A Funeral for the Ages

This is the third of a 3-part series.  Part One and Part Two provide added background for this, the conclusion.


So much "stuff" comes up when somebody dies. I'm not talking about the sorrow, the grief, the pain, the finality of death. I'm talking about "stuff" aka shit. You'll see...
 
In 1987 my son was preparing to graduate from high school. Four years earlier, Bert and I made the decision to sacrifice some square footage and the swimming pool in order to move to Moraga, CA, a lovely town located just east and slightly south of the University of California at Berkeley. Moraga had one of the best school systems in northern California, and one of the lowest crime rates in the entire state.
 
I have not broached the subject of race in this series, but I will now, because it is relevant to the rest of the story. Brad, my first husband and my son's birth father, was African American, from a proud family of high-achievers who had a long history in Milwaukee. They were by no means wealthy, but Brad's father was a local hero because of his stardom in track and field at Marquette University.
 
Bert, my second husband and the adoptive father of my son, is the whitest white man one will ever find in America. With his Caribbean blue eyes and thick shock of white-blond hair (at that time, anyway), he had the kind of pale skin that would burn at the mere mention of the word sun.
 
There are hundreds of stories I could tell about the humorous and/or pathetic events that this bit of racial-mixing provided over the years, but I'll leave most of them to another time. For now, it is only necessary for the reader to know it.
 
Brad had volunteered to give up his parental rights when my son was 8, and they hadn't seen or talked to each other since. As is wont to happen with adopted children, our son became increasingly curious about his birth father, and his resentment was building over the idea that a man would willingly denounce his own flesh and blood. So when he came to Bert and me and asked if we would contact Brad to invite him out to California for the graduation, we enthusiastically agreed.
 
Brad arrived with his widowed mother and Wife #4 in tow. I can only imagine what we must have looked like filing into the football stadium where the graduation was to be held. Nobody matched anybody, and since our son and one other girl were the only African Americans in the school, all eyes were on us as we climbed the bleacher stairs. It was a great day.
 
The previous day had not been so great for Brad. Our son decided to meet him for lunch in San Francisco. When Brad stepped off the elevator of his chic boutique hotel, my son said later that it felt as if he was gazing into a mirror. They were clones. Both 6’3” or taller, as they stood face to face they were like mirror images in profile.
 
Brad was in tears by the time their lunch came to an end. Our son read him the Riot Act, asking how or why a man would willingly denounce his own flesh and blood. Of course, Brad blamed me, saying he thought it was what I wanted. It didn’t fly, though; my son knew better. Eventually, they made peace and spent the rest of the weekend talking about sports.
 
The next time they saw each other was in 1997 in a Milwaukee hospital. Brad was on his death bed, rapidly losing his hard-fought battle with throat cancer, and our son flew up there to say his goodbyes. The memorial service took place two weeks later.
 

The Church

 

My former brother-in-law and one of my son’s half-sisters picked us up at the airport the night before the memorial service was to take place. I hadn’t been back to Milwaukee since my former father-in-law’s funeral more than twenty years before. Back at the small, Cape Cod-style home where my former mother-in-law raised her boys, there was a lot of laughter and reminiscing about old times. We all seemed to sub-consciously agree to save the mourning and grief for the next day. I was the only daughter-in-law that Brad’s mom ever liked, and the always outspoken woman would tell anyone that. Therefore, I was the only ex-wife invited to spend the night at the house.

 

It was January in Wisconsin, so it was very cold. I knew it would be, which is why I left work early one day to go to the furrier to buy my mink coat. A mink coat in Atlanta is a joke for all but the showiest of residents, but I had to have it. Since I was Wife #1 and we were pretty poor during our marriage, I didn’t even have an engagement diamond. By the time Wives #2-5 rolled around, Brad was quite well off, so he bought a mink coat for each of them. I wasn’t about to be odd woman out, so I spent $5,000 of my hard-earned money on a coat I have worn exactly 6 times since. But I didn’t need his stinkin’ money to get a mink coat – that was the point.
 
