At That White Funeral
by Casey McConahay
From the dry space beneath the building’s overhang, the child in his suit watched the dark steel-wool clouds.
—Is it raining? asked his father.
His father knelt before the child and attempted to even his son’s tie. It was a man’s tie. No amount of knotting would shorten it, and after finishing a careful Full-Windsor that nearly reached the child’s knees, the father gave a groan of frustration.
A drop of rain struck the sidewalk.
—It’s raining, the boy said.
His mother smoked a cigarette beside one of the building’s columns. The columns were wider than his mother was, and when she went behind a pillar, she disappeared. No part of the woman was visible except the smoke from her cigarette, but she was there, the child knew—where the smoke was.
—Thomas, the woman said. Hurry.
The father, Thomas, inspected the boy’s tie. It was hopeless, he saw, and his wife was losing patience. He thought for a moment and said:
—Just tuck it in.
The boy looked at his father. His father’s tie was not tucked in. His father’s tie ended at his waist and seemed to point to his belt buckle.
—But yours, said the boy. Yours is pointing.
The father wasn’t listening. He was with the boy’s mother then, behind the pillar. The boy could see his father. He could hear his mother’s voice. No one else was near them. The boy unbuttoned his pants and stuffed the tie down his trousers.
The tie was silk, and it tickled his thigh.
His father called to him.
—Come, said his father, but the boy hesitated. He looked at his father’s station wagon across the smooth blacktop parking lot. In the back seat of the station wagon was a book that his teacher had given him. He’d won the spelling bee last Wednesday, and because he could spell precision and antelope, he’d earned the thin little hardback.
—I don’t want to go, he said.
His mother stepped from the pillar. Her cigarette was smaller than a broken bit of crayon, and she stubbed it against the pillar as his father called the boy again.
—Come, Andrew. Please. Are you ready?
The boy shook his head. Firmly, his eyes closed, his head went left to right and back again.
—Please, said the boy. Can we leave?
His parents looked at one another with drawn faces, and the father approached his son. He buttoned the child’s jacket and tried to smile to him to show him that not everything was as grave as it seemed. It was an occasion for ties, yes. It was an occasion for suits and for solemnity. But a smile from his father meant that the child shouldn’t cower at the doorway. His father’s smile meant he shouldn’t be frightened.
—Is it raining? asked his father.
His father knelt before the child and attempted to even his son’s tie. It was a man’s tie. No amount of knotting would shorten it, and after finishing a careful Full-Windsor that nearly reached the child’s knees, the father gave a groan of frustration.
A drop of rain struck the sidewalk.
—It’s raining, the boy said.
His mother smoked a cigarette beside one of the building’s columns. The columns were wider than his mother was, and when she went behind a pillar, she disappeared. No part of the woman was visible except the smoke from her cigarette, but she was there, the child knew—where the smoke was.
—Thomas, the woman said. Hurry.
The father, Thomas, inspected the boy’s tie. It was hopeless, he saw, and his wife was losing patience. He thought for a moment and said:
—Just tuck it in.
The boy looked at his father. His father’s tie was not tucked in. His father’s tie ended at his waist and seemed to point to his belt buckle.
—But yours, said the boy. Yours is pointing.
The father wasn’t listening. He was with the boy’s mother then, behind the pillar. The boy could see his father. He could hear his mother’s voice. No one else was near them. The boy unbuttoned his pants and stuffed the tie down his trousers.
The tie was silk, and it tickled his thigh.
His father called to him.
—Come, said his father, but the boy hesitated. He looked at his father’s station wagon across the smooth blacktop parking lot. In the back seat of the station wagon was a book that his teacher had given him. He’d won the spelling bee last Wednesday, and because he could spell precision and antelope, he’d earned the thin little hardback.
—I don’t want to go, he said.
His mother stepped from the pillar. Her cigarette was smaller than a broken bit of crayon, and she stubbed it against the pillar as his father called the boy again.
—Come, Andrew. Please. Are you ready?
The boy shook his head. Firmly, his eyes closed, his head went left to right and back again.
—Please, said the boy. Can we leave?
