Relatives from Chicago and Racine poured into the Crazy House the afternoon after Dad died. I sat next to Pa. Pa is Grampa Hoffman's name. Turning to me, Pa said, "I dreamt the other night of a green bull in a red field."
Uncle John, Dad's younger brother and Pa's son, interpreted for Pa. "It was God's way of warning Pa that somebody had died."
Pa blubbered. Snot dribbled and bubbled below his nostrils. Uncle John offered Pa his handkerchief. Pa wiped his nose and then tears. Yuck. "I had no idea it was my first born."
I wondered if Pa was drunk. Like father, like son.
* * * * * * * * *
Mother was too busy crying and talking to everyone, telling the same story repeatedly about her finding Dad, dead in bed. So, Mother appointed her sister, Fat Aunt Florence Pier Dominici, as our boss. "Ask your Aunt Florence if you want anything," Mother told me.
I went up to my aunt. "How're you holding up, Gordy?"
"I don't want to go to the funeral home."
She nodded. "Everybody else going, but if you don't want to, you don't have to."
"You must go," screamed Pa, who overheard us.
"He's your father. It's only right," agreed Uncle John.
"Aunt Florence is my boss. She says I don't have to."
* * * * * * * * *
An hour after scads of people finished eating a ton of sandwiches and meals and cakes and pies and cookies brought over by our neighbors, the Crazy House soon became as quiet as a cemetery at midnight. Most people had gone to the funeral home. Uncle Leo, Fat Aunt Florence's husband, was smiling as he asked me, "How'd you like an ice cream cone, Kid?"
"I can show you where Herschleb's Ice Cream parlor is."
"Good, then, let's go."
I sat in the rear seat of Cousin Robert's car, a 2-door 1950 Mercury with flathead V-8 and Smithy muffler, which sounded keen. Robert is one of Fat Aunt Florence and Uncle Leo's sons. He's the one who was in the Navy and could blow smoke rings better than anybody when I was a little kid.
It didn't take me long to realize the three had tricked me because Robert headed the car across the bridge, turned left at Monkey Wards, and soon stopped and parked the car, turning off the key. I saw the dark red brick Krohn & Berard funeral home. I crossed my arms and darned near yelled. "I told you I didn't want to come here, Aunt Florence."
"Stay in the car if you want," she said. Both Robert and Leo had to help her out. She huffed and puffed, and so did they. Soon, they were gone. I watched them climb the stairs and enter the funeral home.
A short time later, Uncle John approached the car. He knocked on the window. I rolled it down. "Gordy, it's only right that you come inside."
"I don't want to."
Uncle John opened the door. "Come on," he said, pushing the split front seat ahead and smiling. "You can stand in the back of the room with me."
"I don't have to see Dad, do I?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
* * * * * * * * *
The funeral home's big room stunk of flowers, yuck, and was filled with people, praying the rosary. Father Dockendorf, meanest priest in the world, recited the first half of each Hail Mary as if he was bored. The people finished the prayer. I could hear Mr. Abler, Louie's dad. His dad is always the loudest with his singing and praying at mass. I took a peep at the casket, but that was it. As I turned away, I discovered Crazy Annie wasn't so crazy, after all. She stood in the back of the room. "Are you going to see Dad?" I asked.
"No. I'm. Not." She almost shook her head clear off her shoulders.
"Neither am I." I reached for her hand and held it.
After the praying was finished and people were leaving the funeral home, I thought we'd soon return to the Crazy House. Instead, Father Meanie somehow snuck behind me and grabbed my arm. I tried to get away but couldn't. Then, he grabbed Annie's arm. "What are you doing?" she screamed. "What are you doing?"
That priest lifted both of us off the carpet and bull-rushed us to the casket. I tried to look away. However, Father Meanie grabbed my head and stuck it into the casket. I opened my eyes. I saw a black rosary wrapped around Dad's hands. He never prayed the rosary. Ever. He didn't attend Sunday mass, and he ate meat every Friday. Including Good Friday. A rosary wrapped around his hand. What a laugh.
Then, the priest pushed my face against Dad's face. I pissed my pants. I felt it running down my left leg. I saw it dripping off my trousers' cuffs. I started bawling. People thought I was crying because Dad was dead. That wasn't the reason at all. I was bawling because my face touched Dad's dead face plus I pissed my pants.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning at 11 O'clock, Saints Peter & Paul Catholic church was overfilled with big wheels and plenty of Dad's hard-working patients, Consolidated mill workers and farmers. Mother and her five kids followed the casket down the main aisle. The pipe organ was as loud as could be. Its steeple bell continued to knell. Church bells don't ring at funerals. They bong ever so slowly. You can count to ten between each knell. I learned about the word knell from a nun.
The folding chrome contraption on which the casket was placed made no noise as the undertaker pushed it and the closed coffin (thankfully) toward the communion rail. I thought it should make noise. It didn't.
