Beauty Rising (4 page)

Mr. Baldwin made the arrangements for Saturday morning, three days after dad’s death. Mom barely spoke a word to me during those three days. I spent Friday morning at the mall trying to find a black suit that would fit me. My everyday wardrobe consisted of forty-seven t-shirts and four pairs of jeans which I wore in a cyclical manner. I was comfortable in every piece of clothing that makes itself at home in a bowling alley. But for dad’s funeral, I wanted to do it right, so I bought a two piece suit, trimmed my beard, and got a haircut.

At about 9:30 on Saturday morning, Mom, in her black dress, and I, in my black suit, walked out of the house and started our silent march to the church which was just two blocks away.

“Mom.”

She didn’t respond.

“Are you still mad at me?”

What frivolous questions I had in my mind.

We continued our walk until we arrived at the Methodist church. The front door was unlocked, so we walked in to see Reverend Fox milling about in the front.

“Mrs. Kinney. Martin. Please come up front so we can talk about the service. Mrs. Kinney, please accept my sincere condolences on the passing of your husband.”

Mom glanced once right into Reverend Fox’s face and then continued right past him and sat in the front pew of the aisle on the left. She did nothing to acknowledge Reverend Fox. I couldn’t believe how incredibly rude and insensitive she was – even if it was her husband’s funeral.

“I’m sorry, Reverend. My Mom hasn’t been herself lately,” I whispered knowing full well I just told a white lie in church. She was, in fact, feeling every bit herself.

“Martin, it’s okay. Everyone grieves in their own way. I’ve learned not to take things so personally because a funeral is a very trying time indeed. You just be there for your mother. She’ll need you.”

I nodded, acknowledging what he said but could not believe it. I kept my eyes on my Mom as Reverend Fox went over the particulars of the funeral. She unflinchingly kept her eyes forward perhaps staring at the urn, which had been placed on the communion table below the raised pulpit. I couldn’t wait for everything to be over. I couldn’t wait to make my arrangements for Vietnam even though I knew another battle with mom loomed on the horizon. She would never understand, and I could never tell her the truth about why I had to go to Vietnam. It would break her heart to know that dad had a good memory that she didn’t share. Perhaps his only good memory. She must have still loved him at some level in some way.

By ten till ten, around thirty people had entered the church for the memorial service. Our neighbors the Dombroskis and Allens greeted me and my mom in the front row and then settled into some pews about halfway back. There were a few people from dad’s work and a couple of his Vet brothers. My Aunt Alice and her two older sons came and sat behind us. My dad was a gruff and vulgar man, though not completely unlikeable outside his own home.

Precisely at ten o’clock, Reverend Fox ascended to the podium to conduct the memorial service. It no doubt would be short. I had informed him that neither I nor my Mom wanted to say anything, so it was completely up to him. Perhaps it was bizarre to have a stranger give a eulogy, but it would have been insincere to have one of us try to sugarcoat my dad’s life. It was what it was; and that being true, it was better left unsaid.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to pay our last respects to Martin J. Kinney.”

Our only respects
I thought.

“I first would like to offer my sincere condolences to Martin’s surviving family members Mrs. Jane Kinney and Martin Jr. When Martin Jr. asked me to say a few words, I couldn’t help but think of the young Martin Kinney I knew many, many years ago. I came to this church as an assistant pastor in 1960. I was just out of seminary only twenty-one years old. Martin was ten years old at the time and faithfully came to church each week with his mother Maggie – Maggie Kinney. Maggie was a rip-roaring soul for Jesus. Her cup runneth over with enthusiasm for church if you know what I mean. She organized the Christmas pageant year after year. She taught children’s Sunday School for nearly twenty years, and she volunteered regularly in the community. The young Martin certainly followed after his mother’s fervor.”

The Reverend was laying it on too thick for my taste. Mom sat expressionless. I could only imagine what she thought of this line of story-telling. It seemed to be the most obtuse piece of fiction in the universe – out of the mouth of a saint. How unseemly. Yet I appreciated Reverend Fox’s attempt to keep the funeral civil and respectful.

“I remember my first Christmas here; Martin sang a solo at the Christmas pageant –
The Little Drummer Boy.
Actually, I was going through some of the church’s old photos, and I came across this photo of Martin singing. I’d like to give this to Martin Jr.”

Reverend Fox stepped down from the pulpit and handed me the photo. A young Martin Kinney wore a white shirt with a bright red vest over top of it. He stood at a microphone with wide eyes and an open mouth. His light red hair was parted on the side. Mom didn’t even glance my way. I gazed at the boy – the innocent boy of another lifetime – the boy who had yet to experience Vietnam or the girl under the banana tree or the hole through Newbert’s head. He sang
Little Drummer Boy
; he must have just finished ‘rum-pa-pum-pum’ as someone snapped the picture. The picture engrossed me, swallowed me, overcame me. It drowned me like the B52 hole in Vietnam drowned Johnson. I felt trapped by this picture. It was much too unfair to look at it, to ponder it, and to wonder how he got from there to here. Reverend Fox’s voice slowly faded back into my consciousness.