His parents looked at one another with drawn faces, and the father approached his son. He buttoned the child’s jacket and tried to smile to him to show him that not everything was as grave as it seemed. It was an occasion for ties, yes. It was an occasion for suits and for solemnity. But a smile from his father meant that the child shouldn’t cower at the doorway. His father’s smile meant he shouldn’t be frightened.
|
The father leaned forward and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
—Are you afraid? The boy looked down. —I just don’t want to go. |
“There are things in this world that even adults cannot understand—not even wise men with gentle sons who wear suits and too-long ties.” |
The boy’s mother was watching them. She was thinking about her husband—about how patient he was with their son.
—I understand, his father told him. I do. But it’s important that we’re here, Andrew. You know that, don’t you?
The boy gave no reply.
—It’s the right thing to do. This is something we do for those we care about. I know that it’s difficult, but if we love them, we do this.
The child raised his eyes to his father. He could not understand this, the father knew, for he was a boy. He was eight. There are things in this world that even adults cannot understand—not even wise men with gentle sons who wear suits and too-long ties.
—Okay, the boy decided.
—Okay?
The boy nodded. His father looked to his wife and told her:
—We’re ready, Sarah.
They walked together through the door. A man with a face like a snapping turtle held the door for them, and:
—Welcome, said the man as he pointed at a stairway. Right this way.
The parents walked toward the stairway, the boy between them. One hand held his mother’s soft palm, and the other clasped a few of his father’s fingers. They climbed the stairs that way, the parents watching their child’s steps so he’d not falter or stumble.
—One more, said his mother.
And they were to the top of the stairway. They were to the open rooms from which the boy heard murmurs and sniveling, but he did not look inside the rooms. Not then. He looked ahead of himself, where a line had assembled. Those who gathered stood in loose rows like first-graders. They stood like people not accustomed to line-forming, and he imagined what Miss Buckley, his teacher, would have said about it.
—Straight, please, she would have said because Miss Buckley said please about everything. She said please when she walked them to music, to art. She said please when she asked them to open their arithmetic books to page forty-seven, and she said please when she asked them to read. She was nice that way.
—Are you okay? asked his father.
—Mm-hmm.
The child could feel his mother smiling at him. He knew the kind of smile she smiled. It was not the smile Miss Buckley smiled when he spelled the word evocative but was the kind of smile Miss Buckley smiled when Tommy who was skinny started crying again. Women could smile those smiles. They were tight smiles that didn’t mean that they were happy: smiles that didn’t reassure him the way his father’s smiles did. They were smiles that made him sad somehow, and he felt sad as he looked at the straggly line before him and felt his mother turn her smile toward his father.
His father put a hand on his son’s head, though the son was turned away from his father and was searching the line. Among the faces of those waiting was Mrs. Mefferd, who taught kindergarten. Mrs. Jones was there also, and farther ahead, near the front of the line, was Mr. Etzler, the principal. The boy contemplated leaving his spot to greet the teachers, but perhaps he’d be scolded if he went to speak with them. Perhaps others who waited would think that he was cutting, and if they glared at him or sent him to the end of the line, he would blush with embarrassment. And maybe the teachers wouldn’t like it. If it were Miss Buckley, he’d have gone to her. Miss Buckley would have wanted to see him. She’d have said hello to him. She’d have told him how nice he looked in his suit and his grown man’s tie. But he would stay where he was. Maybe he would find the teachers afterward. Maybe they would see him and would talk to him. Maybe they would compliment his suit.
—I understand, his father told him. I do. But it’s important that we’re here, Andrew. You know that, don’t you?
The boy gave no reply.
—It’s the right thing to do. This is something we do for those we care about. I know that it’s difficult, but if we love them, we do this.
The child raised his eyes to his father. He could not understand this, the father knew, for he was a boy. He was eight. There are things in this world that even adults cannot understand—not even wise men with gentle sons who wear suits and too-long ties.
—Okay, the boy decided.
—Okay?
The boy nodded. His father looked to his wife and told her:
—We’re ready, Sarah.
They walked together through the door. A man with a face like a snapping turtle held the door for them, and:
—Welcome, said the man as he pointed at a stairway. Right this way.
The parents walked toward the stairway, the boy between them. One hand held his mother’s soft palm, and the other clasped a few of his father’s fingers. They climbed the stairs that way, the parents watching their child’s steps so he’d not falter or stumble.
—One more, said his mother.
