My Brother's Wake

 

My Brother’s Wake
by Dave Wright

I attended my brother’s funeral today…I guess it wasn’t really a funeral. After all, the whole family is agnostic—couldn’t find a preacher to officiate. Not much use for organized religion anyway—too much hypocrisy—and who needs an afterlife. “Live for today,” we always say. No. It was more like an Irish wake—boisterous and noisy—but without the whiskey. Too bad about the whiskey. 

I had hoped we would share funny stories about Jenks and keep the bad ones to ourselves. I had hoped to visit the relatives I adored and sidestep the ones I am supposed to like. I had hoped to give Brother Jenks a fitting sendoff. Oh well.

Jenks was black as tar—blacker than me by a couple of shades. We grew up in a small, pale town—a town as pale as the holiday meals served at Christmas: lefsa, boiled potatoes, white sauce, and peas for color—all served on a white ceramic plate. Plenty of leftovers from those meals, but racoon roadkill would have been a tempting improvement.

I wandered through the cemetery. Granite monuments engraved with Andersons, Carlsons, and Petersons staked claim to the acreage—not a Gonzales or a Goldstein or a Gamil to be found. A breeze that had blown away the fog and mist of earlier in the day ruffled my feathers. Each gust triggered a rainfall of leaves from the oaks that stood watch over the graves. A lone dead elm cast a long shadow across the tombstone near where Jenks lay in state. A single disheveled crow perched on one of the elm’s fractured limbs.

Walking back and forth beneath the tree was Ebony, Jenks’s mate. Despite not being married, Jenks and Ebony had been a devoted couple. Ebony’s coat reflected a brilliant green sheen as it flickered in the sun. I approached her and offered my condolences. “How are you, Ebony? Sorry about your loss.” I paused to looked at the remains of my brother. “I am going to miss him. He was such a character—doing practical jokes, making wisecracks, always the life of the party.”

Before Ebony could reply, the bird above us flopped down beside her. She was a crotchety old crow missing half her tail feathers and one eye. “I didn’t think he was so funny,” she croaked with a voice like a rasp.

“You remember our Aunt Jezebel,” I said, looking sympathetically at Ebony.

“Yes. Hello Jezebel,” said Ebony sweetly. “Thank you for coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” shrieked Jezebel. “He got what he deserved,” She cocked her head and gave me a piercing stare with her good eye. “I told your father he should have plucked him out of the nest the moment he hatched.” She directed her good eye to Jenks’ remains and gave him a haughty shrug. “He is what gives us crows a bad name!”

Jezebel shook her tattered wings and flew off to gossip with other family members who gathered in a nearby tree.

“You’ll have to excuse Jezebel,” I said. “She has always been cranky, but she’s gotten worse since she lost her eye to a BB gun.”

“I know,” replied Ebony in a voice as smooth as her name. “Jenks warned me to watch for her whenever I laid a clutch of eggs.” Ebony rolled her eyes. “Jezebel thought she could identify a bad egg as soon as it was laid.”

Ebony blinked several times and changed the subject. “We loved picnics,” she said. “I’ll bet Jenks took me to every park in the county. He loved sandwiches and chips. Oh, how he loved his chips.” She craned her neck to see more crows gathering in the cemetery. “But unfortunately, dog food was his favorite. I think he was addicted to Tuffys. He wouldn’t even share a Tuffys tidbit with the kids if he could get away with it.” She chuckled sadly as she looked at their twins, Jasmine and Jethro. They were perched disrespectfully on a nearby gravestone.

Her smile turned to a frown. “Get down from there,” she said in a voice barely audible. “You know better than that.” Jasmine, who shone the same green effervescence of her mother, jumped to the ground immediately.  Jethro, black and coarse as his father, followed reluctantly.

I joined my niece and nephew at the base of the monument. “Are you guys OK?” I asked. “I sure miss your dad.”

“Me too,” said Jasmine. “He always made me laugh. He once showed me how to swing on a willow branch.” She rocked her head from side to side as she remembered the incident. “I kept swinging until the branch broke and I fell on my back.” She looked at her tailfeathers and said, “He laughed and claimed I was overweight.”

“You’re not overweight,” I said. “You look as slender as a swan.”

Jasmine looked embarrassed. “Nice of you to say so, Uncle,” she said bashfully, “but I can’t imagine myself as a swan. I hate water.”

An acorn fell, nearly hitting Jethro. He stepped a few paces away and laughed, “Dad could make a toy out of anything. When I was a youngster, he used an acorn like this as a ball.” Jethro picked up the acorn with his black beak and set it next to his father as a memorial.

Our conversation was interrupted by a noisy group of boys who tumbled into the cemetery through a gap in the fence that surrounded the cemetery. They gathered at a distance and I could hear them laughing. Two of them leaned on bicycles and three others stood around them on foot. One waved his arms and chided, “Caw, caw, caw. Crows are gonna fall!”

Another of the boys took a slingshot from his back pocket. He picked up a stone from the gravel path, placed it in the sling, and pulled on the rubber band.

