here? My daughter, Samantha, is going to read her Grandmummy’s favorite poem, which Samantha wrote for her during the pandemic.”

Samantha dutifully stepped up to the casket and, with tears in her beady, little eyes, began, “Oh, Grandmummy. My dearest Grandmummy. Though we all have to wear masks and can’t breathe on you for fear of dying. I miss you more than anyone else. I’ve always been your favorite. If it wasn’t for the disease I would be there to hold your hand. The end. Your favorite Grandchild, Samantha.”

No one knew quite what to do next. Samantha gave her mother a quizzical look and put her hands on her hips, pouting. Then she stomped off to the little girl’s room for a good cry. For an uncomfortable moment, people just looked at each other, embarrassed, before drifting out of the room and to their cars.

Bonnie, her brats, Lesley, and the book club girls were the only ones who went to the reception after. That was fine with me. Good riddance to Tom’s work pals.

No more Bar-B-Ques with onion dip for them.