And they were to the top of the stairway. They were to the open rooms from which the boy heard murmurs and sniveling, but he did not look inside the rooms. Not then. He looked ahead of himself, where a line had assembled. Those who gathered stood in loose rows like first-graders. They stood like people not accustomed to line-forming, and he imagined what Miss Buckley, his teacher, would have said about it.
—Straight, please, she would have said because Miss Buckley said please about everything. She said please when she walked them to music, to art. She said please when she asked them to open their arithmetic books to page forty-seven, and she said please when she asked them to read. She was nice that way.
—Are you okay? asked his father.
—Mm-hmm.
The child could feel his mother smiling at him. He knew the kind of smile she smiled. It was not the smile Miss Buckley smiled when he spelled the word evocative but was the kind of smile Miss Buckley smiled when Tommy who was skinny started crying again. Women could smile those smiles. They were tight smiles that didn’t mean that they were happy: smiles that didn’t reassure him the way his father’s smiles did. They were smiles that made him sad somehow, and he felt sad as he looked at the straggly line before him and felt his mother turn her smile toward his father.
His father put a hand on his son’s head, though the son was turned away from his father and was searching the line. Among the faces of those waiting was Mrs. Mefferd, who taught kindergarten. Mrs. Jones was there also, and farther ahead, near the front of the line, was Mr. Etzler, the principal. The boy contemplated leaving his spot to greet the teachers, but perhaps he’d be scolded if he went to speak with them. Perhaps others who waited would think that he was cutting, and if they glared at him or sent him to the end of the line, he would blush with embarrassment. And maybe the teachers wouldn’t like it. If it were Miss Buckley, he’d have gone to her. Miss Buckley would have wanted to see him. She’d have said hello to him. She’d have told him how nice he looked in his suit and his grown man’s tie. But he would stay where he was. Maybe he would find the teachers afterward. Maybe they would see him and would talk to him. Maybe they would compliment his suit.
The longer he waited, the more restive the boy grew. He tried to see the front of the line, where Mr. Etzler was. He leaned to his left, tilting so dramatically that his mother put her hands on his shoulders to steady him.
—What are you doing? she asked.
He didn’t answer her. At the front was a gray-haired woman and a man who wore spectacles. They shook hands with the visitors, and the woman daubed crumpled tissues against her eyes. She was crying, the boy saw, and he understood why. He wished that he could cry. Miss Buckley would have let him cry. But what would Mr. Etzler say if he saw the boy crying? What would his mother think? He was allowed to cry, of course. His mother had told him so. But:
—Do your best not to cry, she’d said. Do your best to be strong.
He pulled the sleeve of his father’s jacket.
—Dad, he said quietly.
His father couldn’t hear him.
—Dad, he said again.
His father responded now. He leaned toward his son, and in a mannered whisper, the son pointed and asked:
—What do we do there?
—Where? asked the father, who lowered his son’s arm.
—At the front. Where the people are.
The father looked where his son looked.
—The crying woman? he asked the boy. The man with the spectacles?
—Mm-hmm.
The mother heard this conversation. She held her child a little tighter.
—Give them your hand, the father said. Tell them, I’m sorry for your loss. That’s all you need to say. Can you remember that?
—I think so.
—Try it, said the father.
—I’m sorry for your loss.
—Good, said the father. And what else?
—Give them my hand.
—That’s right. That’s all you need to do.
The boy thought about it for a moment.
—What if they say something to me?
—What do you mean?
—What if they ask me a question? Can I answer it?
His father nodded.
—Of course. Of course you can answer.
The boy was relieved to hear this.
—But what if I make a mistake? he asked. What if I say the wrong thing?
—That’s okay, said his father. I can help you. I can help you if you can’t remember. But you can remember, can’t you? What was it I told you to say?
—I’m sorry for your loss.
—That’s it, said his father. That’s all of it. And if you forget it, I’ll help you.
The boy calmed somewhat, and his mother released him from her grip. The child took a single step away from her, advancing with the other members of the line. They were close now—close enough that they could hear the muffled grief sounds where the line concluded. The child felt his hands become sweaty, and his mouth was like chalk. He could see the black oblong shape behind the man with the spectacles. He tried to see inside it, but his father touched his son on his shoulder, and shaking his head:
—Don’t, mouthed the father.
