Derailed (30 page)

By the time he died, I was too busy in Special Ops at the CPD to break away. Sent flowers, though, and spent the evening after I got off duty at The Office, my favorite watering hole, toasting him with curses. It was my way of burying all memory of him. I was lucky to get home that night without crashing my car and picking up a second DUI.

But Mom's passing was different.

This time I wouldn't be going to The Office, but Estelle insisted I go to my men's Bible study. “You gotta share it with them, Harry, for your own good. Let 'em come alongside you, pray with you. I mean, those brothers are your closest friends. Don't lock 'em out at a time like this.”

During the day we'd made arrangements with the House of Thompson in Evanston to take care of Mom's body and host the visitation Friday evening, and we talked some more with Pastor Cobbs to plan Mom's homegoing celebration for Saturday afternoon at SouledOut. He knew just what to do and contacted everyone necessary at the church. Estelle called Manna House and informed them she wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. And Captain Gilson told me to take off whatever time I needed.

Poor Corky. I don't think she had any idea why I cut short her evening walk as soon as she did her business and hustled back to the house. But I think she knew something was wrong.

The men in my Bible study were concerned about how I was doing. “I'm okay,” I assured them, though I hadn't even had time to think about how I was doing.

But Ben Garfield, the older Jewish believer in our group, wouldn't let me off so easily. “
Ha
! Okay you're not when your own
mother
dies. Nobody is. So don't be telling me you are. What's wrong with you?” And then he went on to tell us about the death of his mother. To his credit, he kept his story shorter than usual. “
Oy vey
!” He rolled his eyes. “When you least expect it, the
bekhi
—the crying—it will come over you. It will not be denied.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I figured he might be right about me not being as okay as I thought I was, especially when Peter Douglass asked me what songs we were going to have at Mom's homegoing celebration.

I'd left all that to Pastor Cobbs and Estelle, but Peter's question sent me back to the day I'd played Grace Meredith's CD for my mother. It had been echoing in my head ever since. Suddenly, I had an idea. Would Grace sing it at the service? Didn't have much hope she could, though, since Estelle said she was busy preparing for her West Coast tour.

Still, I mentioned the idea to Estelle that night as we crawled into bed.

“
Mmm
. S'pose I could ask. We'd planned to get together tomorrow to pray, but with everything going on, I was gonna call and cancel. But I'll mention it and see what she says. Not sure when . . . 'cause I gotta start cookin' for the repast.”

I snaked my arm around her and pulled her close. “Oh, babe,” I murmured in her ear, “that's a lot of work. Why don't you get someone else to do it?” I kissed her lightly on the neck.

She recoiled a couple of inches. “Like who, Harry? I'm the only professional cook around here.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Had to be careful here. “We've had some pretty good eats at our church potlucks, don'tcha think?”

“
Pot-blessings
, Harry, pot-
blessings
. We don't leave the food to
luck
.”

“That's what I'm sayin'. I mean, your Yada Yada sisters put on a pretty good spread. Seems to me Sister Avis makes some decent mac-and-cheese. And who's that Jamaican woman? Chanda? I really liked her rice and peas. And you can't say Adele Scruggs don't put her toe in those greens she cooks up. How 'bout Edesa's enchiladas? They're from south of the border if you ask me. And Florida Hickman's potato salad is off the chain. Even you liked—”

“Okay, okay. Made your point.” She snuggled close again and yawned. “I'll call my sisters and see what they can come up with.” She paused for a moment, then murmured, “Ya know, that's a good idea, Harry. Thanks. Takes a real burden off me. Don't know why I didn't think of that before.”

I breathed in the warm smell of her, feeling comforted by her presence after the shock and stress of the day. “Now, I gotta say, no one makes fried chicken like you, Estelle, but maybe if you told 'em how . . .”

“
Ha
! That'd take more time than doin' it myself. We'll just order in the chicken from Popeyes and maybe some ribs from Hecky's. Gotta get some sleep now though, Harry.”

I didn't get much sleep that night. A heavy weight pressed down on my spirit when I dozed off—then I'd wake up with a start, fighting the feeling that something terrible had happened, and it would flood in on me . . . my mom was gone.
O God
, I groaned inwardly.
What now?

I was glad when morning arrived. Gotta keep busy. I spent most of Wednesday at the House of Thompson selecting a casket for Mom, signing papers, and then digging through dusty boxes in her old apartment to find her will.

Why we hadn't asked her for a copy months ago—years ago—I'll never know. Finally, I found it in a folder on paper yellowing at the
edges. It was a short document, signed and dated properly as far as I could tell, and it left everything to me. But it named Rev. Winfred Johnson, her old pastor at Mount Zion Tabernacle on the South Side, as the executor. That church had been torn down in the urban renewal of the seventies, and I was sure Pastor Johnson had passed away long ago.

Nevertheless, the will was enough to convince our mutual bank to give me a summary of Mom's accounts so I'd know what to expect. She didn't have much. I'd be lucky if her assets covered her funeral expenses and other bills.

Made me wonder if that whole idea of her moving into the first floor of our two-flat would've worked financially. Just one more derailment. But maybe it wasn't God jerking me around this time. Maybe I should've done more investigating.

That evening when the family gathered around the table for dinner, Estelle served spaghetti from a bowl I'd never seen before, and a matching one on the table held salad. A few moments later, she set a basket of bread in front of us. “Sorry, it's not garlic bread.”

