Los Angeles: April 1963  

Sketching:

Even though I was too young to drive, I gripped the steering wheel, sat erect, and pushed

gently on the brake pedal, tried to appear older than I was in case the cops followed me into

the cemetery. Only twice did I peer in the rear-view mirror, and once at my mom sitting

slumped in her seat. Things like that, ordering her fifteen-year-old daughter to get her to the

funeral on time, didn’t bother my mother when she tossed me the car keys and sat hunched

over sipping more and more coffee to sober up.

     “Yup, it’s the correct address,” I said. “It looks no different from the graveyard where we

buried Grandpa, except stubby cypress trees planted all over the place.”

    Mom slipped on black sunglasses. “Yes, there are.” Against her long, flowing ebony

dress, her hair and nails were the only spots of color. I pulled over to the curb, parked the car,   

exhaled, then looked up at the knoll where a small group of relatives and friends stood

waiting for us, all dressed equally as chic as my mother in designer clothes of Chanel suits,

pill-box hats, men in shantung suits. Mom will approve.  

    I slipped the key out of the ignition and with a quivering hand, “Here’s your favorite

hankie with the embroidered rose.” I opened her dark, clutch purse and plopped it in. Then, I

sprinted around to the passenger side, opened the door and extended my hand to help mom

maneuver out of the car.

    Before I could close the door, Mom threaded her fingers through my blonde, shoulder

length hair, shook her head and stared downward.

    “Laura, how disrespectful to wear pants to a funeral. You know better!”

    “For this occasion black slacks are appropriate.”

    “Come on now,” as I slammed the door. Clutching her shoulder, I guided her up the

incline. Picking on me again… whatever I do, I can’t let her fall, especially at this event.

    After tugging her up the hillside, I paused and adjusted her to a steady position. With a chivalrous extension of a hand, Mr. Montgomery, our next-door neighbour, helped Mom step over a mound in the grass. “I know, Elaine, how painful this must be for you.”  

    Tears swelled in her emerald-green eyes, and she pressed her fist against ruby-red lips.

    “She’s cool,” I said.

    Mom dusted off her dress, “Where’s Jim?”

    “He’ll be here shortly,” I replied, tapping her shoulder, while gesturing with my head to the bottom of the hill. Thank God he’s here. Dad dashed across the street, his head advancing before his body like a turtle. He was always in a hurry or late. The sooner we can begin, the quicker we can leave.

    Breathing deeply, I turned and faced the gathering. “Thanks everyone for attending today. Just give me time to talk to Mom.” Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I guided her to a clump of cypress trees.

   “What are you doing?” She shrugged away from me. “We need to get on with the funeral.”

   “Look at me.”

    “But your Dad is coming.”

    “Just listen to me. I did a little research… I want you to know that Alexander the Great held a funeral for his Mastiff Peritas in 350 B.C. You’re not the only one.”

    Mom lowered her shades and stared at me. “Laura, is this to make me feel better?”

   “Yes!” People throughout history had them for their pets.”

    “Well, it’s not helping. I still feel crappy.”

    “At least I tried,” as I directed her back to the group.

    Mr. Valentine whispered loud enough to hear, “this is craziness… having a last rite for a dog. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

    “Shush,” declared Mrs. Valentine. She turned and nodded at Mom.

   “Thanks for coming,” Dad said to everyone assembled, reaching for Mother’s hand.     “How long will this take?”

   “I’ve no idea… and it doesn’t matter,” scowled Mom.

     Desiring to jettison out of myself and join the dog-ghosts which haunted this place, I crossed my arms away from Mom, envying her deceased pet so oblivious to it all. Mother took the funeral so seriously that one would have thought the Pope had died. With each condolence, mascara slid gloomily down her cheeks. She grabbed the handkerchief and dabbed her face “Missy, lapping my nose every morning,” Mom mumbled. “She loved cuddling on the couch. Life won’t be the same without her.”                                                                                                                                                               

    “I agree,” I whispered, giving her a hug. I hadn’t noticed the large canvas screen which spanned above us. Trying to imagine what was going on behind it, I shuddered, so grateful that we stood below it.

    Mom glared at the expansive tarp.

    The canvas tent bulged toward us. There was movement behind it. A man dressed in black swung open the curtains, his face was grim and sagged.

     No one spoke. I squeezed Mom’s other hand. “You’ll be okay.”  

    The undertaker pushed a high cart topped with a teeny white coffin downhill.

    “Elaine,” said Mr. Bennett, “the flowers are exquisite.”

    Everyone gasped at the man’s effort to steady the dolly. It jangled as it rolled, the casket rocking.

    The thin, frail man held onto the itty-bitty box with one hand, maneuvering the carrier over the bumpy turf. I breathed as traffic streamed by the tiny gravestones. The cypress trees  stood like sentinels. The pushcart rattled louder. While it approached, the funeral director wiped his brow. The blossomy, garnished coffin wobbled to the right, to the left. Dad put up his hands just as the casket slipped off the trolley, dumping embalmed Missy smack on the ground. She was as stiff as a board. 

    “Jesus! No!” someone yelled.

