Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin (12 page)

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Adam Byrn Tritt

That week my father-in law went into the

hospital for a cardiac catheterization. I think

that was it. But he was surprisingly blocked,

especially considering the excellent care he

takes of himself including his diet. He ended

up in surgery and was, understandably, unset-

tled. Lee needed to see him. It was bad tim-

ing, to be sure, but it was what it was. I could not stand to be by myself so I went to Pem-broke Pines with my wife and kids to see my

in-laws.

My mother-in law hugged me, asked if I

was ok, did her best to be kind. I was exhausted and sat. My father-in-law wanted to talk and

did so. He talked to me for nearly three hours

straight. I dozed, woke, nodded, listened,

dozed. He talked as though nothing different

had happened to me today. As though today,

for me, was nothing of note, was any other

day.

We left. Lee commented on how good I was.

I would normally have brushed the comment

aside. Not this time. Yes. I was. Better than

could be expected. Better than was reason-

able. Above and beyond. Lee squeezed my

hand and we headed back to Deerfield Beach.

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Yahrzeit

That evening, we ate dinner—the whole

family was together—and I watched how dif-

ferently people handled the obviously empty

space. There was an empty seat next to my

father. I thought it needed to be empty for a

while; my brother wanted me to move over

and fill it. We sat there for a long time; I don’t remember what we talked about.

I feel crooked. I feel unbalanced. Like one

shoulder has a weight the other does not. Like

one ear is sensing movement differently than

the other. A part of me that has been around

for 45 years, that my brain has developed

knowing was there, is suddenly gone. It does

not feel right. The world does not feel right.

It is lopsided. I no longer have two parents. I

have one. Something is missing. I wonder how

long this will last.

Back to the hotel room. Lee drags me down

to the pool and the hot tub. We walk on the

beach for a while, then go to the hot tub. A

blazered gentleman came over and said the

hot tub is closed, it’s past midnight. She tells him, “He really needs to sit in the hot tub

tonight.” He says, “But the rules say the hot

tub closes at 11.” She tells him my mother just

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Adam Byrn Tritt

died. He said, “Stay as long as you want.” At

some point she also got two gin and tonics

down me, which is one-and-a-half more than

I usually drink.

The funeral was set for 11. I had called my

oldest friend, Carol, to let her know. She

knows me since I’m 13 or 14; she insisted on

coming to the funeral. I don’t remember who

else I called. The next morning I’m getting

dressed. I pull out the pants and they are not

mine. Apparently my wife brought a pair of

her black pants, a drawstring number, pleated,

which looked very nice—on
her
. It’s Sunday morning; my father wears a size 42, so nothing he has will fit me; my brother is six feet

tall, nothing of his will fit me. Lee’s pants do fit. So I wear the cute little drawstring number. I pull out the shirt. It is a black silk shirt.

I figure if I wear this shirt, I will melt off at least half a dozen pounds before the funeral

is over. I go to put on the shoes. They are my

seventeen-year-old son’s skater shoes. But

they fit me. So I am not quite dressed in the

manner one would generally assume a son

should dress for a funeral.

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Yahrzeit

We head to the funeral, which is held at the

cemetery. We start at the chapel. This is the

same cemetery where my father’s mother is

buried. The couples are buried one on top of

each other. There are four spots, each for a

couple, so it’s a two-story underground con-

crete-sealed horror. The caskets are lowered,

then a concrete slab is lowered on top of that,

then the marble lowered on top of that. Origi-

nally my father and my mother were sup-

posed to be next to his mother and father, but

my mother insisted she wanted to be at the

other end of the grave “condos.” Those who

have read “Funeral, Expurgated” will under-

stand why.

People start arriving. Some are crying,

many are in wheelchairs. My parents were

very involved in Americans with Disabilities

Act activities. I don’t remember a lot about

the funeral except that I felt terribly self-conscious about what I was wearing. Carol found

me and hugged me, and we went off and

talked for a while, she and myself and Lee.

At some point my father went to the cas-

ket, and opened it up to look at her. He asked

me if I wanted to. I said I didn’t think I could.

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Adam Byrn Tritt

Then we were told it was time to take our

seats. My father, brother, and I were in the

first row; Carol sat behind me; Lee, Sef, and

Alek sat behind her. It was a bit of a wait,

maybe five minutes, for the funeral to start.

I leaned back and said to Carol, “These pants

are chafing a bit, but I look so cute in them!

Leave it to me to get into my wife’s pants at

my mother’s funeral!” She starts laughing. A

few other people laughed. A few people did

not find it funny. I’m sure, however, that my

mother would have, and I was fine with that.

Carol knew the rabbi, said he was a perfect

choice, and indeed he was. He did a wonder-

ful job, though I don’t remember any of the

details. You would think he had known her.

He was splendid. The rabbi asked if anyone

would like to speak. I raised my hand. Later

my brother would tell me, “I knew you

wouldn’t be able to not speak,” and I said, “I

knew you wouldn’t be able to, so I figured I

would.”

I told everyone that I had learned my sense

of morals from her, and if that’s all she’d ever taught me, it would have been enough. I said

that the last thing I had told my mother was

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Yahrzeit

that everyone loved her, that she did good,

and that it was time to rest. I don’t think I

spoke for more than a minute. We moved out

to the graveside. I immediately went to the

casket to help roll it to the grave. “You don’t

have to,” I was told. But of course I did. I literally buried my grandmother; I would cer-

tainly have done the same thing for my

mother, if I could have. The least I could do

was help push the casket out to the grave.