Seemed strange. She always made garlic bread with spaghetti, but maybe she didn't have time. “You make all this today?”

“No way.” She sat down and slid her chair in. “I was runnin' all over plannin' the repast. We can give the Lord a special thanks for this meal, and you'll never guess who brought it by.”

I waited, and it was obvious she wasn't gonna tell us until I prayed.

When I said amen, DaShawn spoke up. “So where'd it come from?”

“Tim and Scott.” She pointed north.

I frowned. “The gay couple?”

“Don't know how they heard about Mother Bentley's passing, but they both came by to extend their condolences and brought us this meal. So I . . . well, I invited them to the homegoing celebration. I think they're gonna come and bring their little boy too.”

I had no idea what to say and sat there with the whole thing swirling in my head so fast that I didn't hear what Rodney said.

“Hallelujah!” Estelle burst out. “Praise the Lord! Now that's bigtime answered prayer.”

I looked around the table. “What?”

Estelle wiped her mouth. “I said, that's something else to praise the Lord for.”

“What is?”

“Rodney's job.”

I looked at my son. “You got a job?”

“That's what I said. Start tomorrow drivin' for Lincoln Limo Service. Ya know, the cat at the end of the block.” He grinned at me with pride I hadn't seen in his eyes since he learned to ride a two-wheeler as a little boy.

I got up and out early the next morning to
walk Corky. I needed the exercise as much as the dog did, especially to release the tension that had built up over the last twenty-four hours. Maybe Corky felt it too, because she jumped when the automatic garage door started to rise on the Molanders' garage just south of us. We stopped to let the sandy-colored Buick back out.

The driver's side window lowered with a soft hum, and Karl Molander leaned out. “Sorry to hear about your mother. Was she a believer?”

I nodded.

“You know, if you've put your trust in Jesus, you'll see her again.”

I nodded again, though a little more slowly. “Thank you. That's a comforting thought.”

The Buick began to roll back again as he finished his turn. “Well, gotta get to Dominick's before the crowds. Hate shopping when you have to wait in lines.” The window hummed up, and he put the car in drive and headed down the alley, leaving a whiff of oil smoke in his exhaust.

Corky and I followed as she sniffed each trash bin and telephone pole. At least she didn't have to mark every one. The taillights on Molander's car came on just before he turned left onto Chase Avenue. How did he know about Mom's passing? How did the guys two doors north hear about it? Maybe this neighborhood was more connected than I realized . . . at least the grapevine seemed to be working.

Yet something about Molander's response irked me. Estelle said Grace Meredith was happy to sing at the homegoing, had even said
she felt honored to be asked. Her singing would certainly add something special to the service. And the meal the guys up the street contributed last night—very thoughtful. But as true as Molander's comment was, it didn't address the empty feeling that tumbled over and over in my stomach, and it didn't cost him a thing.

Well, he hadn't offered to come to Mom's celebration, and I didn't intend to invite him.

I went early Friday evening to the House of Thompson to make sure everything was ready for the visitation. Estelle would follow later with Rodney and DaShawn.

From the vestibule I could see a small chapel on the left. It was empty except for a blue casket near the front. I'd ordered bronze for Mom. Then I noticed the directory board naming the deceased and their respective rooms. Wanda Bentley was in the Heritage Parlor. I made my way down a short hallway and found it on the right, a room with soft indirect lighting on the rose-colored walls, large potted plants, heavy drapes behind which I suspected were no windows, and a variety of overstuffed sofas and Queen Anne chairs casually arranged for quiet conversation. At the far end was the open bronze casket.

I signed my name as the first visitor in the guestbook that sat atop an imitation marble pillar. I glanced toward the casket, not ready to approach it yet.

This funeral home catered to the African American population on the North Shore. That's why I'd chosen it, but the soft, piped-in classical music didn't sound like Mom. I went out and tapped softly on the office door leading from the vestibule and stuck my head in. “Would it be possible to select some quiet gospel music for Wanda Bentley?”

By the time I got back to the Heritage Parlor, Mahalia Jackson was singing “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.”

It was time to view my mom's body.

A small brass lamp similar to the kind illuminating wall paintings in art galleries was clipped to the raised lid of the casket and cast a mellow light on the satin lining within . . . and Mom. But it didn't enliven the gray pallor that had clouded her face in the hospital, and her cheeks seemed to sag even farther. She was recognizable but not herself. They'd fixed her hair just like the photograph I'd provided, but it wasn't quite right. Estelle had picked out the dress, and it looked nice, but I couldn't recall Mom ever wearing it. I reached out and touched her hands, one lying on top of the other across her stomach. They were hard and rough as if she'd been mixing concrete for the last few years. There was no life in them.

There was no life in her.

She was gone!

Tears slid down my cheeks. Scenes from my childhood began to flash through my mind as though I was watching one of those time capsule presentations on TV, flicking faster and faster. Mom walking me to kindergarten, cooking Sunday dinner over the small, hot stove in our eleventh-floor one-bedroom in the Robert Taylor homes, coming in after working the swing shift at Nabisco—her second job—and singing in the choir at Mount Zion Tabernacle, begging me to not stay out after the streetlights came on even though she couldn't be there to check on me.