Derailed (31 page)

My throat tightened. “Thanks, Mom,” I whispered. “I wasn't shot. I didn't end up in prison, and—except for the alcohol—I escaped drugs.” I leaned down and kissed her rigid cheek. She'd given me everything she could.

Quiet sounds behind me let me know other people were arriving. I wiped my eyes, waiting to turn and greet them until I'd collected myself. It was Peter and Avis Douglass, Florida and Carl Hickman. And Jodi and Denny Baxter were signing the guestbook.

The sight of my old friends gathering around at this time of grief undid me as we exchanged hugs all around, no need for words. I wished I could've shown them the little slide show that had gone on in my head. To them she was just that sweet elderly lady I brought to church on Sundays.

Would the obituary give them a sense of who she'd been? Maybe. But as each of them hugged me, I knew they were primarily there to support me. What good friends.

I sensed Estelle's arrival and turned toward the doorway. There she stood, the picture of refined mourning, swathed in a royal purple and black caftan with her hair swept up on top of her head the way I liked it best, dangling gold earrings catching the light. In spite of the occasion, my heart jumped. How did I ever deserve her?

Both Rodney and DaShawn at her side wore dark suits. Rodney's, I noticed, had a black satin stripe down the leg and around his jacket cuff. Probably from his new limo job. At least he was here. That turned on my waterworks again. My son had a job, but he'd made it to his grandmother's visitation. Guess old Ben Garfield was right: the crying—or whatever that Yiddish word was—would not be denied. I didn't care anymore. I went over, and with my arms around my family, brought them to Mom's casket where we stood for several minutes in silence.

The riptide of feelings within me left me limp. At the same time I was grieving the loss of my mom, I was blessed with the best friends a guy could ever hope for and a family that was finally coming together in love.

“Can I touch her?” asked DaShawn, interrupting my reverie.

“Yes.” I reached out and brushed Mom's cheek with the back of my fingers to show him it was really okay. “But she won't feel the same.”

DaShawn touched her cheek. “
Ooo
. She's cold.”

An idea came to me—maybe DaShawn could read her obituary tomorrow at the celebration. That would be special, her great-grandson. But then I looked at my son. “Rodney, tomorrow at the service, would you be willing to read Grandma's obituary?”

“Me? You mean that thing about her life?”

“Yeah, like her biography.”

His eyebrows arched as he shrugged. “Yeah, guess so, if you want me to.”

“
Um-hmm
,” Estelle murmured, giving me a little smile. “We'd all be honored, Rodney.”

“Sure then. How long is it?”

“Just a page. I'll get you a copy before we go home tonight.”

More people began streaming in—old friends and our few remaining family members, even some people I didn't know. Where had they all come from? How had they heard about my mom's passing? I tried to thank them all, but I'm sure I missed a few.

I finally sat, exhausted, on one of the sofas.

The hectic pace continued the next day, and we appreciated it when the pastor's wife and another woman from church brought by a ham, a pot of green beans, and some scalloped potatoes. “You need to eat at a time like this,” First Lady Rose said firmly when Estelle tried to protest, knowing we'd end up with a refrigerator overflowing with leftovers after the repast.

We arrived at the church early Saturday afternoon, but the sanctuary was already half full with SouledOut folks, other friends, and people whose names I didn't know. SouledOut might be a storefront church, but it was nothing like those little run-down places back in the hood where I grew up. Its whole front wall was glass, like all the other stores in the modern Howard Street Shopping Center. The only thing obscuring passersby from seeing the rows of chairs full of worshippers and the praise banners hanging on the wall were the words “SouledOut Community Church—All Are Welcome” painted in large red letters across the glass. It's one thing to invite everyone in the parking lot to watch us raise our hands and dance as we praise the Lord on a Sunday morning, but it felt awkward to celebrate a homegoing so publicly. And with a big black hearse parked out front, there was no way shoppers wouldn't be curious about what was going on inside.

Soft, recorded music played as guests paraded slowly by Mom's casket, two large floral arrangements standing at either end. As family, we remained in back, milling with those who were still arriving and receiving people's condolences. We also had to dodge
out of their way as they hung their coats on the rolling racks that sometimes gave our church the appearance of a resale shop.

When Pastor Cobbs signaled it was time to begin, we slipped around the back of the congregation and through the double doors into the hall leading to the bathrooms and offices. There we organized ourselves to come back in as a family and process slowly down the aisle to the front row.

The first thing I noticed when I came through those doors was that the guy who usually played the keyboard in our church's little praise band was sitting behind a classic Hammond organ, playing a beautifully slow and soulful rendition of “I'll Fly Away.” Oh my, Mom must be loving this. But where had that organ come from?

Once we were all seated, the men from House of Thompson closed the lid of the casket and placed a framed photograph of Mom on top of it. Pastor Cobbs stood up from his seat on the low platform and, looking up with his eyes closed, began to clap softly in time to the music. Avis Douglass, sitting on the other side of the platform, stood up and joined him, then began to sing, softly at first until we rose and joined in. “
I'll fly away; To a home on God's celestial shore
.” Soon the tempo picked up, the clapping spread, and our voices rose with joy.

Yes. In my mind's eye, I could see Mom doin' a little shufflin' dance.