The boy looked away from the object. Directly before him was a woman in a black skirt with tiny checkers on it. It was a strange skirt. His mother wore a sensible gray skirt that was like the skirts that Miss Buckley wore. His mother and Miss Buckley knew that skirts shouldn’t look like checkerboards. He wondered if the woman in front of him ever played checkers on her skirt. He played checkers with his mother, but they always used checkerboards. Miss Buckley let them play checkers sometimes when they were finished with grammar. He never played checkers, though, because Donnie Thomas was fantastic at checkers and never lost. Instead he played Clue, which was another game Miss Buckley let them play even though they never finished their games. Miss Buckley would guard the envelope with the Clue answers in it, and when game time was over, she’d tell them what the answer cards were. Sometimes she would give them Dum Dum Pops if they guessed a card correctly.
He looked up at his mother and wondered if she had Dum Dum Pops in her purse. At the bank, they’d hand her two or three Dum Dum Pops, but she’d only give him one. She’d save the others for later. Surely there were Dum Dum Pops in her purse yet, and he wanted to ask for one. But there wasn’t time.
—Andrew, said his mother, who pointed forward. The woman with the checkered skirt embraced the man with the spectacles, and the gray-haired woman raised a tissue to her face. She sobbed behind the tissue, and the boy listened closely to the sobbing sounds, which sounded no different than Tommy’s sobs or his own sobs or the sobs of his mother when his grandfather was sick. The boy rubbed his nose. Why should everyone’s sobs sound the same? He wanted to ask someone. Maybe his father would know. Maybe Miss Buckley would know. He would ask someone sometime, but not now. Now his father’s hand was on his back, and the hand urged him forward. The woman with the checkered skirt was gone. Before him stood a balding man with spectacles and a weeping gray-haired woman.
—What are you doing? she asked.
He didn’t answer her. At the front was a gray-haired woman and a man who wore spectacles. They shook hands with the visitors, and the woman daubed crumpled tissues against her eyes. She was crying, the boy saw, and he understood why. He wished that he could cry. Miss Buckley would have let him cry. But what would Mr. Etzler say if he saw the boy crying? What would his mother think? He was allowed to cry, of course. His mother had told him so. But:
—Do your best not to cry, she’d said. Do your best to be strong.
He pulled the sleeve of his father’s jacket.
—Dad, he said quietly.
His father couldn’t hear him.
—Dad, he said again.
His father responded now. He leaned toward his son, and in a mannered whisper, the son pointed and asked:
—What do we do there?
—Where? asked the father, who lowered his son’s arm.
—At the front. Where the people are.
The father looked where his son looked.
—The crying woman? he asked the boy. The man with the spectacles?
—Mm-hmm.
The mother heard this conversation. She held her child a little tighter.
—Give them your hand, the father said. Tell them, I’m sorry for your loss. That’s all you need to say. Can you remember that?
—I think so.
—Try it, said the father.
—I’m sorry for your loss.
—Good, said the father. And what else?
—Give them my hand.
—That’s right. That’s all you need to do.
The boy thought about it for a moment.
—What if they say something to me?
—What do you mean?
—What if they ask me a question? Can I answer it?
His father nodded.
—Of course. Of course you can answer.
The boy was relieved to hear this.
—But what if I make a mistake? he asked. What if I say the wrong thing?
—That’s okay, said his father. I can help you. I can help you if you can’t remember. But you can remember, can’t you? What was it I told you to say?
—I’m sorry for your loss.
—That’s it, said his father. That’s all of it. And if you forget it, I’ll help you.
The boy calmed somewhat, and his mother released him from her grip. The child took a single step away from her, advancing with the other members of the line. They were close now—close enough that they could hear the muffled grief sounds where the line concluded. The child felt his hands become sweaty, and his mouth was like chalk. He could see the black oblong shape behind the man with the spectacles. He tried to see inside it, but his father touched his son on his shoulder, and shaking his head:
—Don’t, mouthed the father.