The service was held in Brad’s current father-in-law’s church, where he was the pastor. Wife #5¸who was quite a bit younger than Brad, had married him knowing that he was terminally ill, so they had no children. The funeral director showed our group, the first to arrive, to the large ante-room across the hall from the sanctuary. Brad’s mom sat down and ordered me not to leave her side for the remainder of the services. She wanted me to sit with her in church, too.
 
One by one, the other wives arrived with their respective offspring – and all were wearing their souvenir mink coats. As they came into the ante-room, each practically genuflected in front of my mother-in-law (forget about the ’former’ part, ‘cuz she sure has) and kissed her on her cheek. Grandma was gracious to all, until the most-hated Wife #3 entered, at which point Grandma turned her entire body toward me and started chatting me up as if she had just seen me for the first time in 20 years. Wife #3 was not to be denied, so she stood directly in front of us, very close, until I couldn’t take it anymore. “Hi, Mama,” she cooed. “It’s been a long time.” To which “Mama” replied, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is it time, yet?” To this day, I don’t know what Carole did to piss this woman off, but I’ll bet it had something to do with money.
 
While this drama was playing out, I looked around the room and located every one of Brad’s seven children. Despite the fact that Wives # 2-5 were all 100% Caucasian, those children looked as if I had given birth to every one of them! This was one of the things the family members joked about the night before. They weren’t exactly thrilled about Brad’s choices in women, especially because they were not African American. I only passed muster in that regard because I look more Black than I do White or Native American, at least to most people. I was once mistaken for Chinese, but that’s another story. Brad, being the butthead that he was, once told me that he had gotten the closest thing to a white wife when he married me.
 
I assumed my role as Token Black Wife #1 with glee. As far as I was concerned, these women were even bigger idiots than I had been, because they had my idiocy to use as history, and the best way to predict the future is to look at history. I was really loving this.
 
The funeral director came to the doorway and asked that the family line up for the procession into the sanctuary.
 
All hell broke loose.
 
A sea of white legs under mink coats scrambled at once to the doorway. Mothers were signaling to their respective children, urging them to hurry so they could get to the front of the line. At one point there were five people struggling to fit into a doorway only large enough for three. Grandma and I were still seated, not realizing that we were gawking at the spectacle in the doorway.
 
The funeral director raised his voice above the clamor. “I need the widow and the mother of the decedent at the front. Please step aside and let them through.” Grandma’s death-grip on my arm didn’t leave any doubt that she intended that I play the role of widow. The actual widow was so distraught; she was in the corner of the room being comforted by her mother. As wife #5- the widow- was helped to her feet and guided toward the doorway, I whispered to Grandma that I would be right behind her, no matter what.
 
With the Keystone Kops scene under control, the funeral director signaled to the organist to begin the service.
 
The church was packed with mourners. People from the Mayor’s office, people from the TV station where he once served as sportscaster, professional ball players, and friends from all corners of his life attended. I heard someone attempt to whisper, but fail miserably: “That’s his first wife and her son. Doesn’t he look like Brad just spit him out?” Similar tittering took place all the way down the aisle, until we were blessedly out of earshot in the first row of pews.
 
Since Brad’s wishes included being cremated, his beautiful urn was placed beside a photo of him that had clearly been taken before the ravages of cancer changed the contours of his handsome face. I was close to feeling very sad, when there was another commotion at the back of the sanctuary.
 

A youngish woman was arguing with the usher. She insisted that she was part of the family, but no one in the family knew who she was. Like any run-of-the-mill Looky Lou, I craned my neck around to see what was happening. The two terrified children, who I would learn later were 7 and 9, had a very familiar look to them. The boy looked exactly like my son did at that age. And the little girl was a ringer for my son’s favorite among his half-sisters. Uh-oh. I sat back in the pew and smirked. I guess it was a smirk, it felt like one, but no one actually saw it to confirm.
 