More praise and worship followed, during which I caught Pastor Cobbs smiling and nodding frequently at the keyboardist on that old Hammond. And then it hit me: Pastor Cobbs had arranged for that organ to be here. A good Hammond isn't cheap, and there hadn't been anything in the church budget about getting an organ. Maybe he'd rented it. But whatever, there it was . . . for Mom's homegoing. Again the tears streamed down my face.

God was so good, always looking out for even the smallest things when the time was right.

Avis finally concluded our time of praise and worship with prayer, and we all took our seats. I couldn't recall what came next, so I opened the program, which had my favorite picture of Mom
on the cover, with “Wanda M. Bentley, 1922–2010” below it. On the inside left panel was her biography, or obituary, as the printer had called it. On the right was the schedule for her “Homegoing Celebration.” I scanned down. Next came the
Remarks and Resolutions of Condolence
, followed by the
Reading of the Obituary
. I glanced down the row, past Estelle. Rodney had his head down, studying the program. I smiled.

My attention returned to a woman reading a resolution.

“. . . Whereas, Wanda Marie Bentley was a member in good standing of Mount Zion Tabernacle for twenty-three years; and Whereas, she faithfully sang . . .”

I had no idea who the woman was, dressed in her white “mother's” uniform, but she sounded like she was from
way
back. I checked the program. It did not reveal Mom's middle name—not that it was any secret—but hardly anyone knew her middle name these days.

“. . . Now therefore, be it resolved, that the Daughters of Mount Zion express our deepest sympathy to Wanda's son”—she looked at me—“daughter-in-law, grandson, great-grandson, and the extended family over their loss. Be assured, she will be missed. Respectfully submitted, Claudine G. Jenkins, Acting President of the DMZ.”

I took a deep breath as the woman returned to her seat and someone else came to the front to share a favorite memory of Mom. I'd mostly known her as my mother, always there, always believing in me. But her life had reached much farther than I had imagined.

Rodney read the obituary without a stumble, but he kept glancing at me between paragraphs as though looking for my approval. I nodded and smiled to encourage him. I wondered how often over the years my son had needed that affirmation and I hadn't been there to give it. I winced; this being a good father business took more than a single turnaround, and I was still spinning.

Grace Meredith's rendition of “Give Me Jesus” was great, better—if that was possible—than on her CD. And Pastor Cobbs's eulogy powerfully honored Mom's Christian testimony. If anything, it was a winsome salvation message, inviting anyone who didn't know Christ to find meaning and peace in relationship with him.

After the closing prayer, we followed the pallbearers as they rolled Mom's casket up the aisle and out the front doors of the church. But after Rodney's reading, my mind was distracted, wondering how I could repair what I'd messed up so long ago. Wasn't that what Mom would've wanted?
Do right by your son, Harry. Bring him back into the family, embrace him, believe in him, show him God's love until he too wants to be in relationship with him
.

Guided by the two men from House of
Thompson, the pallbearers slid Mom's casket into the back of the black hearse and closed the large door. The driver shook my hand. “Beautiful service, Mr. Bentley. Your mother would've been pleased.”

“Oh, I'm sure she
is
pleased.”

“
Hmm
, yes indeed.” He checked his watch. “Let's see, you're gonna have the repast now. Take a couple of hours, so we could have everything ready at the cemetery by six
P.M
. Does that sound good to you?”

I nodded.

“And you said just family, right?”

“Well, family and the pastor and a few friends. But no more'n fifteen.”

“Okay. We'll have the chairs set up and expect you at six. Sun doesn't set until about seven thirty.” He glanced up at the sky. “Only a few clouds, so we should have plenty of daylight. Graveside service don't take long.”

Rodney was strolling in the parking lot talking loudly into his phone, waving his other hand in the air. When I caught his eye, I beckoned him back to the church so we could start the repast. “Who was that?” I asked when he finally came, a heavy expression on his face.

“Ah, Donita again. She's only allowed to make calls from rehab on the weekend, so . . .”

“So, what? What's she want with you, especially at a time like this?”

“Just forget it, Dad. You wouldn't understand.”

I sighed as we went in through the door.

That evening, by the time the interment was over and we got home, the house felt as dark and empty as if Mom had been living with us. Made me cling to Estelle in a long, comforting hug while Rodney and DaShawn disappeared to change their clothes. “I hope everything was okay today.”

“Better than okay, hon. I'm sure your mom felt honored.”

“That's what I told that guy from the funeral home.”

“What do you mean?”

I chuckled. “Well, he said he was sure Mom
would
've been pleased, like she didn't exist anymore. But I said,
I'm sure she
is
pleased
. Because I believe she was lookin' down and knew all about it.”

“
Um-hmm
. I believe she was too, but . . .” She pulled me tighter and nuzzled my neck. “. . . I'm trustin' the good Lord also turns off the lights sometimes.”

“Well, he better.” We broke our clutch with a laugh. “Hey, got any leftovers from the repast? I was so busy talkin' to people, I hardly ate anything.”

Sunday afternoon, I asked DaShawn and Rodney to come with me over to Mom's old apartment. We needed to sort through all her things and clear it out soon. When I'd been there earlier looking for her will, I'd realized there were a few things of value as well as several sentimental things we shouldn't leave in an unoccupied apartment. We packed up her good china, silverware, jewelry, boxes of important papers, and photo albums and loaded them into the RAV4. Also took her TV and some small appliances, though most were so old, they hardly mattered.