Authorette

I did not go to my father’s second funeral because one funeral was more than enough for me. And, besides, I did not have an E-Ticket. Everyone knows that in order to participate in anything directed by my step-mother, you’ve got to have an E-Ticket because the woman is guaranteed to take you on a wild, wild ride.

They had the first funeral in Hawaii. Which was okay, I guess, even though the entire family lived in California. No problem, though. We all dropped what we were doing and flew over. Of course all of my step-mother’s side of the family only had to pay $100.00 per ticket because one of her nieces was a flight attendant.

My ticket was $1,000.00.

My step-mother is only three years older than me, and the child that she had with my father is a year younger than my oldest child. (This is sounding like a verse from the song “I’m My Own Grandpa.”) If you do the math, you discover that there is a 30-year age difference between my sister and me. Her mother was my father’s “sex-a-tary” – or at least the one that broke up my family. When I was younger, I thought that it was all her fault, but now – of course – I realize that my father’s contribution to the break-up of his marriage was substantial. In explaining it to my little sister, though, my step-mother proffered a “sanitized” version of how she and my dad got together, airbrushing out the adultery part of the story and also the part where she and my dad ran up my mother’s charge cards during the divorce.

And then there was The Speech. During the time that the family was unraveling, my father was preparing to give a speech at some kind of a business affair. Both my mother and my step-mother commented to me about editing that speech for my father. He had had both of them working on it at the same time. I have always thought that The Speech was validation that my father and step-mother were “an item” before my parents separated. In a perverse way that thought is self-gratifying.

So here I had come half way around the world to bury an enigma – my father – a man I never truly knew and who never knew or understood me.

I think that my step-mother is a manic-depressive, and the day that I arrived in Hawaii, she was quite agitated, talking too loud, flailing her hands about and looking into the back seat of the car while driving. I should have taken a cab to the hospital where my father’s body waited in the morgue to be picked up and transported to the mortuary. I wanted to see the body and say good-bye before they cremated him.

We were late getting to the hospital because it took my step-mother forever to get from Point A to Point B. The morgue was closed, but my step-mother nagged and brow-beat the hospital staff on duty until they opened it for us.





Have you ever looked at a dead person that hasn’t been touched up? If you have, you never forget it. My dad had been pushed on a metal stretcher through an opening in the wall into the room where we would view him. And when I walked in, there he was, partially covered with a sheet, the body reeking of formaldehyde – eyes wide open staring at nothing. His mouth was open, too, in a strange grimace, and the first thing I thought as I peered into it was that we both had a silver filling in the same decayed molar.

My dad was clammy to the touch and stone cold. I kissed his forehead and burned my lips on the formaldehyde. The next day my lips were blistered from that kiss.

My step-mother is a hyper-spiritual type and believes that she can speak in other tongues. She launched into a long repertoire of “Sha-ka-la-ka-la-ka-BOOM-sha-ka-laks” as she danced around the room like Kathryn Kulman on Revival Sunday. It was distracting – even from her. I was used to my step-mother’s religiosity and attention-getting behavior. But some things – like her religious rantings – were still annoying – especially when it was my time with my dad.

After we left the hospital morgue, the body was picked up by Doe-Doe (I’m not kidding) Mortuary for transportation to the city of Hilo for cremation. So we traveled to Doe-Doe (pronounced Dough-Dough) Mortuary to make the rest of my father’s final arrangements.
When we got to the part where you pick an urn to put the ashes in, I lost it.

“How much is that one?” I inquired of a small, ceramic urn that I pointed to.

“Five-hundred-ninety-five dollars,” Mrs. Doe-Doe informed us calmly. (It would have been $1.00 at the dollar store.)

“Holy Fucking Shit!” I erupted. “I’m going to go buy some cigarettes.” And I left. This was a bad time to try to quit smoking. I relented and left to go buy a pack of cigarettes while my step-mother finished up with Mrs. Doe-Doe. When I returned, the two of them were going round and round about when we were going to pay for everything. Death is expensive.

More preparations were made throughout the week – the place where the funeral would be held, the flowers, the minister, inviting people, etc. All arrangements had to go through my step-mother – who was in no mental condition to be making decisions. The day before the funeral my step-mother put together a 5-foot by 5-foot collage of pictures of my father. On it were pictures of her, my sister and my dad engaged in various family activities. Also on it in the lower right-hand corner was one small picture of me and my dad together – a token.

At the funeral, I was supposed to give the eulogy. I sat waiting for my step-mother to arrive, and just before the funeral was to start, she made her grand entrance in a Hawaiian Moo Moo and a Haku Lei on top of her head. After the funeral started, she got up and talked for 45 minutes about my dad and the lousiness of their marriage. Way too much personal information was divulged. Then she looked over at the minister and asked if she was taking too long, and he nodded in the affirmative. So she talked for 30 minutes longer.

