“Sure.”
“You should, too, Dad.”
“I know.”
Uncle Bobby rose and looked at me. “And so should you,” he said.
“Yes,” my other grandmother followed. “It’s harder on young people than they think.”
“I will,” I promised, and watched Uncle Bobby leave. I always liked watching him move, even if it was only to cross a room. He seemed to float. Grandma Arnold used to call him her Fred Astaire. I had to watch some old movies to see exactly who that was, but once I did, I was fascinated. Even Willie would sit still and watch the dancing, both of us thinking about Uncle Bobby.
My grandmother Sanders and her sister followed him out, claiming they also needed a good rest, after the trip and all.
“If you need us to do anything . . .” my grandmother Sanders told my grandfather.
“Thank you, Patricia. Go rest,” he told them. After they left, he turned to me. “Sorry I haven’t been able to spend more time with you, Clara Sue,” he said. “I’m glad Bobby’s here. He’s very fond of you.”
“And I’m fond of him. Willie loved him.”
Grandpa nodded. “The poisoned boy,” he said.
“What about him?”
“I’m working on finding out where he came from and who’s responsible for what happened to him.”
“Hasn’t he said anything?”
“No. I’ve had them bring in a neurologist to examine him. The boy seems unable to speak right now.”
“Just like Willie,” I said, my eyes burning. “Just like Willie. Only . . . unless you’re Jesus, you can’t do anything for him.”
I left quickly and didn’t look back.
3
Maybe my grandfather had said something about me to everyone, but as soon as I woke up in the morning, I was the center of attention. I could see it in the way everyone was looking at me, catering to me. It was more important for me to have something in my stomach than it seemed to be for everyone else. As far as I could tell, except for my grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt Sally, no one had more than a cup of coffee. The night before, Myra had lingered over every item of clothing I was to wear, as if choosing the right socks was as critical as any decision the president would make. I knew she was just trying to distract me from thinking about what this all meant, but I couldn’t help feeling that all eyes would be on me for the whole funeral.
I sat between Grandpa and Uncle Bobby in the limousine. My grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt sat across from us, both sobbing softly, sighing, and looking away from me. Uncle Bobby held my hand all the way to the church, but Grandpa sat stone still. I hadn’t said much to anyone, even Myra. At the moment, I hated the sound of my own voice. Every time I spoke, my throat ached.
It was still very warm for this time of the year. At least there were clouds to interrupt the sunlight; today the sun felt more like a spotlight in one of Uncle Bobby’s stage shows. We passed the small park near the school, and I saw about a dozen mothers with their children, all screaming and laughing around the swings and seesaws. I wanted to lean out and shout, “How dare you have fun today?”
It wasn’t until we entered the crowded church and I set eyes on the coffin that I felt as if my body was disappearing. I was shrinking inside myself. I tried not to look back at anyone who was looking at us. I was holding on to both Grandpa’s and Uncle Bobby’s hands, but Uncle Bobby seemed to sense what was happening to me faster than my grandfather did, maybe because Uncle Bobby was so in tune with how people moved. He let go of my hand and quickly put his arm around my shoulders. No one knew it, I think, but he was actually holding me up until we got to our seats.
My grandpa sat with his head down most of the time, clasping his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When he did raise his head, he looked at Willie’s coffin and then looked down again, shaking his head slightly. The only part of the sermon and the eulogy that I heard was Willie’s name. Otherwise the words just flowed past my ears. I wouldn’t let any of them in. As I sat there, I knew the worst part was yet to come. This part seemed more like a show with a coffin for a prop, and the church choir and the minister were more like actors. We were simply all part of the performance.
But at the most beautiful cemetery in the whole state of Virginia, it was like a sledgehammer struck me in the heart and broke the dam that held back my tears. I cried so hard and continuously that Grandpa nodded at Uncle Bobby, who then hugged me closer in his arms and finally practically carried me back to the limousine. I think the sight of me crying hysterically did more to raise the sobs and moans of everyone else than the sight of Willie’s coffin hovering over a perfectly shaped grave.
I collapsed in the car and fell asleep for a few minutes against Uncle Bobby’s shoulder. I kept thinking about Grandma Arnold saying that Uncle Bobby had “angel feet.” Now Willie did, too. I dreamed instead of arriving at the house and seeing Willie out front, smiling impishly as he often did and saying, “Ha-ha, joke’s on you.”
After we arrived at the house, Lila and some of my other classmates came up to my room to be
with me. No one really wanted to be there. I didn’t want to be there, but they all tried to help me. Finally, with no more tears left in my well of sorrow, I suggested we go downstairs and have something to eat.
“Before some of my grandfather’s friends gobble it all up,” I added, which finally brought smiles.
It was My Faith who said that the week after such a sad funeral was “like the days after a tornado.” My grandmother Sanders and her sister left the morning after, inviting me to visit whenever I liked. I had never done it when Willie was alive. I couldn’t imagine doing it now. They hugged and kissed me and then left quickly, like two people fleeing a fire. I couldn’t blame them. Everyone remaining moved about as if they were still stunned, poised to see more suffering. People did not raise their voices very much. Looks and gestures replaced words. Silence seemed soothing.
That was with the exception of Grandpa Arnold. Getting back to work and working even harder was his way of dealing with our tragedy. He was out of the house before I had even risen to get dressed. Uncle Bobby stayed another day and a half. Before he left, he came to see me. I knew, of course, that he couldn’t stay with us long. He wasn’t being selfish by thinking of his work and his career. He was, like everyone else, trying to survive in a flood of sorrow.