The wake lasted only a day and was held at an Amsterdam Avenue parlor, Kennedy's, not far from the church. Everyone from the neighborhood was there, The MacGuires came in from Long Island, Annie's three policeman brothers in their dress blues, with their shoulder cords and medals, sat in the back. Her father and mother and various cousins came and went throughout the day, but her brothers stayed, and going outside to smoke cigarettes, marched up and down the street in front of the parlor, Ives by their side, regarding all passersby, street drunks and junkies as well as decent citizens minding their own business, with contempt. A lot of strangers came with flowers, and so many prayer cards, rosaries, and crucifixes were left in Robert's coffin that every few hours a lady who worked for the parlor would come up to remove them. Young seminarians and many priests came by. A lot of neighborhood fellows came in around two in the afternoon, half-drunk, paid their respects, and stood about the parlor entrance in thin-soled shoes shivering. Flowers arrived from New Jersey, where his friend Mr. Messmer lived. And he got a telephone call from Mr. Mannis in London; he had called during intermission of the theater where they were presenting Stop the World I Want to Get Off, with Anthony Newley. A number of Annie's teaching colleagues showed up or sent flowers, and about twenty-five people from the agency came, among them Mr. Freeman, who traveled on that soggy day with his wife and one of his sons from Chappaqua; Morty Silverman, Alvarez, Martinez, Dinnerstein, and Fuentes from the Spanish division of the company; many people from accounting; and secretaries from the sales department, some of whom came in from the Bronx and Queens.
Everybody comes to Robert's wake. He was young and spiritual, sang in the church choir. In a few months, he was going to enter the seminary. Everybody loved him. When a young person dies, there's always an extra layer of tragedy. Robert was gunned down on a sidewalk in front of a church at Christmas time. He's almost a martyr.
Tonight is my sister's visitation at the funeral home. For two hours, we will gather, hug, probably cry, share stories, and say a rosary. All day long is going to be a prelude to that event. My daughter has a dance lesson. I have to play for a Mass at church. Then, the wake. Afterward, I will go home, make a brownie trifle for the funeral lunch, and finish my poem and eulogy.
The drama has already begun with my family. I will not go into detail. Suffice to say, there is always "fun" in "dysfunction." There will be a lot of both tonight. My goal for this evening will be to make it through the 120 minutes with a minimum of slamming car doors and squealing tires. (You laugh, but both of those things are distinct possibilities.) I have no energy for my family's particular brand of mental illness tonight.
I may come off as gentle and full of compassion. An understanding soul, if you will. My well of grace is running a little dry at the moment.
Saint Marty needs a big, stiff drink . . . of grace, of course.
A Warning to My Readers
by: Wendell Berry
Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
Confessions of Saint Marty
