CHAPTER 12 - IN MEMORIAM

            The funeral service was to be held at Greenwood Cemetery where Joey would be interred next to my grandparents. My parents and I, Dan and his family, and Gary all rode to the cemetery together in the traditional long, black limousine. Thank whatever gods direct such matters, but Candi-with-an-i had decided to stay at the hotel with the devil-child because a funeral might be too traumatic an experience for it . . . er, I mean, him. Not having to deal with either of them was an altogether blessed relief for me. And Gary, on the other hand, was easily and cheerfully ignored.

            We got to the cemetery about an hour before the service, so I went alone to the chapel to say my good-bye, thankful to have a few moments respite from trying to make small talk with the young cousins I barely knew and would probably never see again. I stood before the open casket to say farewell to the person whom I had loved more dearly than anyone else in this world. I felt curiously detached from the proceedings. It was as though my mind was fixated on the minor details of the scene to avoid having to process the enormity of the situation. I most vividly remember the mountain of flower arrangements flanking the coffin, how the Eagle, Globe and Anchor motif of the Marine Corps emblem was repeated over and over in the floral tributes and even appliquéd on the inside of the casket lid.

            I finally forced myself to look down at the body in the casket. Even in death, Joey was still handsome. Lieutenant Wesley's letter had been right. Except for the pallor of his skin, Joey might have been peacefully asleep. Still, a part of me refused to recognize the wax-like effigy in the dress blue uniform before me as any kin to the living, laughing, loving man who had once been such an important part of my life. I had heard Pastor Barlow preach on so many occasions that the body is only a shell, a mortal home for the immortal soul. I understood that now as I looked upon the earthly remains of my sweet Joey. Everything that had made Joey who he was, the part of him that had loved me, the part of him that I had loved was no longer here. It was only an empty shell, like a house when the people you know have moved away, still outwardly familiar, but no longer of the same importance.

            I stood there for a few minutes, trying to wrap my mind around the idea of a future in which Joey would no longer play a part when I felt a presence beside me. My Uncle Dan slipped his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. "How're you holdin' up?"

            "Okay." I lied. I was operating on autopilot. My emotions were disengaged, and my heart had gone numb.

            "I think they're about ready to start. Come sit by me," he urged as he led me gently away.

            Like most chapels devoted exclusively to memorial services, this one was L-shaped with a separate alcove off to the side where the grieving family could endure the funeral rites shielded from the curious gaze of spectators. Dan and I sat down on the first row beside my parents, and I watched as the funeral director came in and closed the casket, as it would remain throughout the service, and covered it with the flag. My eyes began to sting, and I remembered Joey's words to me at the bus depot. "Well, this is it, Squirt. You gotta be brave for me or I'll never be able to do this." I took a deep breath and clenched my jaw so hard that my teeth ached. I vowed that I would be brave and make Joey proud. Dan reached over and took my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Just like Joey, Dan understood, too.

            A Marine funeral with full military honors is a solemn display to behold. I'd never seen so many men in blue uniforms outside of a Veterans' Day Parade. They all looked so very young, too young to go marching off to war. The entire contingent from the local Marine Reserves must be here, I mused. I'd had no idea how many people were required to render full honors at a Marine funeral. I learned later that Joey's funeral had been slightly more elaborate than normal because he'd been posthumously awarded the Silver Star.

            The spectacle began with the chapel service itself, jointly officiated by Pastor Barlow and Col. Ryan. Pastor Barlow opened the service with an invocation and benediction. I bowed my head but kept my eyes open, staring sullenly down at my folded hands. God and I were not exactly on speaking terms. In fact, I was rather angry with the Almighty just at that particular moment. I was in no mood to receive solace from clichéd platitudes. Joey was dead and I was just plain mad at God for letting it happen.

            Pastor Barlow concluded and John Halstead got up to sing. Called Big John because he was built like a California Redwood, John was a basso profundo from the church choir with a vocal style somewhat reminiscent of Tennessee Ernie Ford's. He began to sing in a voice that could fill an auditorium without needing a microphone, the kind of voice that you could feel all the way down to your bones. "I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger, A travelin' through this world of woe." He sang acappella, drawing out each note until it seemed to linger in the air like the tolling of a great bell. "But there's no sickness, toil nor danger In that bright world to which I go."

            I felt the goose bumps rising on my arms and travel down my back as he took a deep breath and began the refrain. "I'm goin' there to see my father; I'm goin' there no more to roam." His majestic voice swelled to a rafter-rattling crescendo and then grew steadily softer until the last word was a gentle caress. "I'm just a-goin' over Jordan, I'm just a-goin' over home."

            As John continued to sing the second and third verses, I regarded my father out of the corner of my eye. His choice of this particular song was no less than surprising. I had expected one of the more standard selections from the Southern Baptist Hymnal instead of this old Spiritual. Joey had loved folk and traditional music, and the song was unexpectedly appropriate. Naturally I was astounded by the fact that my father had possessed the insight to choose it.