The service was lovely. Brad’s children were all crying softly, as were their mothers. It WAS sad that a man of only 50 years of age was already dead, but I didn’t tear up until my son’s shoulders started heaving. When he cries, I cry. Always. So the thought I had had two seconds before – “See, Brad. God doesn’t like ugly”—left my mind.
 
There was a reception after the service, held in another huge room outside the sanctuary. The sound of people greeting one another and seeing people they hadn’t seen in years replaced the hushed, reverent quiet of the sanctuary. I was standing in the middle of the floor, having lost sight of Grandma, chatting with Brad’s younger brother. This was after I had been approached by a woman I had never before met¸ who introduced herself as Bonnie. My eyes flew open wider in recognition of that name.
 
I had written a monthly check to her for several years when I was still Wife #1. Bonnie was the woman who Brad had dumped mid-pregnancy upon his decision to pursue me. “I know you don’t know who I am, but I would know you anywhere. I remember watching you and Bradley get out of your car one evening when you were going into the Pfister Hotel.” I just smiled – like a lunatic. “I think our children have just met each other,” she said. “They seem to be having some sort of argument.”
 
My eyes rolled heavenward. My son had thought he was the first-born for years and years. I don’t recall how he found out, but he was not pleased, to say the least. I was hoping he would dig down and pull out some of his home training for this eventuality, but no. I couldn’t tell which child resented the other most, but they were locked into a war of words.
 
I signaled to my son that I needed him, successfully halting the argument. Just as he approached my right arm, someone touched me on the left shoulder. “Hi, Lezlie. I don’t know if you’ll remember me…I’m Bridgit (Wife #2). And what did I reply? God help me, I laughed out loud!
 
 “Oh, I think I will always remember you, Bridgit.”
 
She was the dental hygienist who had the honor of being the other woman while I was swollen and fat, two weeks after my due date, waiting for the birth of my son. She is the one who got married, WITH a big rock on her finger; the day after our divorce was final.
 
“I know. I didn’t know what else to say. I’m really sorry about all that, Lezlie.”
 
I almost tinkled in my silk panties! I said nothing.

Wives #3 and 4 made their rounds and stopped to say hello. They were both blonde and they both had a similar look to their faces. I knew that #4 had just had a facelift when she came to California with Brad for the graduation. Apparently, a facelift was part of the swag bags that the later wives received along with their mink coats and diamonds, because #3 had the taut , pulled look of a cadaver as well.
 
Out of nowhere came a kind of a shriek. I looked around and saw Grandma in deep conversation with her youngest son. Whatever he told her set her head moving quickly from side to side. I had hoped that we could wait until we got back to the house to have this outburst – oh yeah, I knew it was coming. But, according to my younger brother-in-law, she kept asking about the woman with the two children who were ultimately seated in the last row of the family pews.
 
It seems the woman was a paramour of Brad’s and had been, according to her, for ten years. Since no one knew she or her children existed, no one knew to notify her of his death, but she read it in the newspaper. She became angry when she read the “…survived by” portion of the obituary and didn’t find her children’s names. So she crashed the service.
 
There was no doubt in my mind that these were siblings #8 and #9. They looked just like the other seven. Over in another corner I noticed my son’s favorite half-sister sobbing on a chair. My son walked over to console her, thinking she was having a post-service meltdown about their father.
 
When he returned, now he was shaking his head. “You are not going to believe this, Mom. You know the little girl that nobody knows? She has the same name as my sister! What was wrong with that man?! No wonder you kicked him to the curb!”
 
And then it happened. The drama that ended the whole reception.
 
Grandma jumped to her 85-year-old feet, put her hands on her hips after she straightened the same hat she wore to my wedding all those many years ago and screamed:
 

 “Every bastard in Milwaukee is not my grandchild. No!”