Grandpa's Funeral

*Contains sexualized undertones/humor.

Grandpa George was never a very friendly man. Always uptight and rigid from the way he dressed in his dark grey suit and a flat cap to how he spoke in short, direct sentences. Now that I think about it, I don’t think the guy ever laughed or smiled, which is why I was surprised to see such a large turnout for his funeral.

There were so many people that by the time my parents, my little sister, and I arrived, every seat was taken, and the remaining stragglers were finding places to stand along the walls. As we made our way to our reserved pew, I couldn’t help noticing the wide array of people who had come.

There was a woman dressed head-to-toe in black leather, which I guess wouldn’t have been strange except she looked like she had been poured into it.

Next to her was a small group of old men, all wearing sunglasses even though the sun hadn’t been out for days. I could be wrong, but I swear I saw one of them holding a riding crop.

We passed several groups of people who were mingling and chatting as if they had just seen each other the day before. I overheard one of them talking about some convention in Las Vegas and how my Grandpa was still the best in the business.

I assume they meant his insurance company, which he had built from the ground up and managed since he was 20. He was a very successful man and rightfully so, given how hard he worked. We always sent him invites to birthdays and holiday gatherings, but his answer was always the same: “I have a meeting.”

His absence didn’t bother me much. Even though we never saw him, we’d always get cards with money in them every birthday and every Christmas. I felt a little guilty knowing that we really just came for the reading of his will, but it made me feel better seeing how many people had loved him enough to come say one last goodbye.

The priest took his place in front of Grandpa’s casket, and the room quieted down. “We are gathered here today to honor the life of George Whitaker…”, he began, his voice calm and clearly well practiced, “A devoted businessman who clearly left an impression on many…”

I glanced around the room. “An impression” was one way of putting it.

The priest continued, “...a man known for his discipline, his ability to command any room he walked into, and an unmatched commitment to his craft.”

I looked around again and saw many nods in agreement. One woman even smiled and elbowed her companion. They shared a brief smirk, then turned their attention back to the speaker. I sank a little lower in my seat, confused about what they had secretly communicated.

After the priest finished his remarks, several people went up to speak about my grandfather. The first was a man who looked at least 30 years younger than the deceased. He wore a black suit with a deep red bow tie, which looked like he had taken extra care tying it.

His voice came out much higher-pitched than I had expected. “George didn’t say much”, he reached up and adjusted his bowtie, “but when he did, people listened.” He continued, reaching for the tie every few breaths like it was helping him breathe.

When he stepped down, another eccentric guest took his place. A rather large woman with black feathers hanging around her arms and bright pink lipstick began talking about how my grandpa knew about presentation. As she went on, she would smile and laugh to herself like she and she alone could hear a private joke.

My little sister Sarah was fascinated with this woman and kept trying to jump off of our mom’s lap to run up to her. Maybe it was the feathers, or maybe the giant sparkly pink handbag she carried. Either way, I was glad that at least she was enjoying this.

Another speaker followed, then another. I was beginning to wonder how much longer this would take when the last speakers, two brothers with matching suits, matching hair, and identical pocket squares, walked back to their seats. This time, no one stood to replace them.

The room settled into a quieter kind of silence, one with more anticipation than mourning. The funeral director stepped forward.

He unfolded a sheet of paper and smoothed it against the podium before adjusting his glasses. “Per Mr. Whitaker’s request, his will is to be read in full at the conclusion of the service.”

I looked at Mom, who seemed to be just as surprised as I was. Grandpa George was always a private man, so having his will read to the entire room seemed out of character.

“This is the last will and testament of George Whitaker. To my daughter and her family, I leave my estate, my savings, the company, and all accounts I maintained throughout my life.”

A small shift rippled around the room, subtle but noticeable. I felt my Mom’s shoulders relax, like she had been holding her breath. I think we all expected that to be it.

As we started collecting our belongings, preparing to leave, the funeral director continued, “For those of you who knew me by other names…”

I paused. What did he mean by other names? The room went dead silent. I looked back at Mom, who had frozen halfway reaching for her purse. She was staring at the director with a horrified expression.

He went on, “those of you who knew me in full, as Georgina Divine.”

I couldn’t do anything but stare. That couldn’t be right. I slowly turned toward my family. Mom was still frozen. My Dad’s jaw was practically on the floor. Little Sarah, meanwhile, was still watching the lady in feathers.

The room had changed while I was getting my brain back online. There was no tension, just quiet recognition. A few more people were nodding now. I even heard a few claps and small cheers of support from somewhere in the back.

Then the director cleared his throat, “In accordance with Georgina Divine’s wishes, the following arrangements will now be carried out.” I felt my stomach drop a little further. Even Sarah had noticed the unease the words were causing us and turned forward to get the full experience.

“To my beloved colleague Sasha, I leave my dressing room and all of the makeup therein. Keep practising that lip liner, and maybe one day you’ll achieve these plumpy smackers.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Makeup? Plumpy smackers? I couldn’t imagine Grandpa George saying that if I tried.

“To my prodigy, Victoria Monroe, I leave my entire wardrobe in hopes that you keep dancing. I also leave you my bra inserts. You gotta shake ‘em to make the bacon, baby.” At this point, I was amazed that the funeral director could read this as professionally as he did.

“...and finally, to my fellow Queens of the Club members, I leave all of my accessories. Use them well, ladies.” Suddenly, another man walked out carrying a large duffel bag. He set it down, unzipped it, and pulled out a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs.

My mom quickly covered Sarah’s wide eyes. There was a short pause after that, like the room was waiting for any more gifts from my grandfather. There wasn’t.

The funeral director folded the paper and stepped down as he had just read something completely normal. Then, everyone started getting up and heading out. I heard several congratulations and even a few envious comments made toward the recipients of Grandpa George’s will. I stayed seated. I looked at my family, then at the room, and realized only one of us had been surprised.