Carol’s Funeral: Chapter 26 from 1968 Changed Everything

Chapter 26

Goodbye

Solemnly the rabbi delivers a message Jeremy has heard at every funeral he has gone to.

“From dirt we came and to dirt we return.”

The word dirt throws him into a rage Dirt? Dirt? Why didn’t he say we return to the earth. Even dust would be better. Jeremy is in a stupor at Carol’s funeral in his usual way. His mind is pinging with all kinds of thoughts.

If only she had listened to him and been cremated. He could have spread her ashes at the top of the Ferris wheel in Coney Island. He and Carol rode to the top– the ocean on one side, miles and miles of Brooklyn on the other, apartment houses, churches, synagogues, factories, looking tiny like toys. They were both so happy. They made their vows there.  Years ago when he told Carol he wanted his ashes thrown from there, she laughed, especially when he went into details about the rest of the funeral he wanted.  Everyone attending  would be on the Ferris wheel as it circled, offer a prayer as the ashes were swept away by the wind.  He thought it through. It could really be done. The Ferris wheel could be rented. Why not? Carol laughed when he told her the details of his plan. Told him he was still a child.

Unhappily Jeremy stares at the chassidic rabbi. He’s put Jeremy in a nasty mood. It isn’t just that he used dirt instead of the earth.  He looks like he slept in his clothes. He is not a dandy like the Chassidim in Williamsburg with their sable fur hats, proudly waddling along the avenues to the synagogue. This rabbi looks like the Jews Jeremy has seen in documentaries about the holocaust. They were so ugly. He shouldn’t have had that thought. He felt enormous compassion for them but also disgust. Acceptable or not you feel what you feel. It’s not under your control.  That is how he excused himself. He didn’t like that non-Jews saw them like that.

Jeremy had half forgotten Carol’s mother came from a Chassidic family. She broke from them, tossed out all of their ways. But here she is with this rabbi.

Last night Jeremy wrote and rewrote something about Carol. Had a thousand thoughts which he kept revising. He decided  he might read it at the gravesite. He takes it out of his pocket.

Necessities commanded her interest, not theories. She did the heavy lifting, tore through the daily details required for us to function.  The bed was always made by 10 AM. The dishes washed after dinner. No exceptions. She went to the nursery to buy lawn fertilizer. She pushed the spreader. She was proud of our lawn. So was I. The house had to be beautiful as if we were having guests. I’d tell her it was unnecessary. She knew I didn’t want to help her. “Go. Work on your masterpiece,” she’d tell me. And when she read a chapter or two she sometimes told me it was a masterpiece. Or she wouldn’t but it was more important than her work.

She was the one with great lyrics. She knew how to find the words. She couldn’t care less if it was sung on the radio. She just wrote it.

Hey you with the broken smile

Come on over and stay for a while.

 Hey you with the hunger in your eyes

I recognize that look on your face

A shattered heart still searching for grace.

Disappointed? I know it’s not the way you planned.

Darling, save your words

Because I know that’s the way it happens.

You wouldn’t be the first

To be standing

With your heart left in your hands.

He loves the melody. He considers singing it. Decides not to. It would be weird. Carol’s mother doesn’t need weird. Not today. He continues reading

“She seemed not to mind putting me first. There wasn’t a choice growing up. It was ingrained in her. Not from anything taught to her. From her experience.  Before he stopped, her father drank more than he should. Her mother needed her help. It wasn’t work. She enjoyed helping her. Her mother’s appreciation was abundant, her love. And her father? She understood whatever he did or did not do. Her devotion to her parents blossomed in the approval she gave to herself each time she was helpful. That was very often. It kept her on an even keel. Yes, sometimes when there was heavy lifting, rage at her misfortune blew all of that away. But that was rare.  She never thought about an alternative. You do what you must do and move on to the next thing you must do. And then you do that. It wasn’t tzedakah, righteousness, giving charity as you are commanded to do. It was what she had to do. Kindness overflowed to those she loved.”