Jethro looked closely at the boy. “Isn’t that the same boy who hit Aunt Jezebel with the BB gun?”

I followed his gaze. “I believe you’re right,” I said as I hopped out of the way. The stone ricocheted off the granite grave marker beside us. “Damn kids,” I grumbled as I gave them my best impression of the evil eye. I glanced at the tree above me to see Jezebel giving the boy a much more menacing stare.

She was just about to deliver a more severe reprimand when the two young boys with bicycles pedaled toward us. Intent on intimidating our small flock of mourners, they swerved around the monuments. We flew in unison to the safety of the oaks. A moment later a voice came from another nearby gravesite ceremony.

“You boys go home!” hissed a man standing at the back of the gathering. “Quit making a nuisance of yourselves.”

The boys sulked through the opening in the fence. The boy with the slingshot said as they were leaving, “Nothin’ good ever comes from a murder of crows.” He turned to the boy behind him and whispered under his breath, “It’s an omen!”

We returned to our vigil as soon as the boys retreated. “They’re as bad as a flock of starlings,” I said to Ebony. “You’d think they would get tired of harassing us.”

“We’re so often misunderstood,” said Ebony shaking her head in frustration… “although we did predict the funeral over there.” She turned to watch the solemn ceremony taking place twenty yards away.

I nodded my appreciation to the man who delivered the rebuke to the kids and caught a glimpse of a young boy with tousled hair wearing a blue suit. He was standing in the front row, looked in my direction, and waved a bandaged hand. His father placed his hand on his shoulder and turned him once again to face the coffin that was about to be lowered into the ground.

I recognized the boy as Bobby McMillan, one of the children in our neighborhood—a cluster of split-level houses nestled beneath a grove of mixed hardwood trees about a half-mile south of the cemetery. One of the sprawling oaks hosts Bobby’s rickety treehouse where he spends most of his days when not in school.

Bobby stole another glance in our direction and rubbed his eye with his bandaged hand. Turning once again to the coffin he sniffed, “I’m going to miss Grandpa.”

Bobby and his grandfather spent hours watching our family gather on summer evenings—Bobby from his treehouse and Grandfather from a rocking chair on the back deck. Last week we noticed that Grandfather’s visits were becoming less frequent. While Grandfather used to spring from his rocker to play with Billy, he began to ease himself in and out with the effort of an invalid. His rocking slowed to the pace of a baby’s cradle; then it ceased completely. A few days later it was all he could do to lean forward on his cane and wheeze. Grandfather soon became the center of attention at the cemetery.

Bobby also had a dog—or I should say Bobby’s dad had a dog—a mean-spirited Rottweiler named Reb that resided next to the house. Reb spent the bulk of his life in Bobby’s back yard straining to rediscover his freedom. Reb had once been free to wander the neighborhood, but a vicious nip to the heels of a postman led to a life of permanent restrictions. A steel chain that once held logs in place on a flatbed truck held Reb hostage to his doghouse.

The dog had been a gift to Bobby from his dad for Bobby’s sixth birthday. “Here’s a cute puppy I found at the pound,” his dad had said. “He’s a rescue. You can train him. It will be a good summer project for you—make you more responsible.” He handed Bobby the leash, leaving him with the responsibility to train Reb.

Bobby proudly took the leash and began to teach Reb the commands that he hoped would change him from a mischievous monster to a well-behaved companion. But when Bobby said, “Down!” Reb jumped on his chest and knocked him over. When Bobby shouted, “Come!” the dog shot away to pee on a shrub. When Bobby commanded, “Stay!” the dog tore at Bobby’s pocket until he produced the treat reserved for compliance. Reb grew faster than Bobby that summer. By the end of June, Reb used his weight to drag Bobby around the back yard by his leash. By the end of July, there was still no progress in his training. By the end of the August, Bobby had had enough. Bobby’s patience and affection were gone. He returned the leash to his dad and said, “Sorry Dad. I can’t train this dog. I don’t even like him anymore. He’s all yours.” That autumn Bobby turned his attention to Jenks.

Bobby heard that crows could be tamed and that they liked unsalted peanuts. He pocketed a handful of peanuts, crawled out on a limb from his tree house, and placed the peanuts in the crotch of a branch. He retreated to his tree house to wait and watch. Jenks eyed the offering from his perch in a neighboring tree and after an hour of nervous contemplation, flew in for a closer look. He peered at it closely, furrowed his brow and turned away. Bobby tried to entice Jenks with bits of carrot, then pieces of apple, even a bag of Fritos. Jenks was not interested. Finally, Bobby tried dog food. He took a handful of Tuffys from Reb’s bowl and set it in the crotch of the tree. Within a day, Jenks showed interest. Within two, he had eaten his fill and taken the rest to a cache in a distant tree. Bobby had a new pet.

While Bobby built a relationship with Jenks, his dad took over Reb’s training. Even though Dad barked louder than Reb, and kept Reb on a shorter leash, Reb remained resistant to corrective behavior. Then he took up the sport of nipping. This new hobby led to the log chain adopting a new career as Reb’s restraint.

