credo was, “Love me when I’m alive, not when I’m dead.”
Most did.
The ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust ceremony at the plot of freshly dug earth was short. Hands caressed the casket in a final unfulfilling gesture of intimacy, roses placed on the white cloth that draped the middle of the coffin like an untied belt. Jake made his way to the casket, gave his mother a symbolic final kiss goodbye, and then broke down sobbing for the only person in the world he really loved.
The post funeral gathering was held at Uncle Steve’s; Jake’s only relative who didn’t require a long-distance phone call. The familiar faces from the first several rows of pews at St. Michael’s now filled the tight, outdated kitchen with its cracked Formica countertops and worn linoleum floor. The women tried unsuccessfully to evict the men who stood around the small kitchen table inhaling chips and dip, circling like vultures waiting for a more substantial carcass. Jake’s mother’s favorite jazz CD played in the living room, loud enough to hear throughout the small first floor of the brick row house.
Uncle Steve, fifty, bald, and feisty, passed out cold Miller Genuine Drafts to anyone who would join him in a pre-noon drink. Mrs. Nelson from two doors down moved her sixty-eight-year-old body like the former salsa dancer that she was, and transformed the dining room table from a bachelor pad pile of magazines and newspapers to a place where people could sit down and eat. Smokers were banished to the back porch by Father McKenna, who was the first to take Uncle Steve up on his offer for a late morning beer.
The doorbell rang and Uncle Steve, bald head glistening from the heat of the kitchen, shuffled toward the front foyer, beverage in hand. A curtain hung over the oval window in the antique door, offering only a silhouette of the tardy guest. Steve peeked behind the curtain, yanked the tarnished brass knob, and opened the door. Cold stares spoke volumes as the silent collision of the past and present soured the already somber atmosphere.
“It’s been a long time Peter,” Uncle Steve said.
“Yes it has, Steven.”
The two men stood face-to-face through the half-opened door and Uncle Steve made no effort to invite the guest into the house.
“Jake mentioned he saw you at the memorial service. Awfully nice of you to come.”
“I didn’t know that Susan had passed. I got a phone call in Hong Kong and caught the next plane out as soon as I heard,” Peter replied honestly.
“Still the world traveler, eh?”
“Some things never change.”
“You said it, not me,” Steve replied with bite.
Miles Davis filled the void in conversation.
“Still in the roofing business?” Peter asked.
“When my body lets me. Bad back, worse knees. Some mornings I can barely get out of bed.”
“Looks like your liver is still working,” Peter retorted, gesturing in the direction of the bottle in Steve’s hand.
For a brief second it was just like old times, two brothers-in-law taking jabs at one another. But time has a way of making strangers out of even brothers, and another moment of awkward silence fell on the two.
“Could we not do this today?” Peter asked. “I just stopped by to say that I‘m sorry for your loss. I know you and Susan were close.”
“Yes we were, but not as close as your son was to his mother.”
“May I come in?”
Steve considered the request but didn’t move. It was a battle of wills between Uncle Steve, a blue-collar roofer with dirt under his nails, and Peter Winthrop,
“Just for a minute. I won’t stay long.”
“You never did,” Steve replied. He took a swig of his beer, fully opened the door with his left hand, and motioned his ex-brother-in-law into his home.
Peter advanced slowly through the living room, past an old upright piano littered with pictures of people he knew a lifetime before. Uncle Steve followed behind, observing Peter as he took in the ghosts of his past. Peter nodded to an elderly couple on the couch. The white haired husband and wife nodded back at the well-dressed stranger.
Peter stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. Jake was at the back door, talking to a vaguely familiar face whose name Peter had long since forgotten. The crowd ripping through the hors d’oeuvres and working on food preparations took notice of the intruder, held their breaths, and exited the room as if someone had discovered a bomb in the refrigerator.
Jake felt the vacuum created around him and turned toward the far doorway to the kitchen. As the whispers grew in the next room, father and son stood at opposite sides of the kitchen like heavyweights in their respective corners of the ring before a fight. Uncle Steve stepped back to give the two some privacy, while remaining close enough to intervene if they needed a referee.
“Hi son,” Peter offered first.
“Hi Dad,” Jake replied. It felt normal to call him Dad, but it was a title he used without any emotional attachment.
“How are you holding up?” Peter asked, out of his element in the role of a father.
“Been better.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry to hear about your mother.”
“I’m sorry too,” Jake replied. He wondered if his father was as uncomfortable as he was.
A long pause interrupted the stalling conversation.
“I wish there was something I could have done.”
“You could have stopped by and visited her. She was your wife at one point. And the mother of your only child.”
“I didn’t think she wanted to see me.”
“She was dying, Dad. She wasn’t in the mood for a fight.”
“Well if she wasn’t in the mood for a fight, then I‘m sure she didn’t want to see me.”
Jake forced a small, brief smile. “Mom didn’t share your problems with me and she never uttered a bad word about you when I was around. She didn’t walk around singing your praises, but she never badmouthed you either.”
“She was a good woman.”
“The best.”
“You’re right. I should have come to see her.” Peter didn’t believe his own words, but hoped they would provide some comfort to his son.
The resemblance between father and son was unmistakable. The broad shoulders, the brown hair, the chiseled face. The smile. The walk. Jake was casually mesmerized, staring into the paternal mirror at what he expected to look like in another thirty years. He hoped he looked as good as the man in front of him when he reached his fifties. Genetics are a strange thing, he thought. And while he looked at his father, he felt nothing. Jake didn’t hold a grudge because his father was an alcoholic, workaholic, or womanizer. He may have been all of the above, but Jake didn’t know. And it is hard to be upset about something you don’t know or can’t remember. He wasn’t angry, hurt or disappointed—he wasn’t close enough to the man in front of him to have any of those emotions. Everything happens for a reason and Jake tried to leave the past in the past, a skill he learned from his mother. All Jake knew was that he could expect a hundred dollars for Christmas and another hundred for his birthday. The money arrived in generic cards, usually a week or two late, his father’s signature probably forged by a secretary.
But Jake did know that his father was successful, and if he hadn’t already known, the thousand-dollar suit his father was wearing would have been a clue. He knew his father ran a company or two and lived in a house with a pool. But the talk of private jets, beach houses in the Caribbean, and a garage full of German and Italian sports cars was hearsay. He knew his father had paid child support when his mother had requested it, but she had done her best to keep his money out of her life and the life of her son.
Peter looked at Jake, and as his son had looked at him and seen his own reflection, Peter saw images of himself as a young man. He remembered his son as an infant and had spotty recollections of his son’s pre-teen
