The Burial of the Dead, fiction by Murray Dunlap

They shaved his beard for the funer­al.  I can’t begin to under­stand why.  Who told them to do it?  He looked like pink-cheeked drag queen.  But the fun­ni­est thing was watch­ing my broth­ers squirm in that front pew.  The four biggest men the in this tiny church, and they shoved them all onto the front right pew.  The sons should sit togeth­er on the front row, a man in a suit said.  Who are these peo­ple mak­ing deci­sions?  They squirmed and sweat­ed.  Mas­sas­auga, Alaba­ma in August.  If there was air con­di­tion­ing, you couldn’t feel it.  One broth­er would lean for­ward when the oth­er leaned back because their shoul­ders were too broad to sit side by side.  Ren, the old­est, sat clos­est to the cen­ter aisle and mouthed the words cold beer three times through a blood red, exas­per­at­ed face.  I sat with the wife, ex wife, and mis­tress on the front left pew.  The wife, Celia, sobbed and some­times moaned into her end­less cleav­age.  The ex-wife, Joy, had Alzheimer’s and asked me four times, “Geor­gia, when is the movie going to start?”  The mis­tress, Loret­ta ‑my moth­er, sat as rigid and life­less as dad­dy.  I nev­er saw her blink.  I nev­er saw her cry.  When­ev­er Celia moaned, moth­er whis­pered stu­pid whore to no one. As far as awk­ward events go, daddy’s funer­al was world class.

The Rev­erend Macallan led us in a very short, very ordi­nary ser­vice.  He read from the bible about ash­es and dust, and the organ­ist played Lift High the Cross.  For a moment it seemed as if it could have been a nor­mal church ser­vice, any giv­en Sunday.

But then the rev­erend wiped his brow with a white hand­ker­chief and made more than one self-dep­re­cat­ing joke about his weight.  Appar­ent­ly there is a wine called Fat Bas­tard, and the rev­erend shared a bot­tle with Celia the night before.  So much for normal.

“We got to chuck­ling and raised a glass to fat bas­tards every­where,” he said. “We found it quite appro­pri­ate, as Ben­nett often called me a fat bas­tard, and it is also how I referred to him.”

“He went to Yale and I attend­ed Har­vard, so bit of good natured rib­bing was only nat­ur­al.”  The rev­erend winked at the con­gre­ga­tion, which got him a few laughs, but I’m absolute­ly cer­tain that at that moment, the rev­erend Macallan was look­ing at daddy’s wife.

“Stu­pid whore,” moth­er whispered.

Then daddy’s sis­ter, Eleanor, walked up the cen­ter aisle with an arm­ful of gold­en­rod.  Eleanor is tall, thin, and stun­ning.  She has a doc­tor­ate in psy­chol­o­gy and counselor’s easy, wel­com­ing face.  For as long as she can remem­ber, she has been told that she looks like Christie Brink­ley.  Eleanor devel­oped a dear me, aren’t you sweet rou­tine that we’re all sick of.  She placed the gold­en­rod on daddy’s chest, the tiny yel­low flow­ers tick­ling his shaven chin.  The church swished with the sounds of legs crossed and recrossed, arms crossed and uncrossed, uneasy hands rub­bing, fold­ing, and adjust­ing neck­ties.  Eleanor turned and faced us and gave an audi­ble sigh.

“As Bennett’s twin, I guess I some­how knew I would be doing this someday.”

Ren leaned back, which forced Bax­ter, the youngest, to lean for­ward.  Bax­ter scratched the back of his scalp through quar­ter-inch hair.  He adjust­ed his tie and coughed.  He tugged the thin blonde tri­an­gle of facial hair under his bot­tom lip and quick­ly searched the room with his eyes as if map­ping an escape.  Despite his black suit, he wore run­ning shoes.  New Bal­ance.  Bax­ter nev­er wore any­thing else.

“I am grate­ful that Bennett’s strug­gle was short and that his pain was lim­it­ed.  I am hap­py that he was not sub­ject­ed to the tor­tu­ous road so many alco­holics walk at their ends.  I am relieved that Ben­nett died with dig­ni­ty, and that he did not act out, that he did not give in to his old pen­chant for tantrums.”