Annie's and my summer school classmates sang in the choir loft the "Dies Irae," a Latin hymn sung only for the dead.
Monsignor C. W. Gille and two other priests, including Father Meanie, said the High Mass. Gille sings offkey and burns more incense than anybody in the whole wide world. I hate the smell of incense. I darned near puked.
* * * * * * * * *
Mrs. McDaniel drove the big black Packard we rode in to the cemetery. I sat in the front seat next to her and talked about the car. She couldn't answer me because she didn't know much about cars.
As we approached the Kell house on Baker Street, I waved at my friends, Jimmy, Bobby, Hen House Helen, and Betty Ann. They didn't wave back. They looked sad. I wondered if Hen House was reciting the poem, "Don't laugh when the hearse goes by, or you'll be the next to—"
* * * * * * * * *
At the cemetery, I stayed behind everyone. Crazy Annie did too. She held my hand. Suddenly, the crowd made a gasping noise. "What's that?" I asked.
Doc III came to us. "Mother just fainted," he whispered.
"Why?" I whispered back.
"Why did she faint, you ask? You're one, dumb shit. aren't you?"
"What I meant is Mother should be happy."
"You're not only stupid; you're crazy."
"She should be happy because she won't have to worry about Dad drinking anymore."
While two men and a lady held up Mother, Monsignor Gille mumbled at least a hundred prayers and splashed holy water all over everyone with that club that priests use to toss holy water. I'll have to find out what that club's name really is. Monsignor mumbles everything. It's hard to understand him. Just then, I looked across the ravine, hiding the Green Bay and Western railroad tracks. "Look," I said to Crazy Annie.
"Look where?" That was Dork. He wanted Annie to join him near the casket, but she would have none of that.
"Over there. A treehouse."
Dork looked. "I don't see a treehouse."
"You're blind."
"And you pissed your pants at the funeral home." He grinned the nastiest grin. I had no comeback.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, Chicago and Racine relatives said their quick goodbyes and were gone. Aunt Marie, Uncle George's wife, told me I should visit her family, including cousins Mike, Buddy, and Mary Lee in Racine next summer. Uncle George didn't say anything. Aunt Marie drove the family's big Buick. Uncle George sat in the front passenger seat. My cousins rode in the rear seat.
In the afternoon, I grabbed the Schwinn and rode it to the spot in the cemetery where I had stood the day before. I looked across the railroad track ravine. The treehouse. It was gone. Somebody must've torn it down. Most likely Dork.
Uncle John, Dad's younger brother and Pa's son, interpreted for Pa. "It was God's way of warning Pa that somebody had died."
Pa blubbered. Snot dribbled and bubbled below his nostrils. Uncle John offered Pa his handkerchief. Pa wiped his nose and then tears. Yuck. "I had no idea it was my first born."
I wondered if Pa was drunk. Like father, like son.
* * * * * * * * *
Mother was too busy crying and talking to everyone, telling the same story repeatedly about her finding Dad, dead in bed. So, Mother appointed her sister, Fat Aunt Florence Pier Dominici, as our boss. "Ask your Aunt Florence if you want anything," Mother told me.
I went up to my aunt. "How're you holding up, Gordy?"
"I don't want to go to the funeral home."
She nodded. "Everybody else going, but if you don't want to, you don't have to."
"You must go," screamed Pa, who overheard us.
"He's your father. It's only right," agreed Uncle John.
"Aunt Florence is my boss. She says I don't have to."
* * * * * * * * *
An hour after scads of people finished eating a ton of sandwiches and meals and cakes and pies and cookies brought over by our neighbors, the Crazy House soon became as quiet as a cemetery at midnight. Most people had gone to the funeral home. Uncle Leo, Fat Aunt Florence's husband, was smiling as he asked me, "How'd you like an ice cream cone, Kid?"
"I can show you where Herschleb's Ice Cream parlor is."
"Good, then, let's go."
I sat in the rear seat of Cousin Robert's car, a 2-door 1950 Mercury with flathead V-8 and Smithy muffler, which sounded keen. Robert is one of Fat Aunt Florence and Uncle Leo's sons. He's the one who was in the Navy and could blow smoke rings better than anybody when I was a little kid.
It didn't take me long to realize the three had tricked me because Robert headed the car across the bridge, turned left at Monkey Wards, and soon stopped and parked the car, turning off the key. I saw the dark red brick Krohn & Berard funeral home. I crossed my arms and darned near yelled. "I told you I didn't want to come here, Aunt Florence."
"Stay in the car if you want," she said. Both Robert and Leo had to help her out. She huffed and puffed, and so did they. Soon, they were gone. I watched them climb the stairs and enter the funeral home.
A short time later, Uncle John approached the car. He knocked on the window. I rolled it down. "Gordy, it's only right that you come inside."
