TWELVE: Easter 2013
Charlie always hated Easter. Perhaps “hated” was too strong a word. Resented was probably more accurate. Easter was always an impediment, the thing standing in the way of the family’s departure to Reardon’s Walk for Spring Break. His mother couldn’t possibly miss church on Easter Sunday morning, so if they wanted her to come along, they would all have to wait until after Sunday lunch to leave. There was never any doubt about the fact that everyone in the family wanted Abigail along for a week at the beach. She was easily the most beloved member of the Reardon family. So, they would all dress up in their church clothes for the first of only two yearly trips to St. Michaels Episcopal church, the second one being the Christmas Eve Mass, an almost equally annoying religious imposition. “Who in the world wants to go to church on Christmas Eve?” Charlie would complain every year, careful to raise the question only when his mother wasn’t in the room.
This year Charlie was especially anxious to get to the Island. It had been a busy and stressful first quarter at the firm and he was looking forward to a week of relaxation. So, the Easter service seemed to crawl along at a snail’s pace. The four of them sat in his mother’s favorite pew, up front where she could actually look her priest in the eyes, Charlie on the aisle, then Abigail with Miranda on her arm, then Jenny looking ravishing in her new canary yellow dress and stylish pillbox hat. It always delighted Abigail that Jenny bought a new dress for Easter every year, although part of her felt like it was due to her guilty conscience over the fact that the three of them had become members of the much maligned Holly and Lilly Crowd, that band of parishioners who only attended on Christmas and Easter. Still, it warmed her heart to see her daughter in law looking so radiant.
St. Michaels was very much an old school Episcopal church, plenty of smells and bells, with a little Latin thrown in just to keep everyone sufficiently out of the loop. The processional crept down the center aisle like it had all day. You would have thought that the occasion of the moment being the alleged resurrection of the Son of God, they would have had a bit more urgency, a little more juice in their steps. But, slowly and solemnly they crept, smoke trailing behind them. Charlie kept his observations to himself. He adored his mother, a devotion that bordered on worship. Perhaps he had replaced the worship of God with the worship of his mother on the day his father left. Still, there was something about this day, this grand building, the sights and sounds, that stirred him. He desperately wanted to believe in something transcendent, to grab ahold of this resurrected Prince of Peace and never let go. But Charlie was at his core a man of science. He couldn’t overcome his obsession with the physics of how the theological sausage was made. The raising of the truly good and dead was too far away from the logical center, requiring too giant a leap of faith. But for Charlie Reardon there was a much larger obstacle to faith than mere physics. He had observed the way this God treated his most devoted children and determined that he was an unfit parent.
He glanced over at his mother. He noticed Miranda’s arm intertwined with hers, the love in her eyes warming his heart. He reached over and took her free hand into his and noticed that it felt damp.
The monstrous pipe organ came to thunderous life with the opening measure of the hymn of the day, the words printed out on page sixteen of the program...
Christ the Lord is risen today, Alleluia!
Earth and Heaven in chorus say, Alleluia!
Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!
Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply, Alleluia!
Charlie could feel the bass notes in the center of his chest, the hairs on his neck standing at attention. His mother held on to his arm tightly as she swayed with each successive wave of sound washing over them from the nearly twenty foot tall pipes. When everyone took their seats after the final Alleluia, Abigail landed awkwardly, with a bit of a thud, Charlie thought. He looked at her, and she smiled softly, reassuring him.
A reader stood up and offered a verse from the apostle Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians: “So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is they sting? O grave, where is they victory?’”
Abigail brought both of her hands to the center of her chest and gasped, “Oh Charlie!!” Her eyes were glassy and gray, then he saw them roll back into her head as she slumped forward, striking her head on the pew in front of them. Charlie reached out but couldn’t catch her in time. “Mother!” He screamed, sending a wave of gasping through the crowd, everyone straining over the prominent Easter hats to see exactly who was in distress. When the priest rushed to the pulpit to ask if there were any doctors available to assist, the only two who responded to the call were an ear, nose and throat man and a podiatrist, who despite their useless specialties, nevertheless took command of the situation by laying Abigail on the thick carpeting of the center aisle and struggling mightily to revive her. Charlie and Miranda became hysterical at the sight of her on the ground. Jenny had restrained them from lunging to the ground with her, desperately trying to give the doctors room to work. But on this day, there would be no miracle. This corruptible, this mortal would not be taunting death and the grave with “Where is thy victory?” And in three days there would be no resurrection, just another packed house in this very building for Abigail Reardon’s funeral.