Eleanor paused, glanc­ing up from her papers and scan­ning the room.  I won­dered if she could make out the look on our faces.  Who on earth was she talk­ing about?  Not our father.  Not the man who hired an acupunc­tur­ist to fly in from Seat­tle and heal his pain, only to laugh at the man’s effem­i­nate hands and offend him to the point of leav­ing unpaid.  Not the man who was pre­scribed a painkiller that induced hal­lu­ci­na­tions and imme­di­ate­ly mount­ed a dis­co ball over his bed and hired danc­ing strip­pers.  Cer­tain­ly not the man who packed a bag and moved into a hotel with the red head­ed Celia ‑one of the strip­pers and soon to be sec­ond wife- while his first wife, Joy, was at the hos­pi­tal giv­ing birth to Wal­lace, their sec­ond son.   Not the man who had been dying by a slow scotch-induced-sui­cide for years.

Wal­lace sat at the far end of the pew, lean­ing for­ward and gap­ing at Eleanor.  He had already removed his tie and used it to wipe sweat from his fore­head.  Then he pinched the cor­ners of his tremen­dous mous­tache and ground his teeth.  Like Ren, his face glowed red.

Between Wal­lace and Bax­ter sat Shane, the first born of the sec­ond mar­riage.   Shane leaned back with his arms spread out across the spine of the pew.  His head bobbed with sleep and then jerked back to atten­tion.  The Bud­dhist tat­too on his shoul­der of two fish swim­ming in an end­less cir­cle showed through his thin white shirt.  He grinned through a full red beard.

“We are all here because we loved Charles Ben­nett Porter, Jr.” Eleanor said, read­ing from her papers.  She stared at the typed words.

Then she looked up, took a deep breath, and chose to speak off the page.

We loved him in our own ways.  Ben­nett did not make it easy.”

Ren looked at me across the aisle and smiled.  He mouthed the words here we go.  Celia stared, her eyes wet and star­ry with val­i­um.  The rev­erend Macallan gripped his knees.

“Ben­nett was intel­li­gent, hand­some, and when we chose to be, extreme­ly charm­ing.  But if he was charm­ing in the last ten years, I missed it.  The days of our sum­mer sail­ing trips end­ed so very long ago.  The week­ends spent water ski­ing up on DogRiv­er, gone.  The only activ­i­ty Ben­nett main­tained to the end was hunt­ing.  He cre­at­ed a world of his own at the cab­in in Bar­lo.  But I believe what was once a sport for him became an out­let for anger.  A very brief and very rare moment of con­trol.  He was sen­si­tive and uncom­fort­able with emo­tion.  He chose to anes­thetize his feel­ings rather than process them.  Most of his choic­es were self-destruc­tive.  His wives may be able to say oth­er­wise, and I’ll let them speak for them­selves.  The same goes for his children.”

She looked at me and said, “All of them.”

“I hope you have all come to terms with the ways in which you were and were not con­nect­ed to Ben­nett.  We each have to find our own way to define the rela­tion­ship.  We each have to find our own way to remem­ber him, and our own way to let go.”

Moth­er leaned in and whis­pered, “No one came to get their head shrunk. Bitch.”

Joy leaned in and whis­pered, “When did Christie Brink­ley start act­ing?  She’s not bad, but I sure wish they’d put more action in the plot.”

“The real rea­son we are all here today is to mark the end of a bat­tle,” Eleanor con­tin­ued.  “A long dif­fi­cult bat­tle we all fought.  I, for one, am glad it’s over.  When Ben­nett and I were chil­dren, when we were home from board­ing schools in the sum­mer, I loved to run out­side on the very first morn­ing and gath­er arm­fuls for gold­en­rod.  I brought them into the house and filled vas­es in every room.  I twist­ed and tied the branch­es and made a wreath for the front door. By the time Ben­nett came down from his room, his eyes had turned red with aller­gies and swollen to the size of soft boiled eggs.  He had already sneezed a dozen times.  If she was sober enough, Mom would pull the tip of his nose and say, hel­lo Mr. Sneeze, let’s get you med­icat­ed.”

Eleanor walked down from the pul­pit and gen­tly pat­ted the gold­en­rod lying across Bennett’s chest.

“One last jab, broth­er,” she said. “One last jab.”

Then she returned to her seat.

No one else rose to speak.

We filed past Dad­dy sin­gle file for com­mu­nion.  Shane placed a bowl of rice and a pint of John­ny Walk­er inside the cas­ket, return­ing to his seat with­out tak­ing any wine or bread.  Celia dropped her wafer into her cleav­age.  With­out a moment’s hes­i­ta­tion, the Rev­erend Macallan plucked it out.