One of the four graveworkers stands aside

so I can help roll the casket out. Even the

grave workers are dressed better than I am.

It’s a long walk from the chapel to the grave,

and it’s August 30 in south Florida in a tree-

less cemetery. I am wearing a black silk shirt,

black linen pants, black suede shoes, and it’s

a loooooong walk to the grave. I don’t remem-

ber what was said at graveside; I know that

Kaddish was said. I know that other prayers

were said. There was a canopy with some

chairs set for people; I stood by the grave the

entire time.

And then the funeral was over. The casket

was ready to be lowered into the grave, which

is done by machine (this is
not
how most Jew-141

Adam Byrn Tritt

ish funeral go), and I had my hand on the cas-

ket as far down as I could—I’d have preferred

lowering it ropes myself, but that wasn’t avail-

able; I think we definitely lose something by

having all this stuff mechanized. We were

given little plastic baggies of dirt, about the

size of two ketchup packets, to throw on to

the casket. I wanted a shovel and a pile of dirt, and what I got were tiny baggies. I wanted to

bury her and all I could throw in was a tea-

spoon of dirt, so I grabbed all that I could

find—it didn’t matter if anyone else had any.

We were then told that it was time to leave,

because it was time to bring in the backhoe

to load in the concrete that would be lowered

halfway down the condo so it would be cov-

ering my mother’s casket. The canopy had to

go. The plywood on which the seats sat had

to be moved so the backhoe wouldn’t eat up

the grass.

And I told them: “No.” Very matter of fact.

No. I was going to help, until it was com-

pletely sealed. I told the rabbi, “I don’t get a shovel, I don’t get any dirt, but I’m going to

damn well see this thing sealed.” He said he

understood.

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The first piece of concrete had a bolt hole

in each corner. Large eyes were screwed into

each, chains attached to those, the four chains

attached to a hook on the backhoe. It was

picked up moved, positioned, lowered. And

I stood there, a little too close for safety, until I could catch the last glimpse of the coffin as

the slab covered it. Then one of the workers

had to jump in and unscrew the bolts and

take the chains off. Lee wisely kept me from

doing that; I was very bothered by someone

I didn’t know jumping into my mother’s

grave, silly me.

Then came the second concrete slab to

cover the top half of the two-story grave.

Same process. I helped unscrew the bolts and

take off the chains, since this was just below

ground level and I could reach it. Then the

same process for the marble grave top. It’s

positioned into place with my hand on it. I

helped take off the chains, unscrew the eyes.

And then the workers come over with a bolt

and a large brass washer, and that is screwed

on, attaching it to the concrete grave box.

I said to one of the workers, “Mind if I do

that?”

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Adam Byrn Tritt

And he says, “You’re not supposed to.”

And I said to him, an older black fellow, “If

this was your mom, and you had no shovel

and no dirt, what would you do?”

He said, “I would hand you the bolts and

hand you the wrench and say, “There you go.’”

And he did. And I screwed my mother’s grave

closed.

That afternoon we—family, extended fam-

ily, friends—went back to my brother’s house.

Amy had gone ahead, picked up platters of

sandwiches and desserts. And we talked. I

changed into normal clothes that were actu-

ally mine. I met the son of my mother’s old-

est friend. My father’s brother came down. I

sat with Amy and said that I would prefer

that we manage to get together under circum-

stances other than this from time to time,

that it would be nice. We were there about

two hours before we left. Everyone needed

rest. Lee and I and the kids headed to Carol’s

house. She had made us macaroni and cheese,

and other assorted things we shouldn’t eat,

and we sat and talked. I needed that comfort

after this weekend. Next to Lee, she’s the per-

son I’ve known the longest.

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Yahrzeit

Sometime around six we leave and drive

home, less than a two-hour drive. I drove

there with a mother. I drive home without

one.

145

What Do Jews Do

on Christmas?

What do Jews do on Christmas? Well

in the United States,

at least,

we take walks,

move,

find a park

We go out to the few open businesses,

movies theater, Chinese food,

and know that most everyone we see

will be Jewish

or atheist (though they may still follow

comfortable family tradition)

or what have you, but not Christian.

Here, the temperature is in the 70s

and we had a beautiful solstice under

the stars

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Adam Byrn Tritt

(we could see though the city-glow)

in our shirtsleeves

and on the 25th

we are at my sister-in-law’s

(mother-in law, father-in-law, wife,

daughter, and son)

because she doesn’t want to be the only

Jew at her home

as she gathers her husband’s family—

Southern Baptists all

and very concerned for the souls of the

children.

We are there with my mother-in-law

who was born Jewish

but who is sure America has made

Christmas

a national holiday

we have to celebrate

or incur a terrible social wrath.

She wants to know if we are going to

heaven.

(How the hell should I know?)

(Is it full of people just like this?)

Then the party is over,

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What Do Jews Do on Christmas?

everyone wishes each other Merry

Christmas

over piles of presents given each other

in honor of the Christ child

and we gave one or two but look at all

that stuff! And say goodbye.

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