            By this time, Col. Ryan had come to the podium to read the obituary. I closed my eyes and bowed my head. It was an insult to Joey's memory to think that his life could be summed up in just those few lines written in the Fort Worth Star Telegram. The truest record of his life was written on the hearts of everyone who loved him, like Lieutenant Wesley and Corporal Evans, and all the other men with whom he'd served. My mind began to wander as this stranger read his catalogue of dry facts describing someone he had never known.

            I turned my head just a fraction and observed my parents sitting next to me. My father kept his eyes straight ahead with the discipline of a Buckingham Palace Guard. I suppose he could have been considered a handsome man with that jet-black hair and Grecian profile. But, I was incapable of judging objectively. My impressions were filtered through the warped lens of our ambivalent relationship.

            As I studied him, I thought I saw a muscle twitch in his strong jaw, and I was taken aback to realize that he might actually be struggling to control his emotions. Perhaps there was some feeling there after all. I shook my head. I was being unkind. The man had lost a brother. It was wrong of me to behave as though the grief belonged to me alone.

            I took a closer look at my parents. My mother was, as always, impeccably groomed, but I was struck by the way she sat close to my father, with her arm linked through his, her hand resting on his sleeve in a sweetly comforting attitude. My father covered her hand with his, giving it a soft pat. I had often seen them strike such poses in public, playing the part of the loving couple, but this display seemed genuine, and I blinked in disbelief. It was as though I was seeing them for the first time. They really do love each other, I suppose, in their own way and after their own fashion. I came suddenly to the startling realization that I didn't really know them any better than they knew me. I wished for a way to break down the barriers that seemed to divide us, but I didn't know how. We were strangers with no common language or means to communicate, so we blundered along in a state of constant misunderstanding, giving offense where none was intended.

            Col. Ryan prepared to recite a poem, and my ears pricked up when I head him explain that the author, Alan Seeger, was a young American who'd served as a soldier in the French Foreign Legion during World War I. He'd been killed on July 4, 1916 at Belloy-en-Santerre, not long after penning these poignantly prophetic lines:

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air -
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath -
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

            It shouldn't have happened this way, I thought angrily. Joey was a good person. His life shouldn't have been cut short by a bullet in a foreign country. I closed my eyes, and the tears that slipped between my lashes were more of fury than grief. Joey should've had the chance to fall in love with a beautiful girl who'd love him more than life itself. He should've been able to get married and raise a family. He should've had children and lots grandchildren to spoil and love. He should've lived to a comfortable old age and passed away peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by the family who loved him. Sitting there and realizing that someone as kind as Joey could be denied such a simple dream filled me with a rage that made me want to storm the gates of heaven and demand an accounting.

            Pastor Barlow came forward to deliver the funeral message of comfort and hope, but his words sounded empty and flat to my ears. Bereft of my dearest friend, I refused to be comforted. The minister had no words to say or scriptures to quote, which could bring Joey back to me. So I closed my eyes and wallowed in my own selfish grief.

            The service drew toward its close with Big John rising to sing another selection. This was a more traditional hymn, In the Sweet By and By.

There's a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar
For the father waits over the way,
To prepare us a dwelling place there.

In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

            John's performance was masterful as always, but the message only angered me more. The sweet by and by might be just fine and dandy, but I had to live in the bleak here and now. I could only sit screaming silently in my soul, Why, God? Why did You have to let Joey die? But, if God had an answer, He was keeping it to Himself.

            At last, the service concluded with yet another prayer. The funeral director and an assistant came forward to rearrange the flag and open the casket once more, allowing the congregants a final opportunity to pay their respects. Somewhere an unseen organist was playing a vaguely recognizable hymn as the mourners began to file past. I decided then and there that I hated organ music.

            When everyone else had exited into the bright sunlight, it was the family's turn to say good-bye. My mother and father went first, his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist in an uncharacteristically sincere display of affection. They paused for a moment beside the coffin. My father covered Joey's gloved hand with his own, and a single tear slipped down his cheek. My mother gave my father a gentle squeeze, leaning her head upon his shoulder before they turned and walked away. I was dumbfounded. My parents were so accomplished at controlling and concealing their emotions that I tended to forget they even had them.

            Dan took my arm as we slowly approached the bier together. I felt his strong grip holding me up as we prepared to say our farewells. Dan reached out so gently and caressed Joey's cold cheek with the back of his fingers. "Good-bye, little bro," he whispered. Then, he turned and looked at me. "Are you gonna be all right?"

            If I needed him, Dan was there for me, but I was past the tears, the weeping, and the wailing. Instead, I felt an unnatural kind of peace. I had accepted Joey's death even if I still wasn't quite ready to forgive God for letting it happen. "Joey's not here," I said softly. "This is just an old suit that doesn't fit him anymore. And where he is now, he already knows how much I miss him. And he finally knows how much I love him. He knows it better than I could ever have told him in words."

            Dan hugged me and we walked together down the center aisle followed by my cousins, Larry and Kevin. Neither of them had ever attended a funeral before and they had both been awed into wide-eyed silence. As we stepped through the door, I looked back and saw my Uncle Gary standing beside the casket with Kay. He was sobbing on her shoulder, and I felt my heart soften toward him just a little. Dan was right. At this moment, I loved all of my family even if I still didn't generally like some of them.