That was Carol. Jeremy can feel it, perhaps more now, as he recalls it, than when she offered it day after day.

Jay comes into his mind, CC’s brother. He lived his life doing what was expected. CC said he seemed content.  For a brief moment Jeremy’s contempt for him disappears, but then  returns as he flushes his new perspective  away. He returns to what he has written.

“Day to day she was perfectly happy with her life. She told me that.  It didn’t take much. The satisfaction she felt when she finished a chore. Mopping the floor, doing macramé, fertilizing the lawn, it didn’t matter. Because it was done well by the end of the day, her exhaustion made rest a luxury she had earned. Her deep, deep sleep. She hardly moved in the bed. That contentment wasn’t a trick she learned from a book, or from anyone’s suggestions. She went to sleep cherishing her rest. Her exhaustion was her sleeping pill. Now she is resting in peace.”

His reading stops. The usual. His thoughts bolt out.

People say that all the time. The right words bring comfort. It sounds idiotic to Jeremy. She is dead not resting. He crumbles up the paper. No way he will say anything today. That part about her father’s drinking. Carol would have been humiliated.

Then he decides he wants to hold on to the paper. He tries to straighten it. He folds it as neatly as he can. Puts it back in his pocket. He won’t, he can’t speak but he feels like he should be doing something. Only it is too late to do anything.  There is nothing to can do.

Again he looks at the pine box. If only he could see her smiling at him, one of her really nice smiles. Sometimes she would say in a certain way. “You’re my Jeremy.” Not often, but when she did he loved hearing it even if he seemed to be busy with other things. Later in the day it would come back to him. The way she said that. It is coming back to him now. If he could see that smile one more time.  He tries to picture it in his mind. He can’t.

He should have done more. He could have.  It wasn’t fair. He’s had that thought before, many times, but this time  his usual excuse isn’t working. Yes she loved him and gave and gave but that is because Carol was Carol. She couldn’t be any other way. That’s how she loved. She loved loving that way. She would have done the same for someone else. It wasn’t him. It was the way she loved.

But right now that thought doesn’t relieve his anguish.

Would she really? Was she doing it to get him to love her? She knew he didn’t. Not the crazy way people in love are in the beginning. Not the way he loves CC. Is that why she couldn’t do enough for him. If he loved her the way he loves CC she wouldn’t have had to try so hard. His mind races forward like a flooding stream.  Remorse grabs hold of him. He can’t get enough air. He takes a deep breath. It doesn’t help. He needs more air. He can’t get it.

Fortunately, there is a shred of relief. He grabs at it. He did love her. The amazing guttural sounds she made when she came. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He loved those moments. Loved them. Loved them.  Loved her. That was real. Enormous. He can almost feel those moments as if it were happening now.   She knew how much he loved that. There was quiet between them. Contentment. They were one. That can’t be taken away from him.

He tears up but not enough. He wants to sob, to sob like he did in the hospital. That is not there. He feels angry.

Again the same thought. She deserves better than this Chassidic rabbi her mother brought from Brooklyn. His anger blots out his sadness. Carol didn’t like when he got angry. It happened too often. He tries not to be angry. He can’t. Again he can’t get enough air. He stares silently at the pine box holding her body as it is lowered.

People probably think I’m a cheapskate runs through his head. He’s been to Christian funerals. All those flowers, the magnificent finished woods of the caskets. Silk lining surrounding the departed.

He hates that there are strangers at the funeral. He’s embarrassed. They should have had a private funeral so he wouldn’t be distracted by the nonsense being public evokes. That son of a bitch, Professor Malev is at the funeral. Malev probably voted him out of the program. But maybe he wasn’t one of them. He would not have shown up today if he was.  More than anyone else  he is the one Jeremy worried might see him as cheap. But Malev is Jewish. He’d know that the pine box is obligatory. Remembering that,  Jeremy is able to dismiss that thought.