Finally I did the eulogy and then it was over. At the reception numerous people commented to me that they had never known that my dad had an older daughter. They had thought that my little sister was his only child.

When it was time to go home, my step-mother was chanting and dancing around on the stage once again. So we left her at the building and came back for her a few hours later.

Two days later when I boarded the plane to come back home, never was I so glad to leave anywhere. My constricted throat opened up, my voice came back, and a blanket of peace covered me for the rest of the flight home.








Two months after my father’s first funeral my step-mother still hadn’t found a place to bury his ashes. Both of us had been checking with the Veteran’s Administration to see if we could bury his ashes in one of their cemeteries. They told us that we could, as long as my dad had received an Honorable Discharge from the Army.

One month later I learned from the V.A. that my father had received a General Discharge from the Army – which was what they gave people when they opted to get out early. A few hours later my step-mother called me and informed me that my father had received a Dishonorable Discharge – which was not true. I tried in vain to explain the General Discharge concept to her, but she didn’t understand.

So – she decided to bury my dad in the Cemetery of the San Diego Mission because they had been married at the San Diego Mission. She later learned you had to be a Saint or someone on the road to sainthood to qualify for burial at the Mission because the amount of room in the cemetery was limited. So she settled for the next best thing – which was Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in San Diego, California. Then she flew to the Mainland, carrying on the plane the cardboard urn containing my father’s ashes, stowed in a Nordstrom Department Store bag.

One week before Christmas she notified the family that she was reserving a fleet of motel rooms near the cemetery, that we were all to travel down there on December 23rd, stay at the motel and bury my dad’s ashes on Christmas Eve.

“Fuck, no,” I thought. No way. I couldn’t go through it again. Evidently the rest of the family felt the same way because the only two people who attended the graveside funeral were my little sister and my step-mother.

My father had been a Catholic all of his life and so had my step-mother until she started speaking in tongues and dancing in the spirit on a regular basis. She broke into one of her “Sha-ka-la-ka- la-ka-BOOM-sha-ka-laks” during the graveside service – which needless to say cast doubt on her Roman Catholic-ness with the officiating priest. Disturbed, he asked, “Was the deceased a Catholic? Are you a Catholic?”

“We are be-lieve-ers” my step-mother replied.

Thankfully, the priest accepted that answer and let my father rest in peace.


1608 Words

broadwayenthusiast

Haha, I loved this piece! The writing was very direct and simple, but it worked great with the story.

Usually I take one look at a piece and lose interest fast, but your first paragraph really grabbed me. As well as the rest of the story.
Two thumbs up!

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abzdragon

I agree with Broadway. If the first paragraph is boring it loses me quickly but this held my interest to the end. It was a really interesting piece and something that a lot of people can probably relate to as far as step-parents go. I liked the direct approach... good job

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"You are not a Beautiful or Unique snowflake!" -- Tyler Durden

IrishLad

Excellent story and writing. This is a simple, yet wonderful, example of what a short story should accomplish.

Hats off to the author.

Cheers!

velo

Yes, excellent story. Simple style, but well done.

THe one nit I will pick is that you mention everyone lives in CA but the funeral was in HI. HI isn't "halfway around the world" from CA as you mention. Other than that- kudos.

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Are you kidding Velo? Even Malone won't touch this one-adrianhayter

Carpe diem, quam minimum credulo postero -Horace

Authorette

OMG!

Posting this story was an exercise in "skin thickening!" I had no idea that the story had any merit.

Thanks everyone for taking the time to read it and post your comments.

Julie

P.S. Did everyone understand what an "E-Ticket" is???

broadwayenthusiast

Yes. I'm sure most people have heard of it, so don't fret!

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RoundEye

I thought it was a well written story also.

An "E-Ticket ride" to me is the wildest, craziest ride you can find at the amusement park.

Authorette

FYI -- For the first 20 years that Disneyland was open, you needed to give an "E-Ticket" to get on the Matterhorn and other fast and scary rides...

But, you guys figured it out. . .

Julie

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"A woman is like a tea bag. You don't know how strong she is untill she gets into hot water."

Eleanor Roosevelt

RoundEye

I hope I'm not saying the obvious, but if I have a phrase that I think is too obscure, I do a Google search for it. I typed "E-ticket" into Google and found THIS site. It too also talks about Disney and E-Tickets.

Authorette

WOW!!! A blast from the past!

Thanks!


Julie

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"A woman is like a tea bag. You don't know how strong she is untill she gets into hot water."

Eleanor Roosevelt

Elderberry

<<<HAHA!!>>>

I kissed his forhead and burned my lips on the formaldehyde. The next day my lips were blistered from that kiss.

^^That was novel...

Thanks!