The day after learning of Darryl's death I received a call from his sister in law, asking me if I was not busy could I be a pall bearer. "If I'm not busy?" I thought. I told her sure, I was planning on attending the funeral any way. "I'll be happy to!" I said and then back pedaled on my cheerfulness, she knew what I ment.
When I told my 84 year old mother that he had died and I was going to be his pall bearer, she said she wanted to go and pay her respects to the family. This was odd for me, all part of keeping worlds seperate from one another to insure less friction, less confrontation. "He was the cutest little boy" she remembered "I'd love to see his mother again" and that cinched it for me. She had been part of this story, yes, she should come.
The sister in law had told me there would be a visitation and hour prior to taking his remains to the grave, where there would be a short graveside service. I got there a bit early, made some quiet inquiries, trying to get some answers. What I was able to learn was this: the last time anyone saw him alive was on Saturday the 5th, when he walked to the store for his daily ration of beer and cigarettes. The following day he talked to his mother on the phone, and then entered into what I call "the quiet" the point at which you are beyond your last human contact and your story is all conjecture. On Wednesday the 9th, a friend of his stopped by to check on him, got no answer. On the following Sunday, the 13th, his mom could not get him on the phone and asked his brother to check on him. He found him. There the details ceased to be forth comming. The casket was closed. There was no word on what caused his death. Just like his other brother, 8 years ago.
I told the surviving brother, a jolly guy of few words, I was sorry, about everything he had to go thru with Darryl, he said thanks. His mother seemed well composed, almost relived that the day she long knew she would see had arrived. She hugged me and showed me the spray on top of the blue steel casket, to the side sat his high school graduation photo, those big bow ties they put on us in 1981. I had never seen the picture, it was him in his fulfilled glory, the face I had memorized as a child, mature and strong, he was so handsome. Within two years the voices of demons would invade his head, may have already been there. Within two years of that photo being made he would loose a quater of his weight, his eyes would sink, his hands would become stained with nicoteen. I wanted so badly to grab the photo and kiss it right on the lips, something I would never have done to him.
Darryl's former girlfriend, who had not lived with him in some time, came solemly in, escorted by her mother. She too suffers from some undisclosed mental illness and was mournfully reserved. I spoke with her, as flatly as Kansas she told me how good a person he had been to her, how she would miss him. Had she still been living there things may be different today. I think that was weighing on her mind, but no one blamed her. There was nothing she could do. There was no blame here, only a river that could not be stopped.
"...he was a a sweet boy" my mother told his, the hand clasp that women have, of a certain age anyway. She told of Darryl once saying he was going to build a flying machine so he could fly from Roanke to see me. I searched my memory for that, belive it is the first I have ever heard of such. It was real sweet.
I met two other pall bearers, a former neighbor and a buddy of his who had both befriended him. They were good people. One had discovered Darryl had gone for an extended period with out hot water and bought him a water heater and installed it for him. The other gave him rides 10 miles to the nearest supermarket to get the things he could not get at the Lucky 2, a store a mile from his trailer. (Uphill on the way back). The water heater man had checked on him the previous Wednesday and got no answer. He expressed a feeling of responcibility, which I felt was not nescessary. I told him if he didn't answer the door, it was probably too late. A small boom box was carried by, one of the men wondered aloud if they were going to play Lynyrd Skynyrd's Freebird, which I think most people in the south fear will one day happen at a funeral they attend.
So oddly then we were lined up and insted of marched into the chapel, to the front door, followed by the casket, heavy in me right hand, careful down the steps into the hearse.The family went out the side door to their cars. The sherriff's department guided us thru traffic, most people on the road still pull off to the side to let processions pass. We went right past the house I grew up in, the place where we kids had been kids, now sigular.
Under the canopy advertizing the funeral home was locally owned and operated we laid his casket and the family filed in. A lady minister, clad in purple petrochemical based material and perfect hair made her remarks, the boom box was cut on and from it unrecognizable chords emerged that she fashioned into song: "I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses.....".
We had sang. Something, I asked Darryl in my mind what it was I remembered us singing. A stiff breeze hit me in the face at once and it started to come back to me: riding on the back of my Daddy's truck, on summer evening, the three of us boys sang all one hundred verses of "A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall". It got to be a chant towards the end, which if you have never heard it goes: "no more to take down, none to pass around, there's no more bottles of beer on the wall." Moment of artless beauty in our seperate and difficult lives, let be, let be.
The service complete we laid out carnation buttoniers on his casket and filed out, I kissed his mother on her cheek and shook hands down the line. The former neighbor returned from his car with a confederate flag, a pack of cigaretts and a lighter. Darryl had said he would place those items in his friends grave when the time came because he was sure he would out live him. The flag, he always had one them on his wall, his African American former girl friend regarded it the same as she regarded the flowers on the grave, something colorful in a sad time. The red and white of a carnation twirling in her hands. "He was a good man" she said "I'm going to miss him".
I got back in my car and cut the air on. Over head two hawks, on their back and forth reconnisence in the sky over us. My mind in its search for meaning named one of them Kevin and the other one Darryl, who the first would lead home. I waved to them, thought it nice of them to come by and bid us farewell. The end of a long farewell that started nearly 35 years ago. I, in my little silver car not unlike a coffin itself, slowly mauvered away thru tears. Eager to consume a strong drink, I settled insted for an ice cream, as I still had another visitation to attend that evening, it comes in threes, you know.