The man
who’d offered up a stray chromosome? Grandparents? Siblings?
Strange. At lunch the other day, I’d never
asked Amy about her side of the family, and she’d never volunteered
any information. There was only the brief exchange about being from
Brownsville. Was I really that self-absorbed to have failed to pry
into someone else’s genealogical history?
Apparently so.
***
The post-funeral meal was held at the Vernet
family estate, a mansion dedicated to spreading their version of
the gospel, which in Dennis and Mary Jo’s book was centered on
money and how to gain more of it. Personally, I thought the mansion
built for two reflected more fleecing of the flock than anything
remotely resembling the Man they publicly attempted to emulate.
Security at the gate to enter the Vernet
domain was tighter than that at Fort Knox. People were turned away
left and right in a constant stream. If it wasn’t for the fact that
I drove right behind my parents and carried the last name of Bohanan , I doubt I’d have been allowed through. ‘Course it
didn’t hurt that a De’Laruse sat in the passenger’s seat of my
Corvette.
Even with a caterer, Mary Jo buzzed from
ginormous over-decorated room to ginormous overstuffed room,
playing the perfect hostess and ensuring all had their fill from
the massive spread. Staying in motion also kept her from holding
still long enough to allow food to touch her lips. The woman was as
stick thin as her husband was round.
Rumor had it Mary Jo enjoyed a nip and tuck
on occasion to stave off encroaching middle-aged sag, though we all
know by now that I’m not one to listen to the rumor mill. The
painted smile, however, was a permanent fixture and bespoke work
more along the lines of the Botox variety. Or maybe silicone. Made
her look less like a real woman and more like the Joker – you know,
from Batman. The grin appeared odd and definitely out of place,
considering the somber events surrounding her son.
Bobby held up the Italian marble mantelpiece
in the formal living room all afternoon where he received an
endless parade of condolences. From the blank stare and robot-like
movement of shaking hands, I rather think the mantelpiece held him up.
No matter how much I wanted to wrap my arms
around and comfort one of my oldest friends, I kept my distance.
Not for my sake, mind you. I’d long ago stopped caring what the
sanctified saints thought of me. But I did care about what it might
do to Bobby’s reputation and how it would affect his position at
the church to be seen in the arms of this unholy-hell-raiser once
again. It might spur memories in others better left to my gray
matter. His life didn’t need any further complications. And in his
present state, I doubt if he’d even remember who was and wasn’t at
his wife’s funeral.
The fact that I even felt the need to keep my
distance churned up more stomach acid than my internal debate over
choice of tables had at the bistro Thursday afternoon. ‘Course the
stares and fake smiles of the crowd as they walked by and whispered
behind my back didn’t help either. They were like vultures waiting
to swoop down on fresh road kill. As far as I was concerned they
could all starve to death before I’d give them that
satisfaction.
Mary Jo brought Bobby yet another full plate
of food, which he held in front of himself as if establishing a
perimeter to avoid those pressing in around him. Eventually he gave
up and set it untouched behind him on the hearth. One of the four
Vernet Corgi’s had picked up on his actions early on, staying close
for the next available plate. The feet of those sausage rolls
wouldn’t touch the ground by the end of the day if the meals kept
coming.
“Hello, daughter.”
Speaking of dogs… “Hey, Frankie. How’s life?”
Finally – someone I could take out the day’s frustrations on.
Grandma always had a thing for Frankie Avalon
in her younger years. The affection was so strong, she named her
son after the
who’d offered up a stray chromosome? Grandparents? Siblings?
Strange. At lunch the other day, I’d never
asked Amy about her side of the family, and she’d never volunteered
any information. There was only the brief exchange about being from
Brownsville. Was I really that self-absorbed to have failed to pry
into someone else’s genealogical history?
Apparently so.
***
The post-funeral meal was held at the Vernet
family estate, a mansion dedicated to spreading their version of
the gospel, which in Dennis and Mary Jo’s book was centered on
money and how to gain more of it. Personally, I thought the mansion
built for two reflected more fleecing of the flock than anything
remotely resembling the Man they publicly attempted to emulate.
Security at the gate to enter the Vernet
domain was tighter than that at Fort Knox. People were turned away
left and right in a constant stream. If it wasn’t for the fact that
I drove right behind my parents and carried the last name of Bohanan , I doubt I’d have been allowed through. ‘Course it
didn’t hurt that a De’Laruse sat in the passenger’s seat of my
Corvette.
Even with a caterer, Mary Jo buzzed from
ginormous over-decorated room to ginormous overstuffed room,
playing the perfect hostess and ensuring all had their fill from
the massive spread. Staying in motion also kept her from holding
still long enough to allow food to touch her lips. The woman was as
stick thin as her husband was round.
Rumor had it Mary Jo enjoyed a nip and tuck
on occasion to stave off encroaching middle-aged sag, though we all
know by now that I’m not one to listen to the rumor mill. The
painted smile, however, was a permanent fixture and bespoke work
more along the lines of the Botox variety. Or maybe silicone. Made
her look less like a real woman and more like the Joker – you know,
from Batman. The grin appeared odd and definitely out of place,
considering the somber events surrounding her son.
Bobby held up the Italian marble mantelpiece
in the formal living room all afternoon where he received an
endless parade of condolences. From the blank stare and robot-like
movement of shaking hands, I rather think the mantelpiece held him up.
No matter how much I wanted to wrap my arms
around and comfort one of my oldest friends, I kept my distance.
Not for my sake, mind you. I’d long ago stopped caring what the
sanctified saints thought of me. But I did care about what it might
do to Bobby’s reputation and how it would affect his position at
the church to be seen in the arms of this unholy-hell-raiser once
again. It might spur memories in others better left to my gray
matter. His life didn’t need any further complications. And in his
present state, I doubt if he’d even remember who was and wasn’t at
his wife’s funeral.
The fact that I even felt the need to keep my
distance churned up more stomach acid than my internal debate over
choice of tables had at the bistro Thursday afternoon. ‘Course the
stares and fake smiles of the crowd as they walked by and whispered
behind my back didn’t help either. They were like vultures waiting
to swoop down on fresh road kill. As far as I was concerned they
could all starve to death before I’d give them that
satisfaction.
Mary Jo brought Bobby yet another full plate
of food, which he held in front of himself as if establishing a
perimeter to avoid those pressing in around him. Eventually he gave
up and set it untouched behind him on the hearth. One of the four
Vernet Corgi’s had picked up on his actions early on, staying close
for the next available plate. The feet of those sausage rolls
wouldn’t touch the ground by the end of the day if the meals kept
coming.
“Hello, daughter.”
Speaking of dogs… “Hey, Frankie. How’s life?”
Finally – someone I could take out the day’s frustrations on.
Grandma always had a thing for Frankie Avalon
in her younger years. The affection was so strong, she named her
son after the
Similar Books