The boy looked away from the object. Directly before him was a woman in a black skirt with tiny checkers on it. It was a strange skirt. His mother wore a sensible gray skirt that was like the skirts that Miss Buckley wore. His mother and Miss Buckley knew that skirts shouldn’t look like checkerboards. He wondered if the woman in front of him ever played checkers on her skirt. He played checkers with his mother, but they always used checkerboards. Miss Buckley let them play checkers sometimes when they were finished with grammar. He never played checkers, though, because Donnie Thomas was fantastic at checkers and never lost. Instead he played Clue, which was another game Miss Buckley let them play even though they never finished their games. Miss Buckley would guard the envelope with the Clue answers in it, and when game time was over, she’d tell them what the answer cards were. Sometimes she would give them Dum Dum Pops if they guessed a card correctly.
He looked up at his mother and wondered if she had Dum Dum Pops in her purse. At the bank, they’d hand her two or three Dum Dum Pops, but she’d only give him one. She’d save the others for later. Surely there were Dum Dum Pops in her purse yet, and he wanted to ask for one. But there wasn’t time.
—Andrew, said his mother, who pointed forward. The woman with the checkered skirt embraced the man with the spectacles, and the gray-haired woman raised a tissue to her face. She sobbed behind the tissue, and the boy listened closely to the sobbing sounds, which sounded no different than Tommy’s sobs or his own sobs or the sobs of his mother when his grandfather was sick. The boy rubbed his nose. Why should everyone’s sobs sound the same? He wanted to ask someone. Maybe his father would know. Maybe Miss Buckley would know. He would ask someone sometime, but not now. Now his father’s hand was on his back, and the hand urged him forward. The woman with the checkered skirt was gone. Before him stood a balding man with spectacles and a weeping gray-haired woman.
“He could see the white garment on her thin woman’s shoulders, the dress so different than the clothes she wore when she stood before her class of seventeen students and read to them or taught them multiplication tables or walked them to the cafeteria.” |
—Go on, said his father.
Mildly, hesitantly, the child approached the woman with the tissue. She looked at him with tears in her eyes, and he advanced with the spread hand of his father between his shoulder blades and with his mother regarding him—his mother who blushed when she was nervous and who blushed at this moment. Every long second’s silence made her turn a deeper shade of crimson, and when her cheeks felt so warm that she feared she was feverish, she began to articulate a syllable of something that she didn’t finish because her son held his hand out and spoke. —I’m sorry for your loss, he said. |
He shook the woman’s hand firmly, formally. The gray-haired woman shook his hand without speaking, for she didn’t know what to make of this. Who was this boy with his tie and black jacket? Who was this boy who shook hands?
But the child provided no answer. He released the woman’s hand and approached the husband, the man with spectacles. The boy extended his hand to the gentleman, and with another solemn handshake:
—I’m sorry for your loss, he said.
The child’s parents watched without interfering. They read the perplexed expressions of the man and woman but knew that it was right to merely observe this: that it was right to let this unfold without intercession because it may not have been as practiced as the other condolences, but it was honest and earnest and most importantly, true. It was so indelibly authentic that the child’s mother dried her tears with the back of her hand, though the boy failed to notice this. The boy noticed nothing. It was finished, he thought. He had done what he was told to do.The older man released the boy’s hand, and the boy proceeded forward to where the black wooden something lay as great as a monolith.
The grieving couple watched the child advance toward the object, and the child’s father—deciding that the moment he’d respected had now arrived at its conclusion—introduced himself to the bereaved.
—Pleased to meet you, he said. My name is--
The boy heard his father’s voice behind him, but it was as though he were somewhere else then: as though he were in a faraway place where his parents couldn’t reach him. It was a foreign place where there were voices but not hands or guidance or comfort. And he was alone there—alone with a black wooden box and with an ache of alarm and with a breath that was stuck in his throat.
—and this is our son, he heard his father say. Andrew.
Years later, when he was a grown man, he remembered the gasp that he swallowed then. He remembered the stippled pattern of the tie beneath his jacket, and he remembered the shoes on his feet, which were pointed and pinched. He remembered the candle smell of the room and remembered the courteous whispers of the crowd of black-clad mourners: whispers punctured by his father’s firm tenor explaining:
—We heard so much about your daughter. Our son thought the world of her. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful we are for her time with our child.