When we were seat­ed again, the rev­erend con­clud­ed the ser­vice by pro­claim­ing, “My peace I give you.  My peace I leave you.”

Then he led us through the side door and along a brick path to the gravesite.  The broth­ers act­ed as pall bear­ers, lift­ing and guid­ing the pine cas­ket eas­i­ly on their shoul­ders.  I’ve been told that six men would nor­mal­ly be required, but that after one look, the rev­erend Macallan said, four titans such as these could lift the cas­ket if it were still inside the hearse.

A few pas­sages were read.  Each broth­er dropped a hand­ful of dirt onto the cas­ket.  Eleanor stood under the shade of a long-leaf pine and cried in silence.  Celia sobbed and moaned.  Moth­er repeat­ed, stu­pid whore, stu­pid whore, stu­pid whore.  Joy held my arm and smiled.  I looked through the trees and stared at the cop­pery bay, per­fect­ly still with­out wind.  I watched a pel­i­can glide a few feet above the sur­face, scan­ning the water for fish.  I watched the pel­i­can fly until she was out of sight, nev­er hav­ing spot­ted any­thing worth div­ing for.  The broth­ers shift­ed foot to foot, loos­en­ing ties and sweat­ing.  Four red­dened faces with nowhere to look.

Final­ly, the rev­erend Macallan said, “Amen.”  And then, “This fat bas­tard has nev­er been so hot.  Let us retreat to the shade.”

We fil­tered out of the grave­yard and moved under the pines next to the church.  A few plat­ters of fin­ger sand­wich­es and a bowl of pota­to sal­ad sat on a pic­nic table, just begin­ning to sour in the heat.  No one ate.  We all crowd­ed around the lemon­ade and cokes at anoth­er pic­nic table.  Who made these choic­es?  No cater­ing, no beer or wine.  Mon­ey wasn’t an issue, so why did this have to be so pathetic?

When we all had a cold drink in hand, we looked around at one anoth­er.  What could any­one say?

Celia looked up at me through bleary eyes and put out her hand. “I’m Celia.  How did you know Bennett?”

“He was my father,” I said.

Celia stared at me.  Not one mus­cle in her face moved.  When she final­ly blinked, a bead of sweat dropped from her chin into her cleav­age.  I guess all sorts of things must fall in there.

“I rather enjoyed the movie,” Joy said.

“Anoth­er day,” Shane said to Celia.  He took his moth­er by the arm and led her across the pine nee­dles to Bax­ter, where he jogged in place.  Eleanor asked Bax­ter, do you under­stand what obses­sive com­pul­sive dis­or­der means? 

“Was that nec­es­sary?” Wal­lace asked.

“She asked,” I said.

“But today?”  Wal­lace waved away a fly.  “You don’t know this, but I’ve got big­ger fish to fry.  Have you been told about the will?  Of course not.  I’ll tell you.  Wait right here.”

As Daddy’s ille­git­i­mate child, I’d spent more than a healthy num­ber of nights won­der­ing about that will.  Won­der­ing if Charles Ben­nett Porter Jr. would stay true to tra­di­tion and leave me out, or if, just maybe, he could see clear to leave some­thing to his only daugh­ter.  I’d already been left out of the col­lege trust fund busi­ness, but that nev­er both­ered me.  Dad­dy would have been forced to tell Celia about me, and we’re talk­ing about a man who couldn’t come clean to his own sons about why he left Joy ‑whose real name is Joyce, by the way- for Celia in the first place.  Dad­dy was a boob man.  Plain and sim­ple.  Celia had strip­per boobs and white biki­nis.  Joy wore a giant one piece num­ber with the frilly skirt attached.   Back when Joy was giv­ing birth to Wal­lace, way before the Alzheimer’s, one cry­ing baby was a lit­tle too real for dad­dy.  Just the thought of two lit­tle scream­ing mon­sters made his lip quiver.  Celia took uppers and down­ers and loved a late night spent at the clubs.  Of course, Celia was ill-equipped to use birth con­trol with any mea­sure of accu­ra­cy.  Shane and Bax­ter were inevitable, but I was impos­si­ble to explain.  Moth­er had breasts like soda bread.  She also had an alley cat’s tem­per and claws to match.  By the time I was born, dad­dy didn’t have the ener­gy for anoth­er wife, anoth­er child.  And Celia had calmed down enough to play nurse­maid to daddy’s slow decline.

