R.I.P. Janelle Chalmers

R.I.P. JANELLE CHALMERS

To look at the people assembled for the funeral, you would have thought that Janelle Chalmers was a well-loved pillar of her community. There were mourners from all walks of life—people of stature from the local government and civic groups, people from the various charities she volunteered her time for, her employees, as well as her friends and family.

Every person attending the service looked heartbroken. Tears were shed, sniffles were heard, tissues appeared out of handbags and pockets to sop up the grief. A few keeners could be heard, bemoaning the loss of such a fine woman. “Gone too soon,” and “Will be missed by all who knew her,” and “The world is a darker place now that she’s gone,” were uttered over and over.

Yes, Janelle Chalmers was going to be missed. But, was it the way she’d hoped?

Her husband, Reg, looked bewildered. For those watching him, he looked like a man lost.

“I can’t believe she’s dead,” he’d repeated over and over. But yet he didn’t look as devastated as his words conveyed.

Janelle’s best friend, Fiona Davis looked shattered. She’d been Janelle’s best friend forever. They’d met in elementary school, half-way through grade three. Together, they’d been through thick and thin. Fiona really thought that they’d have each other’s back for another twenty, thirty, maybe forty years. “Janelle’s gone,” kept cycling through Fiona’s brain, like a fragment of a song she couldn’t stop hearing.

Dean Pasternak, Jannelle’s pickleball partner from The Club, thought about all the fun they’d had together, on and off the court. He was going to miss her. Maybe not in the way most people would miss her, but he would certainly miss her—all of her. A lascivious smile crept across his face, unbidden.

Near the back Henry Fanning, sat, close to the doors so that he could make a hasty exit. He was not wearing the traditional funeary suit. Instead, he wore clean khakis, and mostly ironed plaid shirt, and work boots. He held his baseball cap in his hands, wringing it nervously. He looked as out of place as he felt. He had worked for Janelle. She wasn’t an easy woman to work for. In fact on more than one occasion, he had referred to her as a nightmare. But, she was his biggest client, so he’d come to pay his respects to Mr. Chalmers.

In the last row, on the pew where the lights never fully reached, sat a young man few noticed He sat crumpled in the corner of the pew farthest from the pulpit, his tie askew, his face unshaven. He looked destroyed, his grief palpable. Tears streamed down his face, unchecked. His grief radiated off of him in waves. His head hung low, not seeing or hearing the service going on around him. He was shattered.

As the minister droned on—yes, droned on. Even the “best”funerals had droning, usually by the officiant who really didn’t know the decedent, and was trying his or her hardest to piece together the person being celebrated from the few tidbits of information provided by the family. Reverend Clarence Bishop’s services were no different. He’d gleaned nuggets of information regarding Janelle Chalmers’s life from her friends and family.. He had to admit it, had been harder than expected.

*****

The day after Janelle had died Reg Chalmers had arrived, unannounced, at the church. He barged into Reverend Bishop’s office in the rectory. “My wife died. She wanted you to perform the ceremony,” he’d declared unceremoniously.

Clarence was a bit taken aback. But not too much. Society seemed to be entering a less religious phase. Generally, attendance was down, and there was a lot of bemoaning the rigidity of religious institutions. But there was still the expectation that the church would embrace dead’s mortal souls, and whisk them to heaven on gossamer wings with prayers and incense. Without question. As if it was their God-given right. Clarence sighed inwardly. He was sure that he had never met the deceased or her family.

“Chalmers … Chalmers … Are you and your family members of St. Christopher’s?”

“No, but Janelle said that she wanted to be laid to rest in your church. She said it was the perfect place to celebrate her life. Apparently this is where all the important people have their services.” He waved his hand towards the church proper.

Clarence was surprised at how bold Reg Chalmers was. Not even a hint of embarrassment or humility. He wanted what he wanted, with no regard for social expectations or rules. It was like he was renting a meeting room, not preparing for his wife’s funeral service with all the religious rites that entails. Tsk.

Clarence sighed. Believe it or not this was not the first time that he had heard this reason. He resolve hardened. “I see,” he said. Then he waited, saying nothing more. The silence between the two men grew.

Finally, Reg took a deep breath. “I’d like to make a donation to the church.” He looked at Clarence. “You know, to cover expenses and your time. Say, two thousand dollars?”

Clarence looked Reg over. Ten thousand dollar bespoke suit, hand-made Italian leather shoes, a silk tie that cost more than Reg’s car. “Hmmm,” was his reply.

They continued to look at each other, a small, gentle smile on Clarences’s lips, frustration growing on Reg’s face..

“Uh, I’d like to increase that to five thousand dollars.”