To dirt we return. Again, again, again that word. Dirt! He looks at the pile of dirt taken from the gravesite. Stones, sand, clay, mud– DIRT! Fucking Chassid. Low, class. An ugly guy. He’s an embarrassment to the Jews. Once again,  videos he has seen, the Jews in the concentration camps come to mind. The skeletons, the mass graves as they are shot. Wasn’t  their fault but people seeing Jews like that. Yes people with muscular dystrophy, spina bifida, the prisoners at Auschwitz are, totally innocent, victims, deserving our love and support.  But they are grotesque. He isn’t the only one who sees them as grotesque.  He read an interview with a woman who was freed from Auschwitz.   She saw the look of disgust on the face of an American G.I. when he stared at the prisoners. She was embarrassed, humiliated. She had never felt that in all the time she was imprisoned. But she saw how ugly all of them were, how ugly she had become. Carol deserved better. A proper acknowledgement, some way of announcing her importance. Kirk Douglas’ Spartacus. That was a Jew to be proud of.

He hated his mother’s funeral, hated seeing her. Before she died his mother kidded him when they talked about her funeral. He didn’t want to talk about it. She insisted that they talk about it. So he told her his ideas. She said they were funny.

“So you think there should be fireworks. Like July 4th?

“No nothing like that, but something.”

“Jeremy I am going to be dirt. You are going to be dirt. Your father is going to be dirt The future of every living soul, every living thing, the grass, the birds, the buffalo, all become dirt.”

So that is  why that word got to him! His mother’s words. She had sounded sanguine as she spoke about dying. Like she was about everything. Grounded. Plain truth. Anything else a waste of time. Death is death. Dead and gone. End of story.  When she spoke about it, she sounded brave. Spitting at death. Shouting at it. Not fearing it. Quietly acknowledging it. He wishes he could have his mother’s perspective right now. Carol would have wanted that. She would have loved that. Be real. Move on. You have a life you gotta live.

“Look, her lips,

Look there.

Look there.”

Jeremy doesn’t know where those words are coming  from, but he never does when he hallucinates. Words from a person unseen. He tries to picture Carol’s lips. He can’t. He remembers his mother’s blue lips when she died.

He was right to hate his mother’s funeral. She had it all wrong.  And now he’s hating Carol’s attitude. There should be fireworks. He hated how Carol never fought back, that she wanted to die silently. She liked that line, go quietly into the night. Except she got it wrong, “Do not go gently into the night.” It doesn’t matter. The Irish whoop it up.  At wakes, drink their way through death. Maybe they have the right idea. Except it isn’t only at wakes. So many Irish men have wrecked their family’s life.  His own love of marijuana jumps into his mind.

He looks over at Alyosha in Carol’s mother’s arms. Alyosha won’t look at him. He walks over to him, tries to take him in his arms. Alyosha cries, reaches for his grandmother. Jeremy makes crazy, funny sounds. It often works. Not this time. Alyosha is looking for his mother, reaching for his grandmother. Jeremy gives him back, walks away. Carol loved him so much. He’s now an orphan.

Alone, Jeremy stands silently, making no eye contact with Carol’s cousins, no eye contact with his own cousins, with anyone. He is in his own world.  After a quick glance at his father, the tears come more freely. Not enough to wash away his sadness, but he feels some relief. He knows how much his father loved his mother. As much as anyone can love another person. His father’s self-control was awful, but that didn’t lessen his love. He was an awful husband, cheated again and again but she was the love of his life. His mother knew that. She told him that. Carol didn’t tell him that. She couldn’t.

That Carol had to put up with CC, knowing she wasn’t really loved, not like she had once dreamed of being loved. She had made peace by telling herself that Jeremy couldn’t fall in love like that with anyone, at least not anything lasting more than a week or two. It was her excuse, a gift to Jeremy.  He didn’t mind having his conscience quieted by her forgiveness in those final weeks, but today it isn’t sticking.

She knew he loved CC like that. It hurt her deeply. It took away her will to live. She had always clawed back when the lupus flared up. Kept it from turning into real illness. But not this time.  She saw him with CC at the football game. He is now sure it began then. After she saw them she  got sicker and sicker. The tears stream down his face. The only relief is agreeing with his mother. Carol is nothing. My mother was nothing. I am nothing. We are all nothing. We will be dirt far longer than the years we are alive. We will be dirt forever.