     Mom shrieked, her head jerked back, and her knees buckled underneath like a puppet released from strings. Down she tumbled, sprawling out on her back. Her skin white-washed as if she were the corpse. Her hand swooned over her face like an actress out of the 30’s. Now, Mom looked as dead as her dog lying flat on the grass. Is anyone seeing her underwear?

    “I’m so sorry,” said the director. His expression drooped more as he stuffed the little poodle back inside the silk-lined coffin. 

    Dad raised his hand again, warding off people from approaching Mom. “She’ll be fine.” We bent down and jerked her skirt back down to her calves.

     Her lips quivered, “Jim, my poor, precious baby.” 

    “Elaine, it was just an accident,” he said, stroking her auburn hair. “I thought this whole thing was over the top, but...” 

    “Mom, it kinda is.” Turning and kissing her sweaty forehead, I said, “I love you—remember Alexander the Great.”

     She replied something unintelligible to me. Dad pulled her up to a standing position. 

    “Thank heavens!” Mrs. Valentine uttered.

    Her bony shoulders shook as I squeezed her. “Look, they pushed her back inside. Everything is cool.” I pointed to the mortician. “He’s ready to speak.” 

    The man cleared his voice, his face ashen. “This is a solemn affair, celebrating a little life who brought much joy, Missy Johnson. A loving and loyal dog to Elaine Johnson. We honor her passing today. May she rest in peace.” 

     “Amen,” a few people said.

     Dad clung onto Mom's waist.

     I blotted her forehead with her wet and wadded-up hankie. “Mom, she’ll always be with you in spirit.” 

     “Oh, that’s nonsense,” she responded. “That God stuff and all. She’s gone forever.”

     “Guess we don’t know for sure, Mom. Memories are all we have. We must hold them close to our hearts.”  

    The mortician cleared his throat. “Please follow me to Missy’s final resting place.”

    “Jim, Jim, I won’t make it!”

    Dad hugged Mom, but his face was scrunched up in annoyance. “Yes, you will. Remember this was your idea.”

    Seven people made their way down the slope, adjusting their clothes, girdles, and ties. The graveside service shortened as a truncated sentence ripped of words. It was a blur to me. Mom slumped, kissed her fingers, and threw some lilies towards the coffin now sunk deep in a hole.

                                                                                      ***

    For the last five days, every evening since Missy’s funeral, bottles of booze clanked in the liquor cabinet and into the dawn. I clutched the wrought-iron chair in the kitchen, listening for a sound, any noise Mom was awake. I’d be amazed if she made it out of bed, for she’d howled again for hours throughout the night. Today would prove another challenge, getting Mom through it.

     I listened for her pink, silk slippers shuffling along the carpeting. Soon, she staggered into the corridor and stood at the entrance to the den. Brittle, breakable, and elegant as my porcelain doll which sat on my shelf, for Mom was all that. 

     My skin was clammy, yet my throat was dry. I detected a rustle in the den. My blood surged through my veins, while I flung myself to Mom who stood in the doorway. A short span of space had turned unfathomably far. Her one hand clung to the door frame, while her right hand gripped a gun.

    “Shit! No one kills himself over the death of a dog!” I screamed as she shoved me away.

    “Why, Missy was the reason I get up every morning. Your Dad isn’t,” she slurred. “He leaves early and comes home late!”

    “Oh, God!” I attempted to grab the weapon. “Don’t do this!” Our arms wrestled against each other.

    Mom brought the pistol out from behind her. “This is more than I can take!” 

     “I know,” I cried, fingers lurching for the gun, the metal part cold, part warm. “But you’ve always had me. I love you!”

    “Missy was constantly there,” Mom sobbed, “the unconditional love of a dog.”

    Bending and dropping the gun on the carpeting, I led Mom into the kitchen, pulling a chair out for her, “Sit—calm down.”

    My heart hammered in my chest as I raced to the hallway. I’ve been beaten out by a dead dog. I stooped down and retrieved the pistol. I bolted into my bedroom and shucked the thing out of my hand like corn off a cob, the weapon now hidden away in the corner of my closet underneath patent and leather shoes.

    The corridor seemed longer as sadness seeped out of every pore. I fought against shuffling back to the kitchen and seeing Mom like a hollow shell. I must rally her, prevent her from ever doing that again.

    When I walked back in, she dropped her head into her hands. Long, russet hair spread

out on the glass table.

    Out of breath, I asked, “How can I help you?” 

     “Get me coffee, and comb that stringy hair of yours!”

    Flexing them first, I threaded my fingers through my tangles, then gripped the coffee carafe, filled the pot with water, scooped out the correct amount of ground beans and set the timer for eight minutes. In the meantime, I leaned on the counter and rehearsed mentally what had happened. Gun? I clasped my stomach, walked over, and settled down at the end of the table. Massaging the back of my neck, I asked, “Mom, will you be alright?” 

    “I can’t face this!”

    “But you have Dad and me.”

    The silence spoke louder than words ever could. Coffee started percolating. I marched over, lingered a few minutes, poured her a cup, snatched a few crackers, and gave Mom a peck on the cheek before handing her coffee.  

    My eyes trailed the ivy on the wallpaper, meandering in and out of the lattice. How can I help her when she doesn’t want me? Stomach acid crept up into my throat, and I scurried into the bathroom.