spur-of-the-moment thing, and I hoped he’d understand.
*
As I said, I hate funerals. The intimations of mortality are far too blatant. I did not, however, approach the casket. I find viewing the dead—painted and primped manikins from which the human being they once were had long since departed—one of the more ghastly and repugnant of our social customs.
Just as I’d pulled into the parking lot beside the mortuary, I saw a car pull up at the entrance, and I watched as Beth emerged with her two daughters, but, I was greatly relieved to see, no Kelly. The car moved off around the building, and a few moments later a man I assumed to be Beth’s husband came from the direction the car had gone, and entered the mortuary. I waited outside, watching the arrivals enter, dreading going in myself. I knew no one, of course, but noted there were a disproportionate number of women among them, covering the full range of the lesbian spectrum from totally-unrecognizable-as-being-gay to a few stereotypical “butch” types.
Just as I was reluctantly getting out of the car, I saw Estelle Bronson coming up the walk, alone, wearing an attractive but simple dark grey dress with a matching shoulder bag, her hair pulled sharply back. She seemed both startled and relieved to see me, and we entered the mortuary together.
We went up to Beth and her family, who were standing far too close to the coffin to suit me, to express our condolences. I introduced Estelle, whose face was calm, but whose eyes were clearly misted. Kelly, we learned, was staying with a friend until after the funeral and burial. Beth thanked us for the flowers, and pointed out two very pretty arrangements, one from Jonathan, Joshua, and me and one from Happy Day. I wasn’t close enough to read the cards, so had no idea which was whose, but it didn’t matter.
We then excused ourselves and moved to seats in the back of the room.
The atmosphere was a Sargasso Sea of funereal calm, with only a tiny ripple now and then, as if a pebble had been dropped onto the surface. An unreal calm—heavy and almost overwhelming. I’d never been to a funeral that wasn’t.
I hadn’t wanted to ask Beth directly if Jan Houston might be there, but I carefully looked at each of the mourners to see if I could spot someone I thought might be her. I couldn’t.
*
Most of those from the mortuary joined the procession to the cemetery, and I questioned yet again why I had come. I’d learned absolutely nothing.
The grave site was near the foot of two tall, cylindrical evergreens standing closely side by side—I remember seeing a picture of that kind of tree in one of Jonathan’s landscaping books and always liked the name: Arborvitae pyramidalis . They reminded me of very large, green popsicles, and I couldn’t help but think of Kelly and Joshua, and a much happier Popsicle Tree .
As the crowd gathered around and under the canopy over the open grave, I stepped back to where I could keep an eye on just about everyone. Odd, but for someone who so hates funerals, I find a great sense of peace in cemeteries, and in reading the tombstones and epitaphs, and trying to visualize who the people were who lie beneath them.
While thusly distracted, I glanced past the crowd by the canopy to a tall tree about a quarter of a block on the other side, and noticed a figure standing alone, partly hidden by the tree. A woman.
I instinctively headed toward her, and when she saw me approaching, she started walking away. I walked faster, and slowly closed in on her. She wasn’t looking back at me, but walking purposefully toward a lone, battered old car on one of the side roads that meandered through the cemetery.
“Jan Houston!” I called when I got close enough, and the woman stopped short and turned.
“What?” she demanded.
“I need to talk to you,”
“Who the hell are you ?”
I took a good look at her as I got closer. Medium height, just this side of stocky, with short greying hair and
*
As I said, I hate funerals. The intimations of mortality are far too blatant. I did not, however, approach the casket. I find viewing the dead—painted and primped manikins from which the human being they once were had long since departed—one of the more ghastly and repugnant of our social customs.
Just as I’d pulled into the parking lot beside the mortuary, I saw a car pull up at the entrance, and I watched as Beth emerged with her two daughters, but, I was greatly relieved to see, no Kelly. The car moved off around the building, and a few moments later a man I assumed to be Beth’s husband came from the direction the car had gone, and entered the mortuary. I waited outside, watching the arrivals enter, dreading going in myself. I knew no one, of course, but noted there were a disproportionate number of women among them, covering the full range of the lesbian spectrum from totally-unrecognizable-as-being-gay to a few stereotypical “butch” types.
Just as I was reluctantly getting out of the car, I saw Estelle Bronson coming up the walk, alone, wearing an attractive but simple dark grey dress with a matching shoulder bag, her hair pulled sharply back. She seemed both startled and relieved to see me, and we entered the mortuary together.
We went up to Beth and her family, who were standing far too close to the coffin to suit me, to express our condolences. I introduced Estelle, whose face was calm, but whose eyes were clearly misted. Kelly, we learned, was staying with a friend until after the funeral and burial. Beth thanked us for the flowers, and pointed out two very pretty arrangements, one from Jonathan, Joshua, and me and one from Happy Day. I wasn’t close enough to read the cards, so had no idea which was whose, but it didn’t matter.
We then excused ourselves and moved to seats in the back of the room.
The atmosphere was a Sargasso Sea of funereal calm, with only a tiny ripple now and then, as if a pebble had been dropped onto the surface. An unreal calm—heavy and almost overwhelming. I’d never been to a funeral that wasn’t.
I hadn’t wanted to ask Beth directly if Jan Houston might be there, but I carefully looked at each of the mourners to see if I could spot someone I thought might be her. I couldn’t.
*
Most of those from the mortuary joined the procession to the cemetery, and I questioned yet again why I had come. I’d learned absolutely nothing.
The grave site was near the foot of two tall, cylindrical evergreens standing closely side by side—I remember seeing a picture of that kind of tree in one of Jonathan’s landscaping books and always liked the name: Arborvitae pyramidalis . They reminded me of very large, green popsicles, and I couldn’t help but think of Kelly and Joshua, and a much happier Popsicle Tree .
As the crowd gathered around and under the canopy over the open grave, I stepped back to where I could keep an eye on just about everyone. Odd, but for someone who so hates funerals, I find a great sense of peace in cemeteries, and in reading the tombstones and epitaphs, and trying to visualize who the people were who lie beneath them.
While thusly distracted, I glanced past the crowd by the canopy to a tall tree about a quarter of a block on the other side, and noticed a figure standing alone, partly hidden by the tree. A woman.
I instinctively headed toward her, and when she saw me approaching, she started walking away. I walked faster, and slowly closed in on her. She wasn’t looking back at me, but walking purposefully toward a lone, battered old car on one of the side roads that meandered through the cemetery.
“Jan Houston!” I called when I got close enough, and the woman stopped short and turned.
“What?” she demanded.
“I need to talk to you,”
“Who the hell are you ?”
I took a good look at her as I got closer. Medium height, just this side of stocky, with short greying hair and
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