It had been the longest three days of Charlie’s life, spent in an uncharacteristic fog, unable to summon the customary Reardon resolve that had allowed him to remain unflappable in every crisis of his life. Watching his mother expire on the St. Michael’s carpeting had disabled him, rendering him an inert mass of muscle and bone, incapable of making a decision. Jenny had taken over the reins in his absence, taking care of the funeral arrangements, consoling her inconsolable daughter and trying to bring her husband back to life.
They were told that Abigail had died of cardiac arrest, a massive coronary event which had essentially destroyed her heart, killing her in less than ten minutes. She had not suffered. Friends and neighbors had marched through their living room assuring them that it could have been so much worse, she could have had a long protracted battle with cancer, or even worse, dementia. Charlie sat in his leather wingback chair and shook their hands, saying nothing. Jenny had done all of the talking, thanking each of them for coming, hugging them all and accepting their condolences with grace and dignity. Miranda had stood at her side throughout the viewing, struggling to keep herself together and learning that most difficult adult skill to master. . .poise. Her mother was putting on a poise clinic, teaching a master class. Miranda had noticed, and found courage just watching her.
The day of the funeral had been gloriously clear and bright, the sky a magnificent blue, the smell of Spring in the air. The funeral director had sent a Lincoln Continental limousine to pick up the family. It was jet black with the windows darkened so nobody could intrude on their privacy. They had ridden to the church in silence, Jenny holding her husband’s hand. The limo pulled up to the arched driveway that curled around an old stone fountain in front of the church. The sidewalks were filled with mourners, a testimony to how well thought of Abigail had been to the community and to the parishioners of St. Michael’s. Charlie gazed through the heavily tinted glass at all of the wealthy people who loved his mother, the men in dark black suits with starched white shirts and black ties, the woman in trim black dresses, black heels and black sweaters draped over their thin shoulders.
As the driver reached to open the car door Charlie noticed a man standing off to himself over by the fountain. He wore a tweed jacket, a pair of wrinkled khakis with a white button down dress shirt with no tie. He held what looked like a beret in his hands. He looked to be the only person not wearing black. Probably the janitor. Abigail had become famous for befriending even the lowest level employees at the church, always remembering to bake them cakes for their birthdays.
The service was over with in what seemed like minutes to Charlie. He had heard very little of what was said and even less of what was sung. His mother’s death had been a colossal shock to his system, catching him completely off guard and unprepared. The rational efficiency of Charlie Reardon’s mind had abandoned him. As the family was ushered out from their seats on the front row Charlie walked down the aisle as if in a dream. In the back, the man in the tweed jacket smiled at him from across the church.
The graveside service was a short drive with what looked like roughly half of those who had come to the church now following behind them. Charlie, Jenny and Miranda were led under the tent that had been erected around where the deep and gaping hole waited. They were set in chairs less than five feet from the edge. The coffin was guided into place by pall bearers, each of whom shook their hands as they left and took their places further back. The priest read words from a small, black three ring binder, then threw dirt into the grave. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
And just like that, it was over. The crowd that had gathered at the graveside quickly made their escape, not wanting to intrude on any private moments. But Charlie hadn’t wanted anything more. He was done with it all, wanting nothing more of the ordinance of grief.
He settled beside Jenny in the limo. She held his hand and told him she loved him. As the car began to leave the cemetery, Charlie happened to catch a glimpse of the man in the tweed jacket. He was standing at the edge of his mother’s grave, alone with his thoughts, the only one left from the crowd. The two grave diggers sat on the ground several yards away, giving him some space. Finally, the old man put his beret on his head, pulled it down close over his eyes and walked away.