“… and I remember young Martin when he turned eighteen. He eagerly went down to the Butler recruiting office and signed up to serve in the army. He wanted nothing more than to be like his father, who spent several years in the Pacific during World War II. The day after Martin signed up for the army, Maggie Kinney came to the church to pray. I remember I was fixing some molding around the window, and she asked if she could pray at the altar. She said that Martin had joined the army, and she wanted to say a prayer of blessing over him. She knelt down and prayed for a while, and then came over to me and said something I’ll never forget. She told me that she knew that war was going to change Martin, but she asked God to forgive him for the mistakes that he would make. She looked at me and said, ‘Pastor, I know that God will forgive everyone who asks for forgiveness. But can he also forgive those who don’t have enough sense to ask for forgiveness?’ I didn’t know how to respond. I was still so young. Then she asked me if I would pray for Martin. I assured her that I would. I gave her my word, and I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t keep my promise very well.”

Reverend Fox paused and wiped a stray tear from his eye.
Why is he crying,
I thought. It didn’t make sense. Was he shedding a tear for my dad? For lost opportunity? For admitting pastoral neglect? Then I thought of my grandmother Maggie. She loved the boy in the picture very much. How strange it felt to think this. I never knew my grandmother, and of course my dad never told me anything about her. It began to dawn on me that Vietnam changed everything about my father.

“Well, the Vietnam era changed us all,” Reverend Fox continued. “Martin’s life drifted away from church after he returned from Vietnam. But I wouldn’t judge him too harshly. On the contrary, he’s a hero. He served our great nation with distinction and honor. He willingly went when many others tried to shirk the draft by running to Canada or burning their draft cards. God loved Martin J. Kinney, and I’m here today to ask God’s blessing on Jane and Martin Jr. as they grieve the loss of their beloved husband and father.”

Without warning, Mom stood up abruptly, walked right up in front of the podium, pointed her finger directly at Reverend Fox and yelled, “Fornicator.”

Complete silence. Nobody dared move an inch. Eternity elapsed within a matter of seconds. Reverend Fox stood frozen. Embarrassment would not begin to describe the depths of insanity that ran through my family. Nobody could make a scene like a Kinney. I knew my mother must be completely crazy. Without saying another word, she marched down the aisle with her heels reverberating loudly off the high ceiling. Soft whispers and murmurs added to the echoed chorus of her shoes. Everyone buzzed with excitement except me and Reverend Fox. I was angry and ashamed. It didn’t make any sense. She was out of her mind. The hum of the small crowd continued to fill the sanctuary as my mom slammed the front door and left. Reverend Fox looked distraught, but quickly gathered his thoughts and tried to reassure the crowd.

“It’s okay, everyone. Funerals are a particularly stressful time in everyone’s life. We must not let the disruption obscure the reason for us being here – to honor Martin J. Kinney. I would like to ask Mrs. Grassley to come and play a closing hymn for us and then I’ll offer a prayer of benediction.”

My mother accused a man of God of being a ‘fornicator’ during the middle of her husband’s funeral. I was baffled, yet not surprised. I had no desire to chase after my mother, so I stood and gave lip-service to the hymn that I had never sung before. Of course, I didn’t really know what a hymn was. For the present, it was just a filler of time between when I would leave my dad’s funeral and have to face my mother again. So in any case, I kept hoping Mrs. Grassley would play all six verses.

To Hanoi

Tan, my taxi driver, wouldn’t let it go.

“Don’t put wallet in back pocket. You shouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

We left Thai Nguyen as I continued to lament the fact that it was nowhere in the proximity of Tay Nguyen. I felt sick, yet hungry. The only thing I had to eat in this whirlwind of a day when I arrived in Vietnam was a bowl of noodle soup with raw pieces of beef in it, but that was well before the lake or the spilt ashes or the lost wallet or the laughing policemen. This trip had quickly turned into a disaster. I am a Kinney. What else should I have expected?

“You still have passport, right?”

“Yes,” I replied to the nosy driver, who as best as I could remember was my only friend in the entire world.

“Is it in your back pocket?”

“No!”

“But you lost all your money? And credit card?”

“Yes!”

Tan befriended me in some strange way. I had paid him up front for a full day’s drive, but he must have felt sorry for me. He dragged me everywhere and told me about everything, but nothing sank in. I languished in a foreign land, constantly thinking about my dad’s last wish that I had completely messed up. I looked at Tan and saw a friendly guy with a wiry mustache and several black whiskers on his chin. Standing flat in his black dress shoes, he came up past my shoulder only a little – probably no more than five foot six and weighing a slim one twenty. It seemed strange to want to call a man dainty, but that description fit best. I was twice the man he was, well at least physically.

“So what you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. I help you.”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

“No, I help you. I have American friend.”

“I just need to call my Mom back in America.”

“But you have no money?”

“No.”

“Okay. I help you. Yes, yes. I help you. My American friend help you. You know, my father soldier too. He fight many Americans – kill many Americans – cause Vietnam don’t like when America makes colony in Vietnam.”