Ch 3: The Gravesite Service

chapter excerpt from novel
Sisters In Arms


Chapter 3: The Gravesite Service

         April in the northwest is a month that simply cries. The rains come and drench the indigenous plants with such a wet gift. But, what these plants need and adore, I flounder in. I cannot abide the constant grey and showers. When the wind blows, it’s still got the last bites of winter in it and I hate it. But this day, as we rode through the narrow streets of Cheyanne, the sun broke through a slim cloud break.

         The graveyard was about a mile away and we did the car caravan thing. All I could really think of was getting the hell out of that burial scene as soon as possible, but I was stuck. It was my duty to be there for my mother and out of respect for her and the years we’d let slip by, I needed to hang in there with her.

         “When’s the last time you were in Cheyanne?” I asked Shelley.

         “I visited last Christmas,” she said.

         “You’re the good daughter, I’m the bad.”

         “It used to be the other way around,” she laughed.

         The road became narrow and hilly with rustic fencing on either side. “Look, cows!” I pointed to the right.

         “Hasn’t changed much at all,” Shelley said. “It’s like time travel. You want to come and stay on my couch while you’re here? There’s plenty of room. Where’s Ross?”

         “We’re separated.”

         She said oh, but in that long, drawn out way that acts as a band-aid. She said nothing else, asked nothing else. Everyone knows there is nothing simple about a marriage ending.

         I pulled my jeep into a tree-sheltered lane marking the graveyard entrance and saw the Donovich limo pull up. Dorothy got out first, her mouth open and yapping about something. Ruth climbed out, weak-looking and stilted, refusing Dorothy’s helping hand. Anna slid gracefully out of her seat, knees firmly together, and my mother climbed out like she was jumping out of a tree house.

         “She’s wearing those loafers! For god’s sake, couldn’t you get her into a decent pair of shoes?” Shelley said.

         “You know damn well there’s nothing I can do about that,” I replied.

         “The woman just has no sense about these things,” she fretted.

         Shelley and I never had one of those moms who wore jewelry, perfume or heels. It just wasn’t in her. Sometimes she wore makeup; Cover Girl foundation and Maybelline light brown eyebrow pencil, that was it. She had two pair of shoes. One for gardening, one for everything else.

         “At least she’s wearing panty hose and not knee-highs!” I said.

         While the rest of the world was trying to emulate June Cleaver or Jackie Kennedy, Hannah Donovich followed no one’s dictates but her own. I remember my brothers walking several yards behind her whenever we were downtown together, because they didn’t want anyone to know they were with her. My mother always said “less is more,” but her idea of less was leaving the dirt under her fingernails after a long day of weeding. And while Shelley and I poured over fashion magazines and clothes catalogues, trying to keep up with the latest looks and trends, my mother could care less. Secretly, I admired her, because it took a great strength to show up at church in knee socks and cracked loafers. But on the surface, she embarrassed me, that she didn’t care.

         We stood some distance from the gravesite and waited during the formal prayer and brief service. Although the bitter cold air shadowed the ground, tiny rays of sunshine managed to break through the gray, promising spring and soon. And as dead as my soul felt, the sprouting tulips fostered trust in a universe turning. The lilies were everywhere and the afternoon light fell on my shoulders.

         Three of the Donovich sisters gathered around the casket. Anna, alone, stood several feet away, as if refusing to go near it. As soon as the Father said the last “amen,” Dorothy and Ruth went at it again. The cries started, the tears flowed and Dorothy wailed, "I love you mommy! I love you mommy!"
         This was a fifty-five year old woman yelling. And then Ruth threw herself on the casket, bawling like a forsaken calf. You need to know that I am not exaggerating any of this. She threw herself across the field of flowers blanketing that thing. And then Dorothy, tried to do the same, except being about thirty pounds heavier, she couldn’t make it off the ground and only ended up dropping her purse into the grave. Into the grave.

         "Oh, Lord have mercy," I elbowed Shelley. We had to turn around and face the gates to the cemetery so no one could see us laughing. When I could compose myself enough to turn back around, Corey, was climbing down into the grave, fishing Dorothy's purse out. I felt a coldness run up my backbone and the thought crossed my mind that a curse had been levied.

         Finally, it was over and my mom and Aunt Ruth walked our way. My mom had a big silly grin on her face and started clapping her hands and chanting, "Oh family, family!" in a sing-song voice. She was genuinely glad to have us there, but I knew instinctively she was rubbing it in Ruth's face. Ruth had no children there to comfort her.

         Much later, as I drove back to my motel room I talked to God about my legacy. Do I act like that, god? Please don’t let me act like that. I hadn’t told my mom about my diagnosis and it would be awhile before I could.

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