nanowritemo 30 / No Jacket required

No Jacket Required / Phil Collins











As we got to the tent, the rabbi stepped aside to allow me to sit. M. went to sit next to me and E, B. and his wife, still having never said a word to me, pushed past to also get a front row seat. I moved in one and gestured for the rabbi’s wife to take a seat too, under the tent. She had given me a hug when she first arrived, but had said nothing. However, she had not stopped crying for a moment.

As I offered her the seat, shock ran over her tear strained face.


“But this is for family.” She whispered to me.


“It’s fine. Sit.” I said, thinking that if any of the twenty to thirty people present dared make comment about letting the very old lady who was clearly the most upset sit in the shade there would be another funeral. She nodded gratefully, took my hand, sat down and cried.


The proceedings went according to plan. Kind of. As he past, Eliot asked the rabbi if he might say a few words. The rabbi nodded his agreement and the performance began. The prayers I presume were stock. I was grateful they were in a language I didn’t know, as most content of organized religion tends to grate on me and get me angry. Then the rabbi started his eulogy.


It began as one might expect, talking about how Mother was accomplished and helped people. How tragic it was that she had to die so young. (She was in her sixties.) After the third or fourth time he said what a shame it was that she would be the end of the line and that no one would be present to carry on her good works, I started to feel a little annoyed. I mean, I was her daughter and I was sitting in the front row directly in front of this man who kept insisting I looked like her. Did anyone there even know what work it was I did? 

Then, it became stranger, as angrily the rabbi ranted about how incompetent the medical profession was that  had allowed my mother to die!  Why had they not caught her cancer earlier? This was a question I wondered about too, but given how my mother’s information was selective, it was hard to fault the doctors.


The rabbi then told a little story.  Several years ago, he began,  my mother had told him that one of her colleagues had suggested she seek psychiatric help. This colleague had told her she was crazy and had concerns for her.  This was a  thought I myself had had, many times, but never voiced.  It seemed rather odd to be doing it in her euology.  As the rabbi went on, he explained how my mother had refused, but the exchange naturally had bothered her.  For the next five minutes,  the rabbi railed at the nerve of this person to suggest such a thing about this wonderful, special, truly unique person who was so dear to him. He went on at length about how he had never met another woman like her and how he had wished to spend as much time with her as possible.  Why I wondered had he shared this with strangers at her funeral?  Had he not considered any professional implications of these stories?  For himself or her?  I believed what he said to be true, though, and if I had not had suspicions about their relationship before, I would have after this. In fact, after the funeral as M, his sister and I went to lunch, it was one of the first questions M’s sister asked.   Three months later, C. who being in the hospital, has not attended the funeral, would call to ask me the question also.


After twenty minutes of hearing how fantastic my mother was, how awful and disrespectful all others were to her and how she was the last of the line and there would be no one to carry on her for her, I was hot, tired and more than ready for the day to be done. As the rabbi talked, mostly I thought of two things, the first was how thankful I was that we were not riding in the same car. The second was about his wife.  She had yet to stop crying.  Her body shook with deep, wracking sobs.  I wondered if she had she heard a word he was saying? I hoped not, really.  Finally, the rabbi wound down and introduced E.


I was curious to know what E. was going to say. Would he reference any of those trips that I had been so found of growing up? Would he give insight as to why he had not called?  Would his words in some way reassure me that if I turned Mother's estate over to him, he would do the right thing by every one, in particular her patients?  For out of everyone, it was her patients I felt for.

My mother did horrible, text book wrong things with me and my friends, but for some reason I did not understand, she had a successful practise.  Again, for qualities that I could not see, I knew that people did love and respect her, not simply the crazy old man ranting at her funeral.  I never professed to understand any of her relationships in the world, but I did know that my feelings and relationship with her was not as hers with others.  And that for those others, there were things which were important.  If it was illusions, they should be kept.  If for them, she was real, all the better they keep those positive images.  I did not and do not believe in the field of psychology.  In my view it is one step above the snake oil salesmen and the placebo.  However, snake oil and placebo's have helped a lot of people.  The simple value of having another human to talk to, cannot and should not be underestimated.  Thus, keeping a particular image of Mother of her professional life seemed important.  

What I really wanted out of the funeral was reassurance that E. would know what to do with her patients. That like her, regardless of his thoughts or treatment of me, there would be a different standard for them.  So I waited as he rose to speak, waiting for the positive images, the sympathy or empathy.

It never came.  In a rambling fashion he talked about his relatives. Cousins of his, long dead and so distant from my mother and I that I had never even heard of their existence. After another fifteen minutes of  the minutia of his family tree, he added that he was proud that my mother was in his family tree, but again, it was a shame that now this branch of the family was dead.
As E. returned to his seat and the rabbi said the next prayer and explained the ritual of dirt throwing to the assembled, I looked at M. We said nothing, though we both knew what I was thinking. I was going to be the executrix of her estate and we were going to have a long haul.


Finished, the rabbi extended his hand for me to rise and Mister stepped forward with the shovel. As I went to reach for it, to toss the first of the dirt into the grave, E. was beside me. He too was reaching for the shovel. For a moment, both E and Mister struggled with it, both their hands gripping the wood. I stepped back, being elbowed while two men fought over a shovel at my mother's funeral seemed like a particularly bad idea.  And as this was not my ritual. I was certainly not going to fight about it.

"I'll take that."  E. was saying.

"It goes first to immediate family."  Mister tried to explain as if E. didn't know.  Of course he knew.  He and I had been toether at at least three other funerals for which this ritual had been performed, and that how many other's had he experienced that we had not shared?