Mil­lions of dol­lars.  Of course I’d thought about it.  But dad­dy wasn’t exact­ly the kind of guy you just up and asked a thing like that.  No one knew what he had in mind.  No one but Wal­lace.  He’d gone to law school, passed the bar — bare­ly, and set up with a firm here in Mas­sas­auga.  He was the only one who hunt­ed with dad­dy.  They took week­end trips up to Bar­lo and killed ducks, doves, and deer.  At least they said they did.  None of the oth­er broth­ers grew into that sort of mold.  Ren was a pro­fes­sion­al bal­loon­ist, float­ing var­i­ous com­pa­ny logos over cor­po­rate par­ties, foot­ball games, and golf­ing tour­na­ments in his com­mer­cial hot air bal­loon.  Shane was a riv­er guide and con­ser­va­tion­ist.  He worked for an envi­ron­men­tal pro­gram devot­ed to sav­ing Alabama’s rivers.  He con­vert­ed to Bud­dhism.  Shane guid­ed chil­dren down the Caha­ba and taught them how acid rain kills water lilies, how lawn mow­er oil can end up in the gills of a rain­bow trout.  Bax­ter was still in col­lege.  He ran.  His grades were decent, but run­ning took top pri­or­i­ty.  He kept a shaved head, tan shoul­ders, and steel pis­ton calves year-round.  Bax­ter broke three hours in his first marathon.  He didn’t say much, but my god could that boy run.

Dad­dy didn’t con­nect well with any­one but Wal­lace, and even that rela­tion­ship was ten­u­ous.   Wal­lace went to the wrong law school, took the wrong offer from the wrong firm, and absolute­ly bought the wrong car ‑all accord­ing to dad­dy.  But Wal­lace ignored him, focus­ing on the mon­ey he intend­ed to inher­it.   I’m keep­ing the wheels greased, he was fond of say­ing, since no one else will.

I watched Wal­lace ‑we called him Wal­rus when we were kids- gath­er­ing the broth­ers, whis­per­ing in ears, and squeez­ing shoul­ders.  He kept his brow in a knot and point­ed an index fin­ger at one broth­er, then the next.  He tugged his mous­tache.  He was in full-on dic­ta­tor mode.  He said: you don’t know this, but… and the broth­ers rocked on their heels and lis­tened.  Shane sat down.  Ren made a fist.  Bax­ter jogged in place.

I decid­ed I would find out about the will soon enough, so I walked along a dirt path through the trees to the bay.  A lit­tle breeze had kicked up and tiny waves rolled onto the thin strip of sand.  I took off my shoes, stepped bare­foot into the course sand and shal­low water and closed my eyes.  The heat seemed to let up a bit with the breeze and the shade of the water­side pines.  I decid­ed to not think about the will and mon­ey for now.  I decid­ed that what­ev­er hap­pened would be fine.  That my job car­ing for the angel­ic, nine­ty-year-old Jane was a good one and that I would be opti­mistic about find­ing anoth­er kind woman to care for after Jane was gone.  That I would not fall apart when Jane was gone.  She was my infor­mal­ly adopt­ed grand­moth­er, and it would be hard.  But it was crit­i­cal that I hold it togeth­er.  My secret was not a ter­ri­ble one, I decid­ed, and that when my baby arrived I would do right by her, with or with­out daddy’s money.

I let the tiny waves lap against my ankles and the breeze cool my face.  I heard shout­ing behind me, but I kept my eyes closed.  I was doing my best to focus on my baby.  A lit­tle girl, I was sure.  I would name her Jane, of course, and I would pro­tect her from this freak-show cir­cus we called a family.

Mur­ray Dunlap's work has appeared in about fifty mag­a­zines and jour­nals. His sto­ries have been nom­i­nat­ed for the Push­cart Prize three times, as well as to Best New Amer­i­can Voic­es once, and his first book, ‑an ear­ly draft of "Bas­tard Blue" (then called "Alaba­ma") was a final­ist for the Mau­rice Prize in Fic­tion. His first col­lec­tion of short sto­ries, "Bas­tard Blue," was pub­lished by Press 53 on June 7^th, 2011 (the three year anniver­sary of a car wreck that very near­ly killed him…). The extra­or­di­nary indi­vid­u­als Pam Hous­ton, Lau­ra Dave, Michael Knight, and Fred Ashe taught him the art of writing.