Reg’s smile widened. “Thank you. What day would you like the service?”

“This Thursday, around eleven. It’s a long weekend and people leave the city on Friday. I want everyone to be able to make it. It looks better if the church is full. There might be press.”

Reg looked down at his planner. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Chalmers. We have choir practice at eleven. But I do have an eight a.m. slot available.”

Reg was getting angry now. “Nobody’s going to come to church that early. Can’t the choir meet at another time?”

“I’m sorry, it’s a long-standing practice time. Years in the making.”

Reg could see what was happening. He was being shaken down. “Fine. How about I hire them, for say, five thousand dollars? Ten thousand dollars, all in. Will that work?”

Clarence smiled. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Chalmers.”

After the date and time had been set, Clarence turned to Reg. “Can you tell me a bit about your wife—for the funeral? What kind of woman was she?” he’d asked.

Reg looked a little confused. What kind of woman was Janelle? Not the kind of woman who’s going to heaven, that was for sure. “Uh …”

Again, silence filled the room. Clarence smiling serenely, waiting. Reg was the first to speak, again. “Uh … well, Janelle was … determined. That’s right, determined. When she got an idea in her head, there was no stopping her.” He smiled, proud of himself for making Janelle sound better than she actually was.

Clarence nodded and thought, So, she was difficult, a bully, and myopic. Got it.

*****

“Janelle was a determined woman who fought hard for the causes she believed in,” intoned Clarence. “She was willing to put in the effort to to make our world a better place.

As Clarence looked out at the gathered mourners, he could see a number faces tighten and morph at his description of the decedent. He could almost see the uncharitable thought bubbles over their heads filled with words about Janelle Chalmers that had no place in a church.

*****

When the minister had telephoned Fiona to ask her say a few words at the service, she’d tried to decline the request. She told Reverend Bishop that she was devastated at the loss of her best friend. He’d persisted. He’d told her that it only had to be a couple of minutes, and all she had to do was share a few anecdotes about Janelle. Fiona had reluctantly agreed. She was so bothered about the eulogy that when the Reverend had asked her to tell him what gave Janelle joy, she’d blurted out, that Janelle loved to garden. Fiona knew it really wasn’t true. But he’d asked her to tell him about her friend. It was hard. Janelle was complicated—complicated in the way that would curl the Good Reverend’s hair.

*****

“Janelle was an avid gardener,” said Clarence. “Her love of nature impacted so many aspects of her life …”

Reg snorted inwardly. Janelle was no more a gardener than he was a prima ballerina. She had people—people he paid for. People whose names she did not know, nor did she care to know. People she referred to as “You, there!” while snapping her fingers.

He would love to find out who told the cleric that crock of crap. Making her sound like she was one with nature! Ha! The only thing she was one with was his credit card and keeping up with the Joneses.

Henry Fanning sat in the back of the church. He owned FAN-tastic Landscaping Solutions (get it—like his name?), and Mrs. Chalmers was his client—his biggest client. He hoped that by showing up today, maybe Mr. Chalmers would keep him and his team on to look after the property. He was sure that it wouldn’t be like when Mrs. Chalmers was in charge—she had no problem having them rip out perfectly good trees and shrubs to change them with something she’d seen online, or at one of her friends’s houses. Henry made a good side-hustle reselling Mrs. Chalmers’s cast-offs. Hopefully, he and his team would be able to carry on with the maintenance of the Chalmers’s property. It was a very lucrative contract.

Fiona gave a faint smile. Janelle was fiercely interested in gardening as long as it was someone else doing the heavy lifting. Fiona almost chuckled at the idea of Janelle actually lifting a shovel. Nooooo, gardening was more like a blood sport for Janelle—she always had to have the newest, most exotic flora, regardless of cost or viability. She needed to have the best. That need was what drove most of Janelle’s decisions. The smile slipped from Fiona’s face. There would be no more decisions from Janelle, ever again.

*****

“So, Mrs. Davis, can you tell me anything else about your friend Janelle.”

Fiona was stricken, for just a moment, happy that the interview was over the phone, so that the minister couldn’t see the guilt that morphed across her face.

What else could she say about Janelle? She knew he want to hear about the good things—definitely not the other things.

“Janelle was my best friend.” She cringed a bit at that. She felt that she was lying to a man of God. Yes, they had been friends for ever, over thirty years. But were they still best friends? Fiona wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think so. They were comfortable friends, but best friends? Not really. Not anymore. Their visions about what they each wanted had diverged around the time they were seniors in high school. Now they were just … there, convenient, like always. Fiona wasn’t even sure that she would even be Janelle’s friend if they had met as adults instead of as awkward middle-school girls. Time had led them down different paths.