He looks at the other people at the funeral. The rabbi made sure to bring a minyan. Had them shlep with him six and a half hours nonstop from Brooklyn to Buffalo. The Chassid are amazing. The importance of   responsibility. Tzedakah. Righteousness. His anger at the rabbi subsides.

Jeremy vaguely recognizes one of Carol’s cousins from Brooklyn. Jeremy and Carl have more than once schmoozed at family affairs. Carl sat at their table at a bar mitzvah. Carl approaches Jeremy.

“Seems like I just saw her. Did it happen quickly?”

Jeremy murmurs, “No.”

“Was she in pain?”

“No.”

“Well at least we can be thankful for that.”

Jeremy doesn’t answer, but he is looking at Carl with hatred. Thankful? Thankful?  He wants to shout, but doesn’t.

Carl walks away. The hatred remains until it is replaced with Jeremy’s regret. Carl meant well. Jeremy is angry at himself for his anger. Carol woud have been angry at him.

Jeremy becomes numb. He is standing alone. He hears the Kaddish. His mother was always there when as a little boy he stared at the children playing outside.

“Come on, Move your bupkiss. Get some fresh air.”

Jeremy knows the prayer by heart. After his mother’s death he and his father went to weekly services to say the mourner’s Kaddish. His father stopped after a month. He told Jeremy there was no point. “She’s gone. Gone is gone.” Jeremy continued for eleven months as prescribed by Jewish law. He was twelve and didn’t doubt God was watching him. So it wasn’t just ritual. He was praying. Talking fervently to God. It was only later, in college, that he refused saying the Kaddish at a funeral. It felt silly praying to a god that doesn’t exist.

Jeremy begins to chant.  Carol would have wanted this. She prayed to God. She was certain God was there. There is also a tid bit of a feeling which goes off and on that he is speaking to God. It’s there when he begins.

v’yitromam v’yitnasei

v’yit-hadar v’yit-aleh v’yit-halal

sh’mei d’kud’sha

l’eila min kol birkhata v’shirata

tooshb’chatah v’nechematah

da’ameeran b’almah, v’eemru

He reads silently to himself.

Blessed and praised and glorified

 and exalted and extolled

and mighty and upraised,

and lauded be the Name of the Holy One.

Blessed is He.

Beyond any blessing and song,

beyond any  praise and consolation that are uttered in the world.

 Now say Amen.

His cynicism returns. “Boy they don’t want to take any chances that God might be offended.”

Then he murmurs the words in English, this time out loud.

“Blessed and praised, glorified, exalted and extolled, honored, adored and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, blessed be He.”

He stops for a moment, then continues

“Beyond all the blessings, hymns, praises and consolations that are uttered in the world; and say, Amen.”

Somewhere in the middle of that he’s begun again to connect to God. Not completely, but there is something, something alive. He’s half way there.

They come to the final verse.  He remembers the ritual. He takes three steps back, bows his head to the right then straight ahead, then to the left, then straight ahead he bows. He speaks in Hebrew as he did as a child

עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו

הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם

עָלֵֽינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאִמְרוּ

        He prays desperately, frightened.

As usual his thoughts intervene. They used to praise good Jews as God fearing. No way he can live peacefully with that. He knows a reborn Christian who sees God’s love. God fearing is the best we can do?

That thought does it. Whatever was, or could have been, he’s again not connected. He has only his thinking which he has worshipped all these years as his God. The other God is nowhere.

Another hallucination. A mocking voice. It is CC’s.

“Wittgenstein.”

It gets louder. “Wittgenstein? The King of doubt?”

         “Fuck you CC.” he whispers to himself as he walks away from the grave site, watched by the others as the funeral has not concluded. Nothing is working. Neither his anger nor his thoughts can blot out his despair.

     Carol, where are you?