Robert Swartwood - Legion

My father has died.

Melissa emails me about it, but I rarely check my email. Somehow, she manages to get hold of my cell number and sends me a text to call her ASAP. I dont. She calls an hour later and I send the call to voicemail, which I later listen to and hear about his death and how the viewing will be Friday night and the funeral Saturday morning and Mom would really like it if we could all be there so please, John, please do try to make it if you can. She even offers to let me ride along with her and her family-her Wall Street husband and two adorable kids-but she probably knows Ill decline anyway, not wanting to be a tagalong but also dreading the idea of spending hours imprisoned in their SUV (thats what I picture they have, anyway, some big Mercedes or BMW that they only take out of storage the few times they leave the city each year) with a sister and brother-in-law and a duo of nephews I never talk to despite the fact we both live within ten miles of each other.

When I dont call her back, she tries once more, leaving the same voicemail, almost word for word.

I delete that message, just like the first.

My father has died and I dont have much opinion on the matter one way or another. My father was a cold son of a bitch and the world will be better off without him. Even how he went out seems fitting enough, though Im sure the rest of my family wouldnt agree. And attending his funeral? No thanks. I think Id rather bash my head into a brick wall than force myself to participate in that circus.

But then later that Friday night-after the rest of my family, two hundred miles away, sat through my fathers viewing-I cant sleep. I stare up at my bedroom ceiling, listening to the city sounds through the window. I turn on my right side, then on my left side. I pop in my earbuds, but music doesnt help. Finally, after two hours of restlessness, I get up and log onto my laptop and pull up the Amtrak website.

I take the first train of the morning out of Penn Station to Hartford. A woman sits beside me playing Words With Friends on her iPad. She smells of cinnamon. At first she tries to engage me in conversation, and I give low, monosyllabic answers until she gets the hint and leaves me alone. My earbuds in place, I stare out my window and tell myself that once the train stops, I will get off and head back to New York.

When the train does finally stop, I dont head back to New York. Instead I hail a taxi. I tell the driver where Im headed. He gives me a look, says that it will be nearly two hours to get there and do I have that kind of cash. I pass him my credit card, then sit back and watch the houses and trees slide by as he drives.

And then, before I know it, weve arrived. I ask the driver if he minds waiting a half hour or so to take me back. He glances out over the small cemetery, the numerous tombstones, the few mausoleums, the drooping willow trees, and asks, Family or friend?

Family, I tell him.

Old man or old lady?

Old man, I say.

He nods, chewing this over. I never much cared for my old man. Used to beat the shit out of me. That why youre late?

Outside, down the grassy slope, a small group of mourners is clustered around a tent. The sky is overcast but doesnt look like rain, though that hasnt kept a few from carrying umbrellas. There looks to be about a dozen people, all said, and from what I can tell, theyre almost all family.

Just stay here, I tell the driver, and open my door.

I head down the stone walkway toward the tent. I take my time. Melissas email said the funeral started at ten. Its now almost ten thirty, which means this thing should be wrapping up. The way the tent is positioned, almost everyone has his or her back to me. Theyre all wearing black, either suits or dresses, which goes starkly with my jeans and hoodie.

I glance back over my shoulder to make sure the taxi-my only form of escape-hasnt left. Its still there, the driver now leaning against the hood, puffing on a cigarette, enjoying the melancholy view.

In many ways, my timing is perfect. When Im less than fifty yards from the tent, the reverend finishes his prayer or eulogy or whatever, doing the whole ashes to ashes bit. Everyone who had their heads bowed now raises them. The deep silence that momentarily enveloped the group lifts. A soft and hushed murmur begins.

I spot Melissa and her husband and their boys. I spot Valerie and her husband. I spot Paul and his wife and their little girl. I spot David, who-last I remember-was married, but he appears to be alone today, so maybe his wife couldnt make it or theyve divorced.

Finally, I spot our mother. Shes sitting at the front, right near the casket, the usual spot they place the widow or widower. She hasnt seen me yet, which I take as a blessing. In fact, none of them have seen me yet, surprisingly, which makes me think I can easily turn back around and hightail it out of here without having to converse with anyone. Truth is, Im still not sure why Im here. Ive been trying to come up with a reason all morning, on the train next to Ms. Words With Friends, then on the nearly two-hour taxi ride, and I still havent figured it out.

But I have come, against my better judgment. I have come to my fathers funeral because, despite what I may think of the man, what feelings (or rather lack of feelings) I have toward him, he was my father, and if I owe him anything, its to at least show up when he dies.

John?

I blink. I must have zoned out there for a moment or two, staring at the closed casket nestled in between all those bouquets, because David is now standing in front of me.

Glad you finally made it, he says. He wears a gray suit that probably costs more than I make in a month. He extends his hand. I was worried you might not.

We shake, and it feels weird, because I dont remember the last time I shook my brothers hand. Was it at his wedding? Possibly, because I dont think Ive seen him since.

A shame you couldnt attend the wake last night, he says, taking his hand back. It disappears into his suit jacket only to reappear a moment later with a small bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. He squirts a dollop of clear gel in his hand, snaps the cap shut, returns the bottle to his suit jacket, and then begins rubbing his hands together, the entire process so standard and droll he probably doesnt even realize hes doing it.

I was working.

Davids mysophobia (a pathological fear of germs) doesnt surprise me. Hes a surgeon-either cardiac or neuro, I cant remember which-so it makes sense he doesnt want to contract any harmful germs. But I also know it goes deeper than that. It goes way back to when we were in boarding school, the bullies picking on him, holding him to the ground, forcing him to eat gobs of spit, until finally his younger brother stepped in and made them stop.

Oh yeah? Whats keeping you busy these days? Still riding your bike?

He says it with sincerity, but I can sense the exasperation just beneath the surface. Saying without saying that its a shame I turned out the way I did, what with everything I had been given, all the potential, and wasting it unlike my brothers and sisters who managed to make something of themselves, to use the money our parents gave us to better our lives instead of spoiling it.

Or at least thats the sense I get, but the truth is Im probably wrong.

Instead of answering his question, I ask, How was the wake?

Nearly everyone else is on their feet now, everyone except our mother who sits on the metal folding chair and stares up at the reverend as he speaks to her, clasping her hands between his. The reverend wears a dark blue suit, probably taken off the rack at Sears, and his hair is as white as snow. He has a rose pinned to his jacket, right on the lapel, and for a moment I wonder whether or not its real.