The boy could hear his father’s voice in the background, but he could think of nothing except the casket atop the catafalque, its black lid open to reveal the face of the body inside. The boy’s tiny heart hammered tribal rhythms, for it was Miss Buckley in the casket. It was Miss Buckley but with pale, waxen skin and in a white, fancy dress. He could see the white garment on her thin woman’s shoulders, the dress so different than the clothes she wore when she stood before her class of seventeen students and read to them or taught them multiplication tables or walked them to the cafeteria. Here she was, not Miss Buckley as he knew her but an imitation Miss Buckley, a woman strange as a child’s crayon drawing.
He took a single step closer but resolved to go no farther. A step was enough to see that the woman in the casket was indeed the woman who gave him the book about the USS Arizona that was in the back of his father’s car. This was the woman who taught them constellations and how to talk to Ernesto, the new boy, in Spanish. This was the woman who took them on a field trip to the science museum and who gave them greeting cards on their birthdays, and now she lay before him, her hands crossed at her chest and a string of beads between her fingers. She lay wearing the simple gold necklace that she sometimes wore—the necklace that shimmered in the sunlight that shone through the afternoon windows because Miss Buckley always kept the classroom’s windows open so her students could see the birds and the snowflakes and the children at recess. Here was her hair and her fingernails and her nose and neck, but her smile and her breath were gone, and her eyes were closed, and her casket was covered with flowers.
The boy shuddered. That was all that he needed to see. He turned toward his parents, and when they saw their son standing before his teacher’s silent body, they went to him. It was over. They sidled away from the casket, and when they exited the viewing room, the boy saw the long line still waiting—the line of men and women whose lives had somehow been touched by this twenty-eight-year-old elementary school teacher who went home from work on Friday and wouldn’t ever come back, for she was dead and wore white in her casket.
—Can we go? asked the boy.
—We can go.
They walked down the stairs and past the tall man with the snapping turtle face who held the door for them again. They walked to the parking lot, where the boy felt the lazy spitting of the slate-colored clouds. And they reached his father’s car before his heart urged him, Cry. And then he did cry. He resisted as best he could, but in the farthest row of the parking lot beneath the scraggly branch of a walnut tree, he lowered his head and felt the warm, sudden tears on his cheeks.
His father noticed, of course. His father knelt to console him.
—Andrew, his father said. Son.
The boy hid his eyes with his hands.
—I don’t mean to.
—I know, Andrew. I know.
—I’m sorry.
—There isn’t anything to be sorry about. You don’t need to be sorry.
His mother behind him put her arms around her son. She pulled him close and looked at her husband, who spoke.
—It was difficult, I know. It was very difficult. But it was also brave. Your mother and I are proud of you. You did a good thing, Andrew. Do you understand that?
The boy was listening. He nodded through sobs, and when his mother released him and opened the car door, he let her lift him inside. She buckled his seatbelt and smiled at him, and on the car ride home, she smoked a cigarette with the window cracked while his father played the radio.
He was too young to understand any of this. The coming years would bring him pieces of a narrative that explained how a twenty-eight-year-old elementary school teacher came to lie in a casket. As one might expect, it was a tragic story, and he came to understand as best one could the unknowable tragedy that is the death of someone young, though there were other things that he came to understand more thoroughly. When he encountered his teacher’s gray-haired mother in the library, at the supermarket, at the post office, she would hug him and sob, and at last he understood why his parents had taken him to the funeral home.
This, he decided as the woman embraced him. This, he was certain, is why.
But the child provided no answer. He released the woman’s hand and approached the husband, the man with spectacles. The boy extended his hand to the gentleman, and with another solemn handshake:
—I’m sorry for your loss, he said.
The child’s parents watched without interfering. They read the perplexed expressions of the man and woman but knew that it was right to merely observe this: that it was right to let this unfold without intercession because it may not have been as practiced as the other condolences, but it was honest and earnest and most importantly, true. It was so indelibly authentic that the child’s mother dried her tears with the back of her hand, though the boy failed to notice this. The boy noticed nothing. It was finished, he thought. He had done what he was told to do.The older man released the boy’s hand, and the boy proceeded forward to where the black wooden something lay as great as a monolith.
The grieving couple watched the child advance toward the object, and the child’s father—deciding that the moment he’d respected had now arrived at its conclusion—introduced himself to the bereaved.
—Pleased to meet you, he said. My name is--
The boy heard his father’s voice behind him, but it was as though he were somewhere else then: as though he were in a faraway place where his parents couldn’t reach him. It was a foreign place where there were voices but not hands or guidance or comfort. And he was alone there—alone with a black wooden box and with an ache of alarm and with a breath that was stuck in his throat.