****

Bobby was now eight and bored. He had no close friends in the neighborhood and it had been three long months since school was open. Reb remained incorrigible. Jenks, who had become Bobby’s favorite playmate, took to teasing Reb. It gave Bobby hours of entertainment. Jenks would sneak up on Reb’s dog dish when he was sleeping, lift a morsel from the dish, and place it just beyond the dog’s reach. Jenks knew the exact length of Reb’s chain. After removing the chow from his bowl, he delivered it to its new location like a pompous waiter. Jenks would then stalk back and forth inches beyond the radius of the chain and wait for Reb to wake. When he did, Reb would sprint from his doghouse snarling and salivating. A greyhound chasing a hare would have envied his speed. Bobby watched anxiously as Jenks jumped out of the way and Reb choked on the end of his chain.

Beneath the treehouse was a worn-out tire swing hanging from a worn-out rope. The tire spun in lazy circles when the wind was from the right direction. The rope groaned with each swing. The danger excited us. Jezebel took up residence on the tire whenever Jenks tormented Reb. She cocked her head to focus her good eye. She heckled and criticized. “Look out you fool! Are you crazy? Crows don’t play with dogs!” she shouted. Jenks ignored her.

I always watched the proceedings from the safety of the knot that holds the swing to the limb. Every time the rope creaked, I picked at a strand of hemp that strayed from the knot.

The day before Grandpa’s funeral, Reb secured his freedom. His black leather collar with its protruding silver spikes, had been wearing thin. Reb’s symbol of masculinity, which throttled his rabid barking and ensured Jenks’s safety, frayed and broke. Reb pounced on Jenks, and with one bite quieted his tormentor.

Bobby rushed from his tree house and ran to assist his friend. He smacked Reb in the mouth. Reb dropped Jenks but reflexively turned on Bobby and bit him on the arm. Bobby screamed and pulled away, leaving a nasty gash on his wrist. Jezebel flew from the tire swing screeching, “I told you so! I told you so!”

Bobby went to the house and returned with a bandaged hand. He climbed to his tree house, wincing each time his injured hand squeezed a rung on the ladder. He returned to the ground carrying a shoe box. He retrieved his friend from the ground and placed him gently in the makeshift coffin. Then he mounted his Schwinn and drove him to the cemetery.

Ebony found him in the cemetery that evening lying between a Bergman and a Benson. She flew to the top of the dead elm that had been hollowed out with woodpecker holes and called the family together from there.

****

After the wake, our family of mourners left the cemetery and arrived at our neighborhood about an hour after Bobby and his family. The McMillans had finished their lunch, which had been served in the back yard. We hovered and perched overhead. After the McMillans retreated to the house we pounced on the leftovers. I gorged on a scrap of sandwich loaf—a funeral favorite of mine. Jethro and Jasmine argued over a dixie cup of nuts and mints in the tree house. Ebony found a freshly opened bag of Fritos next to a garbage can with its lid propped open. “It would be a shame to leave this for the racoons,” she said as she devoured the contents.

Reb had been sleeping in his doghouse during the afternoon. After Reb’s altercation with Bobby and Jenks, Bobby’s dad had replaced Reb’s collar with a loop of twine string he had found in the garage and tied it to the log chain with a slip knot.

Reb twitched his muzzle and opened one eye. Jezebel, perched atop the tire swing, munched on a chunk of Reb’s Tuffys. The sight of the crow aroused a primal urge and sent him charging out of the doghouse for the second day in a row. The chain rattled behind him. As he reached the end of the chain, he barely felt the twine around his neck as it snapped. Reb lunged for Jezebel. Her good eye had been jealously watching me and my sandwich loaf, so she was unprepared for the lurch that sent her flying from her perch. When Reb hit the tire, the knot I was sitting on broke free making the tire a forty-pound necklace hanging around Reb’s neck.

Jezebel, enraged at the interruption to her meal, flopped and flapped to regain her composure. Then directed her rage at Reb who was attempting to untangle himself from the tire. She flew at him and pecked at his head. The ruckus brought our entire family to Jezebel’s aid. We dove and cawed. We scratched at Reb’s eyes. A murder of twenty crows mobbed the dog. The chaos could be heard as far away as the cemetery.

Reb’s eyes widened in fear. He pulled himself from the confines of the tire and turned to run from the crows’ attack. With his stubby tail flat against his rump and his head to the ground he ran to the front yard. Two cars were parked on the street. He dodged between them, the crows in pursuit. Tires squealed. A thud. The cacophony ceased.

The following day another ceremony took place in Bobby’s back yard. A hole had been dug in the corner of the lot, fresh black dirt mounded beside it. Bobby watched quietly from his tree house. Grandfather’s worn rocker watched in silence. Bobby’s dad knelt beside the hole. A chorus of squawks and caws rose from the heights of the old oak. Bobby whispered, “It must have been an omen.”

[If you would like to leave a comment on my blog, click “Publish” before leaving the site. Thanks.]