“Tell me about the woman who was your best friend. What types of things did she like?” prompted Clarence.

There was silence on Fiona’s end of the line. Well, she liked young things, that was for sure. And expensive things. Like Dean, her pickleball coach and partner. “Ah, Janelle loved pickleball. She played three or four times a week,” said Fiona. She thought, Boy, did she play, but kept that tidbit to herself.

*****

“Janelle’s love of pickleball allowed her to meet new people, and …”

Dean Pasternak almost guffawed. Yeah, sure, he thought, Janelle LOVED “pickleball”—air quotes around pickleball. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

*****

“Janelle was a dedicated philanthropist,” said Clarence. “She spent countless hours ministering to the needs of those less fortunate than herself …”

Curtis Grey’s eyebrows raised. He looked over at Reg. Apparently, he, Curtis, was someone less fortunate, cuz, boy oh boy, did ever she minister to him. A small smile played on his lips, remembering.

Reg caught the smile on Grey’s face. What a snake. Reg thought about all the “meetings” Janelle and that asshole had together. Most, conveniently, were in the evening. It still burned that it took him so long, and so much money before he realized what was really going on in the name of philanthropy. He shook his head. He’d been such fool. He glanced over at Grey again. Well, with Janelle’s death, the gravy train was dead, officially derailed.

*****

After the sermon had ended and the eulogies spoken, Clarence stood back at the lectern, and looked out towards the mourners. “Does anyone have any memories of Janelle that they would like to share?” He was prepared to move on. Usually, there were very few takers. It was time to move on to the wake, which put the fun in funeral.

“I would,” said a voice from the back of the church. Clarence recognized him—he was a member of the congregation. He paused. The Crawford boy, unless he was mistaken. The young man walked up the aisle. He looked disheveled in the way that people do who are grieving deeply. He took his place behind the podium, adjusted the microphone, and began to speak.

“My name is Michael Crawford. Janelle Chalmers was my mother.”

A gasp rippled through the church.

Reg’s eyes bugged. His mother?!? Her son?!? What the actual eff? They’d been married for over twenty years—and not once had she mentioned a child, let alone this grown ass-man standing in front of him. He was stunned.

“She gave me up when I was born. She was fifteen.”

Fiona was in shock. How? When? She couldn’t fathom what the man was saying. A bit of quick math explained a few things. The summer that Janelle had spent in Ireland visiting family. The changes she had sensed in Janelle after that summer.

“Two years ago, she found me.”

A lightbulb went off in Curtis Grey’s brain. Around that time Janelle had wanted access to the different databases that his company had access to, closed access databases. She wasn’t up to anything nefarious, like gathering more money and power through intimidation and threats. Instead, she was trying to find the child she’d given up for adoption over twenty-five years ago. Well, damn. Never in a million years would have guessed that.

“Together we started a charity to help birth parents and children find each other after adoption. We called our non-profit, Reunited. She said that no person should go through life not knowing who they were.”

That tracked, thought Henry. The only time she’d actually spoken with him like he was a real live person, was to ask him if he had children. When he said yes, four, she’d told him to treasure them. Then immediately told him to dig up the rose bed and replace it with a privet hedge.

“Janelle loved children.”

Reg could not believe what he was hearing. Loved children? Right from the beginning of their relationship, Janelle had stated emphatically that children were not in the cards—ever. She avoided them like the plague—or more accurately, like they had the plague. Now he was finding out that she loved the little buggers. Wow. He was gobsmacked. He might have liked a kid. They were good for business—family man, blah, blah, blah. Who was this woman he had married?

“She loved being a grandmother.”

Fiona’s jaw literally fell open, and hung there. This guy had to have the wrong Janelle Chalmers. No way she loved being a grandmother. How many times had Janelle said “If you don’t have kids, then you won’t have grandkids, and if you don’t have grandkids, you won’t get old?” Dozens. Usually she said it right after a visit to the plastic surgeon. It was almost her mantra. Now she was finding out she had grandchildren—grandchildren she liked. They definitely weren’t as close as Fiona thought they were. Mind blown!

“Janelle was an important person in my life. She showed me how to love and to be kind. Her generosity taught me that there is joy in giving and sharing. I am going to miss her. My kids are going to miss her. I just wish that we had had more time together.” At that he turned and walked down the centre aisle, and out the door, leaving the entire church in shock.

Well, almost everybody.

Clarence looked out at the assemblage. Smug smiles and fake sorrow had been replaced by confusion, shock, and befuddlement. Apparently, Janelle Chalmers was not the person everybody thought she was. He smiled.

R.I.P Janelle Chalmers.