"I'm family."  E. answered.

"It goes to her closest relative first.  Her daughter."  Mister said.

"I'll do it."  E. yanked the shovel.

"No. It goes to S."  Mister replied not letting go.

 After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably mere seconds, it was the rabbi who leaned over quietly and told E to let go, the first shovel was mine. With an older, more authoritative male giving the order, E. did, though still ignoring my presence. Mister handed me the shovel, with a reassuring nod and the process continued.


After my shovel, I stepped aside, standing circumstantially next to the rabbi as I watched everyone present come and shovel in dirt. It was an old crowd. I estimated the average age to be 55-60, and that was not including the rabbi and his wife, who I presumed would skew any age calculation. The process was slow, but finally, the coffin covered and the rabbi gave the signal for the backhoe. The engine started and was immediately followed by a shriek.


“Noooooo.” B. cried, pushing herself around those assembled to stand teetering on the edge of the grave facing the back hoe. “It has to be done by hand!” She insisted and started ranting that by hand was the only acceptable means. “No. No. No. No. I won’t allow this!   This travisty of technology.”

"B. Knock it off and get out of the way."   E. called to his daughter, as did her mother in a nicer way.  She ignored them.

 “I will not let that impersonal  machine do this. It’s not right.” I met H’s eyes across some seats. Her eyebrows were raised in question and she was trying hard not to laugh. B. continued to wail. E. continued to shout to her to ‘knock it off.’ Mister was trying to talk to her quietly.  We caught words, "elderly men"... "heat stroke"... "acceptable"... and the guest, not understanding any of it looked at each other confused as B. continued to wail "Nooooo"  and threaten to throw her body in front of the back hoe.

"This is the funeral I expected."  I whispered to M.  In fact, I had actually expected strangers to show up and identify themselves as long ago husbands or my unknown siblings.  That didn't happen.


“What do we do with her?” The rabbi asked me.


“I don’t know."  I shrugged watching the show.

"Will she listen to you?"  He asked.

"Not a chance."  I shook my head.   "If she won’t listen to her father, you can try. You’re the only one here she might listen to.” I shrugged again.


The rabbi went to her, speaking quietly. It was met with another wail.


“No. Fine. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it myself.” And with her flimsy sandals and sundress, she picked up the shovel and started furiously trying to fill in the 6-foot hole. Personally, I would have let her. But several of the ‘younger’ men in the group were shamed. After a few moments, B. was standing off to the side doing nothing, while five men (M. two guests - husbands I didn't know who surely had not bargined for this, Mister and his helper)  took turns and shoveled the rest of the dirt into the grave. The backhoe never employed.


A quick prayer later and we were finally done. As we stood to go, the rabbi’s wife reached for my hand again.  She was still sobbing.


“I’m so sorry.” She wept. “Your mother was my best friend. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.” I looked into the red puffy eyes of this ancient women and my eyes started to well. I had never heard my mother say a good word about this woman, and yet here she was, not only the only one in the crowd to shed a tear, but clearly and sincerely distraught. I had no doubt that her words were sincere. It broke my heart.


“My mother spoke of you often.” I said to her, my voice cracking. “I know you meant a lot to her.” This lie came easily as I saw the pleased look in the damp red eyes before me. I hugged her, whispering for her to take care of her self and walked away.


It would be the one thing that haunts me about Mother’s funeral. The one thing that can still make me cry. How upset the rabbi’s wife was, more than anyone else at that funeral. Her best friend really her enemy. As I walked away from her it felt like when you leave a pet to be euthanized or a woman at  a shelter. I felt helpless and pained.


Back in the parking lot, H. explained she needed to go, but M’s sister would go to lunch. G. said she would call and  JP finally came over.


“Well, I think your mother is happy now.” She said, sounding nervous, but trying to be upbeat. I wondered why she was bothering to speak to me at all. She’d not called for a month, let alone the past twenty four hours,  this close family friend.  Still, I did feel an obligation to be polite. She had been the one to call me initially to tell me Mother was in the hospital. But she had not held up.  She had not kept me in the loop as I had requested.  My last three calls to her had gone unreturned.  She'd not called me when the news of Mother's death came and she was now headed to the cousins. “I hope we can stay friends.” She said to me, finally meeting my eyes.


“I don’t think so.” I said softly, I hoped without the harshness that I felt for most of those present. Later M. and his sister told me I had been too nice. JP merely nodded with what seemed like understanding and walked away.


Then W. came up with B. at the hip. They were just coming to say good bye. Except W. was still W.


“Are you going to E’s?” He asked, I'm sure innocently and clueless.


“I wasn’t invited.” I answered, feeling no compulsion to be gentle with him as I had with JP.


“What? Of course you are.” B. protested, but then looked unsure. As W. made the joke, B. trotted back to her mother exchanged a few words and returned. “You can come if you want to.” She offered, not realizing she had just confirmed the invite had not otherwise been there.


“No, that’s okay. I think it’ll be easier for you all to talk about me if I’m not there.” I smiled sweetly as M’s sister started to cough.


B. stammered as she tried to deny this, realized she couldn’t, realized things had been transparent and she had no where to go. Finally she ended up with a “See ya,” and she and W. scurried off.


“Wow.” M’s sister said to me as we found ourselves alone. “Screw them all sweetie, you’re part of our family now.” She gave me a hug. Over lunch, the three of us agreed unanimously. Not only did I have to accept the job as executrix of the will, but we should stop at the condo on the way home and change the locks. We did.