"I don't want to."
Uncle John opened the door. "Come on," he said, pushing the split front seat ahead and smiling. "You can stand in the back of the room with me."
"I don't have to see Dad, do I?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
* * * * * * * * *
The funeral home's big room stunk of flowers, yuck, and was filled with people, praying the rosary. Father Dockendorf, meanest priest in the world, recited the first half of each Hail Mary as if he was bored. The people finished the prayer. I could hear Mr. Abler, Louie's dad. His dad is always the loudest with his singing and praying at mass. I took a peep at the casket, but that was it. As I turned away, I discovered Crazy Annie wasn't so crazy, after all. She stood in the back of the room. "Are you going to see Dad?" I asked.
"No. I'm. Not." She almost shook her head clear off her shoulders.
"Neither am I." I reached for her hand and held it.
After the praying was finished and people were leaving the funeral home, I thought we'd soon return to the Crazy House. Instead, Father Meanie somehow snuck behind me and grabbed my arm. I tried to get away but couldn't. Then, he grabbed Annie's arm. "What are you doing?" she screamed. "What are you doing?"
That priest lifted both of us off the carpet and bull-rushed us to the casket. I tried to look away. However, Father Meanie grabbed my head and stuck it into the casket. I opened my eyes. I saw a black rosary wrapped around Dad's hands. He never prayed the rosary. Ever. He didn't attend Sunday mass, and he ate meat every Friday. Including Good Friday. A rosary wrapped around his hand. What a laugh.
Then, the priest pushed my face against Dad's face. I pissed my pants. I felt it running down my left leg. I saw it dripping off my trousers' cuffs. I started bawling. People thought I was crying because Dad was dead. That wasn't the reason at all. I was bawling because my face touched Dad's dead face plus I pissed my pants.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning at 11 O'clock, Saints Peter & Paul Catholic church was overfilled with big wheels and plenty of Dad's hard-working patients, Consolidated mill workers and farmers. Mother and her five kids followed the casket down the main aisle. The pipe organ was as loud as could be. Its steeple bell continued to knell. Church bells don't ring at funerals. They bong ever so slowly. You can count to ten between each knell. I learned about the word knell from a nun.
The folding chrome contraption on which the casket was placed made no noise as the undertaker pushed it and the closed coffin (thankfully) toward the communion rail. I thought it should make noise. It didn't.
Annie's and my summer school classmates sang in the choir loft the "Dies Irae," a Latin hymn sung only for the dead.
Monsignor C. W. Gille and two other priests, including Father Meanie, said the High Mass. Gille sings offkey and burns more incense than anybody in the whole wide world. I hate the smell of incense. I darned near puked.
* * * * * * * * *
Mrs. McDaniel drove the big black Packard we rode in to the cemetery. I sat in the front seat next to her and talked about the car. She couldn't answer me because she didn't know much about cars.
As we approached the Kell house on Baker Street, I waved at my friends, Jimmy, Bobby, Hen House Helen, and Betty Ann. They didn't wave back. They looked sad. I wondered if Hen House was reciting the poem, "Don't laugh when the hearse goes by, or you'll be the next to—"
* * * * * * * * *
At the cemetery, I stayed behind everyone. Crazy Annie did too. She held my hand. Suddenly, the crowd made a gasping noise. "What's that?" I asked.
Doc III came to us. "Mother just fainted," he whispered.
"Why?" I whispered back.
"Why did she faint, you ask? You're one, dumb shit. aren't you?"
"What I meant is Mother should be happy."
"You're not only stupid; you're crazy."
"She should be happy because she won't have to worry about Dad drinking anymore."
While two men and a lady held up Mother, Monsignor Gille mumbled at least a hundred prayers and splashed holy water all over everyone with that club that priests use to toss holy water. I'll have to find out what that club's name really is. Monsignor mumbles everything. It's hard to understand him. Just then, I looked across the ravine, hiding the Green Bay and Western railroad tracks. "Look," I said to Crazy Annie.
"Look where?" That was Dork. He wanted Annie to join him near the casket, but she would have none of that.
"Over there. A treehouse."
Dork looked. "I don't see a treehouse."
"You're blind."
"And you pissed your pants at the funeral home." He grinned the nastiest grin. I had no comeback.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, Chicago and Racine relatives said their quick goodbyes and were gone. Aunt Marie, Uncle George's wife, told me I should visit her family, including cousins Mike, Buddy, and Mary Lee in Racine next summer. Uncle George didn't say anything. Aunt Marie drove the family's big Buick. Uncle George sat in the front passenger seat. My cousins rode in the rear seat.
In the afternoon, I grabbed the Schwinn and rode it to the spot in the cemetery where I had stood the day before. I looked across the railroad track ravine. The treehouse. It was gone. Somebody must've torn it down. Most likely Dork.