—and this is our son, he heard his father say. Andrew.
Years later, when he was a grown man, he remembered the gasp that he swallowed then. He remembered the stippled pattern of the tie beneath his jacket, and he remembered the shoes on his feet, which were pointed and pinched. He remembered the candle smell of the room and remembered the courteous whispers of the crowd of black-clad mourners: whispers punctured by his father’s firm tenor explaining:
—We heard so much about your daughter. Our son thought the world of her. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful we are for her time with our child.
The boy could hear his father’s voice in the background, but he could think of nothing except the casket atop the catafalque, its black lid open to reveal the face of the body inside. The boy’s tiny heart hammered tribal rhythms, for it was Miss Buckley in the casket. It was Miss Buckley but with pale, waxen skin and in a white, fancy dress. He could see the white garment on her thin woman’s shoulders, the dress so different than the clothes she wore when she stood before her class of seventeen students and read to them or taught them multiplication tables or walked them to the cafeteria. Here she was, not Miss Buckley as he knew her but an imitation Miss Buckley, a woman strange as a child’s crayon drawing.
He took a single step closer but resolved to go no farther. A step was enough to see that the woman in the casket was indeed the woman who gave him the book about the USS Arizona that was in the back of his father’s car. This was the woman who taught them constellations and how to talk to Ernesto, the new boy, in Spanish. This was the woman who took them on a field trip to the science museum and who gave them greeting cards on their birthdays, and now she lay before him, her hands crossed at her chest and a string of beads between her fingers. She lay wearing the simple gold necklace that she sometimes wore—the necklace that shimmered in the sunlight that shone through the afternoon windows because Miss Buckley always kept the classroom’s windows open so her students could see the birds and the snowflakes and the children at recess. Here was her hair and her fingernails and her nose and neck, but her smile and her breath were gone, and her eyes were closed, and her casket was covered with flowers.
The boy shuddered. That was all that he needed to see. He turned toward his parents, and when they saw their son standing before his teacher’s silent body, they went to him. It was over. They sidled away from the casket, and when they exited the viewing room, the boy saw the long line still waiting—the line of men and women whose lives had somehow been touched by this twenty-eight-year-old elementary school teacher who went home from work on Friday and wouldn’t ever come back, for she was dead and wore white in her casket.
—Can we go? asked the boy.
—We can go.
They walked down the stairs and past the tall man with the snapping turtle face who held the door for them again. They walked to the parking lot, where the boy felt the lazy spitting of the slate-colored clouds. And they reached his father’s car before his heart urged him, Cry. And then he did cry. He resisted as best he could, but in the farthest row of the parking lot beneath the scraggly branch of a walnut tree, he lowered his head and felt the warm, sudden tears on his cheeks.
His father noticed, of course. His father knelt to console him.
—Andrew, his father said. Son.
The boy hid his eyes with his hands.
—I don’t mean to.
—I know, Andrew. I know.
—I’m sorry.
—There isn’t anything to be sorry about. You don’t need to be sorry.
His mother behind him put her arms around her son. She pulled him close and looked at her husband, who spoke.
—It was difficult, I know. It was very difficult. But it was also brave. Your mother and I are proud of you. You did a good thing, Andrew. Do you understand that?
The boy was listening. He nodded through sobs, and when his mother released him and opened the car door, he let her lift him inside. She buckled his seatbelt and smiled at him, and on the car ride home, she smoked a cigarette with the window cracked while his father played the radio.
He was too young to understand any of this. The coming years would bring him pieces of a narrative that explained how a twenty-eight-year-old elementary school teacher came to lie in a casket. As one might expect, it was a tragic story, and he came to understand as best one could the unknowable tragedy that is the death of someone young, though there were other things that he came to understand more thoroughly. When he encountered his teacher’s gray-haired mother in the library, at the supermarket, at the post office, she would hug him and sob, and at last he understood why his parents had taken him to the funeral home.
This, he decided as the woman embraced him. This, he was certain, is why.
Casey McConahay is an MFA candidate at Miami University. He lives in Northwest Ohio.
A 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee, McConahay's story can be found in Issue 14 of Glassworks.
